| The Every Day of Life |
Chapter 6 |
Page 5 |
There are some people who seem able to bring out the best that is in us. Under their influence we are stimulated and inspired to noble and beautiful things. There are teachers who have wonderful power in finding and drawing out the best elements in the lives of their pupils. There are parents under whose wise and gentle teaching touches the hearts of their children yielding all beautiful qualities. We all have friends whose influence over us is genial and kindly. We are conscious of being drawn ever toward goodness and truth and purity when we are with them. They arouse in us noble longings and aspirations. They call out our best endeavors and our gentlest and kindliest dispositions. Others there are whose touch upon our life is uncongenial and unkindly like the playing of an unskilled person upon a musical instrument. They arouse not our better, but our worse natures. They bring from us not sweet music, but jarred discord.
There is only One who can take our lives with their entire fault and sin, their broken strings and jangled chords, and bring from them the music of love, joy, and peace. It is related that once Mendelssohn came to see the great Freiburg organ. The old custodian, not knowing who his visitor was, refused him permission to play upon the instrument. At length, however, after much persuasion, he granted him leave to play a few notes. Mendelssohn took his seat, and soon the most wonderful music was breaking forth from the organ.
The old man was spell-bound. At length he came up beside the great master and asked his name. Learning it, he stood humiliated, self-condemned, saying, “And I refuse you permission to play upon this prized organ!” There comes One to us and desires to take our life and play upon it. But we withhold ourselves from him and refuse him permission, when if we would but yield ourselves to him, he would bring from our souls heavenly music.
“We are but organs mute, till a master touches the keys–
Verily vessels of earth into which God poureth the wine;
Harps are we, silent harps, that have hung in the willow trees,
Dumb till our heartstrings swell and break with a pulse divine.
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