Donald Barnhouse told a story many years ago that struck me about this subject of trust and giving of my best. It’s probably too long for a blog post, but please bear with me as I am ignorant of blog protocols.
It was back in the gloomy depression era days of the mid-thirties that there lived a Philadelphia woman of Scotch ancestry, who also had a Scotch name, she was called Mrs. Mac. She and her husband lived in a large beautiful home, had a chauffeur, a gardener, a big greenhouse, a swimming pool and all of the other accoutrements one would imagine with such a home. Mrs. Mac also taught a Sunday school class for high-school girls.
One day her fancy car drove up and parked before the house of one of the girls in her Sunday school class. Excitedly the girl watched the chauffeur hop out and approach the house carrying a long white box. He handed it to her and said that Mrs. Mac had sent over flowers for her and then he left. She took them inside her home and opened the big box. She was surprised to see that the large bouquet of roses were wilted and faded and that the petals were beginning to fall and turn brown.
Why on earth would Mrs. Mac send over flowers like these? Had the chauffeur been given them a few days ago and forgot to deliver them? Knowing something of Mrs. Mac’s routine the girl made a point of meeting her later that day and she said, “Thank you so much for the bouquet of roses you sent me this morning!”
Mrs. Mac said, “Oh you’re welcome! They were so beautiful! I cut them last Monday and I have had them in my bedroom and I’ve been enjoying them so much. This morning I noticed that they were beginning to fade and get old. The petals were beginning to drop and I thought about you and decided to send them to you.”
“But Mrs. Mac, I don’t understand. Why?”
Mrs. Mac looked at her with tender eyes and touched the girls face, “Just the other evening Mr. Mac and I were parked in front of the drug store. While he ran in I just stayed in the car in the dark. Some girls came down the street and I heard one of them speaking about the Wednesday Bible-study meeting going on at the church. This girl said something like, “Well of course, I intend to be a really committed Christian some day, but now while I’m young, I’m so busy and I just want to have a good time and have some fun with my life.”
The girl’s head dropped and she said, “I remember. I did say that, but I didn’t know you were there.”
Mrs. Mac hugged her close and replied, “I know dear. Don’t you see that what you’re really saying is, ‘Lord, this is my life and I’m thankful for it, but I’m young and want to enjoy the youth and charm and beauty of it for myself. I want to live the way I want to and later when I get old and wrinkly and I’m not as popular as now, then I’ll change. When everything is beginning to fade and wilt, then Lord, you can have what’s left. I’ll give you my best then, but for now while my life is young and vibrant I want it all for myself.”
That story probably speaks to me more now that I’m part of the sagging, grey-haired, order of the wrinkle crowd, but it’s probably also true of many. For those of you that think you’re permanent pressed and will never get wrinkles, consider for a moment your level of surrender to Christ. Regret for wasted time is something none of us is forced to choose. Many equate surrender to Jesus Christ as loss of fajitas, freedom and fun, but in reality it’s really the surrender of our darkness, doubts and fears in exchange for His light, a new confidence and trusting courage. If you read this far, thanks! Hope this little story gives you pause to examine your faith. For an extended story, consider The Seventh Son.