The Story of the Fourth Servant
Guest Writer: Karen D
“Again, it will be like a man going on a journey,
who called his servants and entrusted his wealth to them.” Matthew 25:14
I am the fourth servant
Somehow left out of the telling,
but very much still part—a player.
The event was noteworthy, significant,
Memorable—before the extended journey—
With delegation of duties.
I’m all about delegation, job description,
responsibility, accountability:
Just give me a task and stand back.
The process, planning, purpose
captivate me as I am on my own journey:
—beginning and end points
—intermediate sign posts
—desired outcomes and goals
—estimated costs and returns
The timeline enchants and strategic vision justifies.
I digress. As I said, I am the fourth servant.
Our loving-strict, fatherly, ex-military boss
assigned the duties:
One received five: a diligent guy, wise investment.
Two received two: a kindness, really. Two had just
recovered from a personal trauma. Otherwise, capable.
Three received one: he would have to set his mind to it,
but it wasn’t an impossible stretch.
I was Four. I also received one—but neither I nor it was mentioned.
Delighted to be included, of course,
I could certainly manage one.
The chance for two or three would have been welcome—
But I’m not ambitious, just a pleaser.
So I set my planning into motion:
How to best look after this one. Thoughts
whirled with options and possibilities.
This amount—one—was limiting;
It felt confining, anyway.
Yes, I was grateful, but I could have accomplished
—shone, if you will—
with a bit more. But there you are—
I come from sea-faring folk,
so I looked to the sea.
Fish to be caught and sold:
profit to be made and invested.
Started small: hired a captain and his boat,
bought a middling net,
employed a few seasoned fisher friends
and Out we went.
We started well—caught and sold
—mended nets—paid the men
bought another net—and repeat
Every day the weather permitted
we were on the waves:
straining at bursting nets, catching fish,
delighting in the tired muscles and breathless laughter
and wind in our hair.
Selling was not my strong suit:
I was tired and not shrewd
—those who sold for me were not kind,
not honest,
not just—
so I released them
and sold what I could
and gave the rest to the poor.
The weather turned and some days were empty—
but work was paid regardless of the take—
The seas were capricious:
what started well spiralled down.
The nets tore and wore;
We mended the mended bits.
No matter how we toiled and strove,
ends barely met.
Finally I could only pay my men with fish from the catch—
the net had out-lived its lifetime twice over—
there was naught to buy another.
What went wrong?
My plan had been careful,
the process clearcut,
the purpose obvious: make a bundle
make Him smile.
All I had to show was a battered net,
some faithful friends
and a few marginals with a bellyful
Quite unexpectedly our master came home—
I thought there would be so much more time
(He’d been gone for ages, so I expected more.)
But out of the blue,
there he was with his entourage—home
and called each of us who’d been tasked.
You know the story, you heard the score:
One had made five more—high commendation.
Two had made two more—top marks.
Three had hidden his and kept it safe.
(I was wishing I’d been more circumspect—
but how could I have foreseen the bleak forecast?)
My heart sank when he was rebuked for his caution
—his one was given to One with ten
—Three was exiled, fired, extinguished.
Had there been somewhere to hide,
You know I’d have found it.
Instead I stood there—bare feet and tattered clothes
—stuttering my story
—I didn’t even have the one
I had nothing
Except a useless worn out net:
Not a thing to offer
for all my effort and strain and danger
I’d over-estimated myself, took on too much,
and now I was in debt—
I could not even pay back the one
He had entrusted to me.
My eyes groundward,
I felt the others’ eyes on me:
How I wished I could have been clever,
shrewd,
productive
like One and Two.
They were basking
as they deserved.
Hoisting courage I looked into His eyes,
raised my empty, weathered hands:
then dropped them and fell to my knees.
“Sir, I am so sorry. I have nothing to report:
No profit
No payout
I spent the deposit and it is gone.”
Cringing, I knew I deserved worse than Three—
but what could be worse than to be thrown out?
I felt a hand on my arm, a guard to take me away—
no doubt to debtor’s prison—
But it was my master.
“Reports of the poor being fed have reached me.
Widows and orphans,
the dispossessed and disabled.
Your fish have nourished hope in them—
You have repaid me
by feeding the weak in my land.
Come share my joy.”
Karen Dubert
Karen is a Third Culture Kid, married to one and has raised two. She has taught and mentored in Eswatini, China, Moçambique, Zimbabwe, and South Africa. Now, in her autumn years, she coaches young people in cross-cultural work in southern Spain.
Joanna Seibert. https://www.joannaseibert.com/