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In the bottom of a lake a slender blade of green pushed its way up through the ooze and mud. By and by it touched the surface. The sunshine warmed it and its leaves spread out on the water. Then came a fair, sweet morning when the bud opened and became a flower and “lay on the lake as white and stainless as a baby’s soul, and the breath of it was sweeter than any perfume.”
The flower was very glad, but soon it began to sigh: “I am very sweet and beautiful, but why am I out in this lonely place where no one comes to see me and admire me?” Then that very day a poet came and saw the lily, and was inspired by it to write a sweet song which went forth in a book and sang itself into many a heart. Next day an artist came that way, and when he saw the flower he made a sketch of it, and in his studio in the city he painted it, and hundred saw his picture and caught a thought of purity from it. The lily was blessing the world, though it laid there in such obscurity.
Still it sighed, “I am of no use here, though I am so lovely. Ugly weeds sometimes heal the sick, but I am doing no good.” Then another visitor came that way. He was neither poet nor artist, but in his eyes there was a soft tenderness which told of a loving heart. He bent down and plucked the lily. A shudder ran through it as it felt itself torn up by the root, and lifted out of the water, and it fainted away. By and by it awoke, and now it was in a long, narrow room with rows of beds, and in every bed a sick child. As the flower opened, the children’s eyes turned toward it in wonder and its perfume poured out and filled the ward. The lily at last had found it place of usefulness and blessing through sacrifice. It had been torn up by the roots to become a blessing in the children’s ward.
You understand my little parable. Many a life grows up in some obscure place and sighs because of the gloom and the hard circumstances. But at length it bursts into beauty, overcoming the hindrances, like the lily on the water. Yet it sighs because no one sees its loveliness. It longs to be of use. Then once catches a glimpse of the fair young life and goes away to live more purely, more unselfishly. Still rises from the heart the sigh to do some larger work. God hears the sigh, and the lovely life is transplanted – perhaps into some place of service where the beauty will be a benediction to weary ones and where the gentle hands will minister to pain or sorrow; or perhaps to a place where the alabaster box of love must needs to be broken to fill a home or a community with its fragrance. There are many consecrated lives whose sigh and prayer for usefulness have led to missions of self sacrifice.