January 14
A German allegory tells of two little girls. They had been playing together in a strange garden, and soon one ran in to her mother full of disappointment. "The garden's a sad place, mother." "Why, my child?" "I've been all around, and every rose-tree has cruel, long thorns upon it!" Then the second child came in breathless. "O Mother, the garden's a beautiful place!" "How so, my child?" "Why, I've been all around, and every thorn-bush has lovely roses growing on it!" And the mother wondered at the difference in the two children.
Anonymous.
Divine Spirit and Soul of this day! We rejoice in its accomplished and its prophetic beauty and wealth which even our undisciplined hearts and minds may readily perceive, but may we increase the joy of its activities and its whole divine meaning by a deeper appreciation of its ministry to the disciplined life we bear. If there shall be fortunes in its passing which we would not choose, if there shall be encountered any experiences we would shun, may we remember that our reverses only emphasize our successes, that our sorrows intensify our joys, that even the humiliation and shame of the "far country" add divine meaning to the Father's House where wait the sandals and robes and rings for the comfort and beauty that are yet to be. May we learn that the thorn protects the rose, that the flaming sword turning in all directions protects the Tree of Life in every Eden of the world. May we remember that every great and good fortune of life is guarded by a seeming hostility which bears in its soul the secret of a lasting benevolence appointed for our own good. Amen.
E. L. Rexford.
January 15
We are haunted by an ideal life, and it is because we have within us the beginning and the possibility of it. God is our continual incitement because we are His children. So the ideal life is in our blood and never will be still. We feel the thing we ought to be beating beneath the thing we are. Every time we see a man who has attained our ideal a little more fully than we have it wakens our languid blood and fills us with new longings.
Phillips Brooks.