In one of his books, writer Robert Fulgham tells the story of when his daughter was a little girl and gave him a paper bag to take with him to work. When he asked what was in the bag, she answered, "Just some stuff. Take it with you."

When he sat down for lunch at his desk the next day, he pulled out the paper bag and poured out its contents: two ribbons, three stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, used lipstick, two chocolate Kisses, and thirteen pennies. He chuckled, finished his lunch, and swept everything off into the wastebasket.

When he arrived at home that evening, his daughter asked him where the bag was. "I left it at the office," he replied. "Why?"

"Well," she said, "those are my things in the sack, Daddy. The things I really like. I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back."

When she saw him hesitate, tears welled up in her eyes. "You didn't lose the bag, did you Daddy?"

He said he didn't and that he would bring it home tomorrow. After she went to bed, he raced back to the office. Fulgham writes:

Molly had given me her treasures … all that a seven-year-old held dear. Love in a paper sack. And I missed it. Not just missed it. I had thrown it away. Nothing in there I needed. It wasn't the first or last time I felt like my "Daddy Permit" was about to run out. I went back to my office, dumped all the wastebaskets out onto my desk. The janitor came in and asked, "Did you lose something?"

"Yeah. My mind! It's probably in there."

When Fulgham found the bag, he uncrumpled it, and filled it again with his daughter's items: two ribbons, three stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, used lipstick, two chocolate Kisses, and thirteen pennies. He took the bag home, sat down with Molly, and had her tell him the story of every treasure in the bag. Then he writes:

To my surprise, Molly gave me the bag once again several days later. Same ratty bag. Same stuff inside. I felt forgiven. Over several months, the bag went with me from time to time. It was never clear to me why I did or did not get it on a certain day. I began to think of it as the "Daddy Prize," and I tried to be good the night before so I could be given it on the next morning.

In time, Molly turned her attention to other things, lost interest in the game, grew up. Me … I was left holding the bag. She gave it to me one morning and never asked for it back. It sits in my office still, left over from when a child said, "Here. This is the best I've got. Take it. It's yours." I missed it the first time, but it's my bag now.

God's treasures ordinary people. Though they may come plainly wrapped, each one has a story. Each one is precious to him and every day he entrusts these treasures to us.