A NEIGHBOR of mine, busily pounding up
limestone from an outcrop in the new lawn, intending to use
the pieces in some masonry, suddenly noticed a fragment of a
peculiar shape and had a vague feeling of having seen
something like it before. A search through his wheelbarrow
load soon turned up the other part of a rock that had broken
along a certain line of cleavage. When put back together
again, the two parts fitted so perfectly that the joint
scarcely showed.
The next day he brought it to his place
of employment and laid it on the step outside his office
door. Soon I passed by and—enthusiastic "rockhound" that I
am—snatched it up to look at. It fell apart in my hands,
revealing the secret of its heart.
Due to my neighbor's generosity that
stone now lies on my desk. I call visitors' attention to it
as one of the choicest in my collection. I get little more
than the most languid glance, for the irregular gray stone
could not possibly be called beautiful. I encourage them to
handle it, extolling its value, but their response is forced
politeness. Sometimes one fairly jumps when the rock
unexpectedly comes apart. Always interest comes alive at
what the heart of the rock reveals—a perfect fossil and a
cast of a brachiopod, an antediluvian mollusk.
A fossil of a brachiopod seashell is not
especially rare. The beauty of this one is its perfect shape
as it lies in one piece of rock and its perfect "cast," or
mold, in the other part of the rock, and the perfect
symmetry of the line of cleavage. It fits together so
closely as hardly to be seen when the sections are replaced.
As I meditate over this curious mass, I
can think of a number of "sermons in stones" which entitle
this fossil to a page in God's two books. Perhaps the most
obvious one is that when a secret sin is hidden in the
heart, it weakens the moral fiber and sooner or later the
stress of life will cause a cleavage that will reveal the
plague spot.
But I prefer a happier thought. "Ointment
and perfume," says the Proverb Maker, "rejoice the heart."
We have heard of a certain stone casket in which some
perfume was once hidden. Whose heart would have rejoiced in
that perfume if the stone had not been broken? But the line
of cleavage in Mary's alabaster box released the perfume
that was the one drop of comfort in the Saviour's bitter
cup. Its fragrance has pervaded not merely the Bethany home
but the pages of all literature, the tones of all tongues,
the realms of all rulers since that day. The precious secret
could not be hid. The loving blow of Mary's gentle hand
caused a cleavage that released the sweetest aroma ever
breathed. The Sabbath question will be the issue in the
great conflict in which all the world will act a
part—unselfish love.
The well-directed blow of the Divine
Artist has caused a cleavage in many a life that He loved,
through which has poured forth the ointment that heals the
world's wounds. Many an earthborn pebble, no more beautiful
outwardly than my gray stone, has a line of cleavage visible
only to the Heavenly Workman. The blows of life, under His
direction, will reveal undreamed—of treasure in earthly
hearts that yield submissively to His hand.
