FRUITS OF THE SPIRIT

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 29, 1880

"FRUITS OF THE SPIRIT."

"The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance." Gal. 5:22, 23.

HARVEY JONES was an old man, very old and very feeble; his face was furrowed by lines of trouble and time; his locks whitened by age and care; his step halting and slow. A weary burden he had carried, weary because he had carried it alone—the burden of life.

It was a lonely room in which he sat, only a few half-burnt-out embers smouldered on the hearth. The chill wind of the ending day moaned amid the tossing branches of the leafless trees, as though it were sighing some sad dirge—and perhaps it was.

Gradually the shadows in the room deepened, till it grew quite dark, except for an occasional flash from the flickering, dying fire, a stray moonbeam or glint of starlight, that stole in through the uncurtained window, as the tree branches swayed to and fro. But Harvey Jones noticed not the growing darkness, neither did he heed the wind, the starlight, nor the moonbeams, for as he sat amid the gathering nightshades, he was living again in the days of his youth. And as memories of the bygone crept over him, something else came too,—sleep, sleep, that is sometimes voiceful, for

"Dreams are true while they last; And do we not live in dreams?"

In his dream, that lonely old man thought he heard a quick, lightsome step, while the silence in the dreary room seemed broken by the voice of a child, a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed child, who clasped warm arms of love about him. A child who placed on the empty table by his side a worn basket, laden with fruits—mixed fruits—some stunted and green, some dry and withered, and some, alas, defaced by marks of decay. And then, in his sleep, old Harvey Jones thought the child nestled her curly head down upon his shoulder, while softly she seemed to ask,

"Tell me the story of the basket of fruits; why are they so mixed? Tell me, why are there no beautiful ripe fruits among them?" And Harvey's sleep grew heavier, his dream more life-like, as he seemed lifting the fruits from the laden basket one by one, till the table was strewn; and looking on them as they lay outspread before him, wearily he sighed, while in the room another voice seemed to sound, a stern voice saying, "Yes, tell the story of the fruits, the fruits so mixed!"

As the voice ceased, the fire flashed and flickered like some angry thing, and then it went out. But the moonbeams and the light from the stars, they still shone in and lingered like caresses about the laden table. And, with the star-glints and the moonbeams falling on them, the fruits seemed suddenly in some mystical way transformed into symbol-forms, forms that seemed to assume the significance of spiritual fruits, undeveloped during the years of that old man's life, and the years that stretched so far backward, and with the symbol-forms, voices too seemed to come to the fruits.

"For see," said one, "in your youth-time, O old man, down from my heavenly home I came to blossom and ripen in the garden of your heart. I, Love, Love that renders sweet charities, tender ministries to the needy and the suffering, but,—and the voice of Love was like a groan,—"you did not tend me, and now I am withered and dry, all unfit to be garnered by the Lord of the heavenly home."

"And I," sighed another, "I, Joy, came, but troubles came too, and you never looked to the One who alone can keep joy alive in heart-gardens, the One who all the time, if you had but listened, has been whispering, 'In me, you may know how to be sorrowful yet rejoicing,' and now I am all unfit to be gathered by the Master's hand."

"And I," called still another, "I, Peace, gentle Peace, came, but there sounded a noise of strife and you forgot, you to whose care the ripening and tending of the 'fruits of the Spirit' were intrusted, forgot the promise, 'Blessed are the peacemakers,' and now it is too late, too late for me to ripen."

"Too late for us to ripen too," sighed Long-suffering and Gentleness (that sweet fruit that falls with refreshment on weary hearts, as dew falls on midsummer flowers); we are all withered in your unwatered garden."

Again, in his sleep, old Harvey sighed a sigh, bitter as a groan, as aloud he murmured, "Is there not one ripe fruit for the Lord's harvest, not one—"

And, like a chorus of many voices, his words seemed to mingle with the utterances of the symbol-forms, Goodness, Faith, Meekness, and Temperance, as together they wept, calling, "Too late, too late, we cannot ripen now; and we were such fair, young, hopeful blossoms, when first we came to you."

And as their murmur ceased, once again the old man moaned, "I meant, oh I meant, to tend them so carefully, my heart-fruits—but—but—"

And then in the lonely room, the harsh voice sounded, saying, "O man, there is no time for buts, in the tending of life's fruits. Are these all you have to offer the Lord of heart-gardens, these half-ripened, stunted, withered fruits, are they your only record?"

And a hand seemed to sweep away the fruits from the table, seemed to lift the basket, now so light, so empty, "for not one fruit," the harsh voice continued, "is fit to offer up there."

And the sleep of the old man became more restless and broken, as he murmured, "Why, ah why, are they thus, the fruit-blossoms that came with my youth, why, ah why, have I neglected them so?"

Then another voice seemed to sound, gentle and tender, tender as a mother's, saying, "Why? because you forgot, old Harvey, the secret that comes with every blossom the Spirit sends into human hearts, telling how, and only how, men may bring the blossoms to perfected fruit;" and softly the voice whispered, "'Watch and pray'—for Christ said, 'As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine, no more can ye, except ye abide in Me.'"

Then all was still in the room, very still. It was midnight; the moon had set; it was dark, except for the star-glints; and Harvey Jones slept on, slept till the stars grew dim before the rising sun. But with the first sunbeams he stirred, while a smile played across his face where tears had been in the night; for he seemed to hear once again the child's voice; seemed to feel once more the warm pressure of her arms about him, while in his slumber he seemed to see the child's hand pointing towards the table where no longer the battered, ill-used basket stood, but where he beheld a basket, new and fresh, laden with buds and blossoms, and old Harvey thought those blossoms sang, "Tend us, tend us prayerfully, remembering the secret of our growth is that you 'watch and pray,' and though you are an old man, almost done with life here, we will ripen for you; yes, ripen for you, we the 'fruits of the Spirit.'"

Looking on the opening buds, old Harvey felt as though he were a youth again; a youth glad that in the night-time there had come for him, white-winged and silently, a time in which, spite the sad record of his past, he might hope to behold again flowers, foliage and ripened fruits; for "I herald," whispered the child's voice, "though I came in the darkness, mid wind and cold, the coming of another summer." And then the sunbeams, they were so bright, old Harvey Jones awoke, awoke to a new life, just as we, if we will look up to Christ, and will remember to "watch and pray," may know, whether we be old or young, and whatever the record of our past be, a new life—a life in which we may have flowers and summer, sunshine and fruits; have them through Christ's love, even though the fallen leaves, the withered flowers of the past thickly strew our heart's garden, that place where ripen the "fruits of the Spirit."—Christian Weekly.