I once kept a bottle-shaped cocoon of an emperor moth for nearly one year.

The cocoon was very strange in its construction. The neck of the “bottle” had a narrow opening through which the mature insect forces its way.

Therefore the abandoned cocoon is as perfect as one still inhabited, with no tearing of the interwoven fibers having taken place. The great disparity between the size of the opening and the size of the imprisoned insect makes a person wonder how the moth ever exits at all. Of course, it is never accomplished without great labor and difficulty.

It is believed the pressure to which the moth’s body is subjected when passing through such a narrow opening is nature’s way of forcing fluids into the wings, since they are less developed at the time of emerging from the cocoon than in other insects.

I happened to witness the first efforts of my imprisoned moth to escape from its long confinement. All morning I watched it patiently striving and struggling to be free. It never seemed able to get beyond a certain point, and at last my patience was exhausted.

The confining fibers were probably drier and less elastic than if the cocoon had been left all winter in its native habitat, as nature meant it to be. In any case, I thought I was wiser and more compassionate than its Maker, so I resolved to give it a helping hand.

With the point of my scissors, I snipped the confining threads to make the exit just a little easier. Immediately and with perfect ease, my moth crawled out, dragging a huge swollen body and little shriveled wings!

I watched in vain to see the marvelous process of expansion in which these wings would silently and swiftly develop before my eyes. As I examined the delicately beautiful spots and markings of various colors that were all there in miniature, I longed to see them assume their ultimate size.

I looked for my moth, one of the loveliest of its kind, to appear in all its perfect beauty. But I looked in vain. My misplaced tenderness had proved to be its ruin.

The moth suffered an aborted life, crawling painfully through its brief existence instead of flying through the air on rainbow wings.

I have thought of my moth often, especially when watching with tearful eyes those who were struggling with sorrow, suffering, and distress.

My tendency would be to quickly alleviate the discipline and bring deliverance.

O shortsighted person that I am! How do I know that one of these pains or groans should be relieved?

The farsighted, perfect love that seeks the perfection of its object does not weakly shrink away from present, momentary suffering.

Our Father’s love is too steadfast to be weak.

Because He loves His children, He “disciplines us . . . that we may share in his holiness” (Hebrews 12:10).

With this glorious purpose in sight, He does not relieve our crying.

Made perfect through suffering, as our Elder Brother was, we children of God are disciplined to make us obedient, and brought to glory through much tribulation.

In one of Ralph Conner ’s books he tells the story of Gwen. Gwen was an undisciplined and strong-willed girl, always accustomed to having her own way. One day she had a terrible accident that crippled her for life, leading her to become even more rebellious. Once while in a complaining mood, she was visited by a local “sky pilot,” or mountaineer missionary. He told her the following parable about the canyon:

“At first there were no canyons but only the vast, open prairie. One day the Master of the prairie, walking across His great grasslands, asked the prairie, ‘Where are your flowers?’ The prairie responded, ‘Master, I have no flower seeds.’

“The Master then spoke to the birds, and they brought seeds of every kind of flower, scattering them far and wide. Soon the prairie bloomed with crocuses, roses, yellow buttercups, wild sunflowers, and red lilies all summer long. When the Master saw the flowers, He was pleased. But He failed to see His favorites and asked the prairie, ‘Where are the clematis, columbine, violets, wildflowers, ferns, and the flowering shrubs?’

“So once again He spoke to the birds, and again they brought all the seeds and spread them far and wide. But when the Master arrived, He still could not find the flowers he loved the most, and asked, ‘Where are my sweetest flowers?’ The prairie cried sorrowfully, ‘O Master, I cannot keep the flowers. The winds sweep fiercely across me, and the sun beats down upon my breast, and they simply wither up and blow away.’

“Then the Master spoke to the lightning, and with one swift bolt, the lightning split the prairie through its heart. The prairie reeled and groaned in agony and for many days bitterly complained about its dark, jagged, and gaping wound. But the river poured its water through the chasm, bringing rich, dark soil with it.

“Once again the birds brought seeds and scattered them in the canyon. After a long time the rough rocks were adorned with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the secluded cliffs were draped with clematis and columbine. Giant elms raised their huge limbs high into the sunlight, while at their feet small cedars and balsam firs clustered together. Everywhere violets, anemones, and maidenhair ferns grew and bloomed, until the canyon became the Master’s favorite place for rest, peace, and joy.”

Then the “sky pilot” said to her, “ ‘The fruit [or “flowers”] of the Spirit [are] love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, . . . gentleness’ [Galatians 5:22–23 NASB], and some of these grow only in the canyon.” Gwen softly asked, “Which are the canyon flowers?” The missionary answered, “Patience, kindness, and gentleness. Yet even though love, joy, and peace may bloom in the open spaces, the blossom is never as beautiful, or the perfume as fragrant, as when they are found blooming in the canyon.”

Gwen sat very still for quite some time, and then longingly said with trembling lips, “There are no flowers in my canyon—only jagged rocks.”

The missionary lovingly responded, “Someday they will bloom, dear Gwen. The Master will find them, and we will see them, too.”

Beloved, when you come to your canyon, remember!

The heavens are not clean in his sight. How much more abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh iniquity like water?

Yea, the stars are not pure in his sight. How much less man, that is a worm?

Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? who is like thee, glorious in holiness?

Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts.

As he which hath called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation; because it is written, Be ye holy; for I am holy.—Partakers of his holiness.

The temple of God is holy, which temple ye are.—What manner of persons ought ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness, . . . without spot, and blameless?

Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying.

And grieve not the holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption.

It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

We have had fathers of our flesh, which corrected us; and we gave them reverence: shall we not much rather be in subjection unto the Father of spirits, and live? For they verily for a few days chastened us after their own pleasure; but he for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness.

Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now have I kept thy word. It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes.

I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.—Humble yourselves, therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time.

Thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?—Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty.

Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.—I saw . . . the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphims. And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory. Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone.

I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself.

The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.—That we might be partakers of his holiness.—Having therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, let us draw near with a true heart.