The story is told of a famous
19th century European
conductor who was so convinced
that his protégé, a young
woman in her twenties, could
become a diva of great renown,
that he spent an inordinate
amount of time helping to
develop her talent.
Every concert in which she
starred produced a standing
room only crowd but still the
conductor was not satisfied.
Something was dreadfully
lacking in her performance.
She lacked passion.
In vain, he tried every way to
ignite that fire within her
but to no avail. He felt
she had reached a plateau
above which she could never
rise unless he could find a
way to tap into those inner
resources he was sure were
there.
One night after her
performance, he devised a plan
certain to make her one of the
leading ladies in the world of
opera. He would make her
fall in love with him; then he
would leave her. In her
ensuing heartbreak and sorrow,
she was sure to bring to her
future performances all the
passion and pathos that had
been heretofore lacking.
A courtship began, with the
conductor showering her with
affection, filling her home
with expensive gifts,
escorting her to some of the
most fashionable gathering
places of Europe to meet his
friends and to help develop
her self-confidence.
Increasingly, she found
herself returning his
attention and soon was deeply
and permanently in love with
her conductor.
Then, acting as he’d planned,
he suddenly withdrew his love,
appearing cold and inattentive
toward her. And as he’d
expected, her heart was
shattered as she sank quickly
into a morass of loneliness
and despair. For weeks
she lay across her bed, unable
to keep her concert
commitments, desperately
wanting to die. No doubt
observers wondered how the
conductor could resort to such
treachery. Had he no
compassion?
One day, the conductor visited
her at home to persuade her to
perform with his orchestra one
more time. He chose an
arrangement so demanding and
full of passion that it would
either destroy her career or
declare her instantly famous.
Drawing honestly from the
innermost reaches of her
broken and battered heart, she
gave the best performance of
her life. The excited
audience could not believe the
transformation! She had
experienced first-hand every
measure of sorrow and grief
that the music score demanded
and the music world reeled
with excitement in their
reviews. She went on to
become one of the most
brilliant coloratura sopranos
of her time.
In the same way that this
soprano had to be broken and
crushed to reach her full
potential, church history is
full of instances in which God
had to first crush the rose in
order to produce the sweet
fragrance that He so desired
and could best use.
Fanny Crosby, sightless but
deeply spiritual, went on to
become one of the most famous
hymn writers of all time.
Over 9,000 hymns carry her
distinctive signature.
Never bitter about her
condition, she spent 35 years
as a student and teacher at a
school for the blind and was
so well regarded that she
played at President Grant’s
funeral. No doubt
observers of her time wondered
how God could commit such an
arbitrary and capricious act
as to render her sightless
just six weeks after her
birth.
It would be difficult to
imagine hymnology today
without Fanny Crosby’s very
significant contribution.
God in His sovereignty chose
to make her sightless so she
could write through His eyes,
without the distractions of
every day life that dilute or
distort His message. Her
blindness was not an accident;
it was divinely ordained.
Only through the crushed rose
is the awesome fragrance
possible.
Renowned Christian mystic A.W.
Tozer once wrote, “To
the child of God, there is no
such thing as an accident;
he travels an appointed way.
The path he treads was chosen
for him when he was not, when
as yet he had existence only
in the mind of God. The
man of true faith may live in
absolute assurance that his
steps are ordered by the Lord.
For him misfortune is outside
the bounds of possibility.
He cannot be torn from this
earth one hour ahead of the
time God has appointed, and he
cannot be detained on earth
one moment after God is done
with him here. He is not
a waif of the wide world, a
foundling of time and space,
but a saint of the Lord and
the darling of His particular
care.”
by Mariane Holbrook
http://www.marianholbrook.com