Really, reading a book is just about novelty for me ever since I began adulting about six or seven years ago. To make the time for it, nearly guarantees a measure of accompanied guilt. Just recently I did read a book, cover to cover, in only two or three settings, which seemed like a pretty good record. The reason it's even worth my mentioning is because of this excerpt:
"And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your canyon, down there."
"Is it true?" asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving hands.
"True? It's as true as--as--" he glanced round the room, "as the Pilgrim's Progress." This was satisfactory, and the story went on.
"At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where there were only grasses, asked the Prairie, 'Where are your flowers?' and the Prairie said, 'Master, I have no seeds.' Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the wild sunflowers and the red lilies all the summer long. Then the Master came and was well pleased; but he missed the flowers he loved best of all, and he said to the Prairie: 'Where are the clematis and columbine, the sweet violets and wind flowers, and all the ferns and flowering shrubs?' And again he spoke to the birds, and again they carried all the seeds and strewed them far and wide. But, again, when the Master came, he could not find the flowers he loved best of all, and he said: 'Where are those, my sweetest flowers?' and the Prairie cried sorrowfully: 'Oh, Master, I cannot keep the flowers, for the winds sweep fiercely, and the sun beats upon my breast, and they whither up and fly away.' Then the Master spoke to the Lightening, and with one swift blow the Lightening cleft the Prairie to the heart. And the Prairie rocked and groaned in agony, and for many a day moaned bitterly over its black, jagged, gaping wound. But the Little Swan* poured its waters through the cleft, and carried down deep black mould, and once more the birds carried seeds and strewed them in the canyon. And after a long time the rough rocks were decked out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung with clematis and columbine, and great elms lifted their huge tops high up into the sunlight, and down about their feet clustered the low cedars and balsams, and everywhere the violets and wind-flower and maiden-hair grew and bloomed, till the canyon became the Master's place for rest and peace and joy."
The quaint tale was ended, and Gwen lay quiet for some moments, then said gently:
"Yes! The canyon flowers are much the best. Tell me what it means."
Then The Pilot read to her: "The fruits--I'll read 'flowers'--of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, self-control, and some of these grow only in the canyon."
"Which are the canyon flowers?" asked Gwen softly, and The Pilot answered:
"Gentleness, meekness, self-control; but though the others, love, joy, peace, bloom in the open, yet never so rich a bloom and so sweet a perfume as in the canyon."
*the Little Swan is the name of a creek in the book
excerpt from "The Sky Pilot" by Ralph Connor
We all face some canyons occasionally, do we not? The girl in the story had been thrown from her horse into a ravine, the horse landing on top of her, and her legs were paralyzed. Illustrations like that will always give me inspiration.
My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. (James 1:2-4)
...but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope... (Romans 5:3-4)
Let us gracefully accept our canyons and allow the Master of the Prairie and the Mountains and the Skies and Hearts to master those chasms too, and the little things with feathers will strew their seeds of hope. ("Hope" is the thing with feathers--That perches on the soul--And sings the tune without the words--And never stops--at all-- Emily Dickenson)
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