Torn In Half.

Some years ago, a colporteur wended his way through the forest to the door of a country cottage in France. He greeted the woman within and offered a New Testament for sale.
Jeanne hesitated. Would the priest approve? That was the question. Still, she wistfully eyed the neat little volume.
"Do not be troubled, madame," urged the colporteur. "The priest would sin against God if he prevented you from reading of the love of the good Christ.''
At last, she produced 50 centimes, and taking the book said, "I cannot refuse, monsieur, but may I be pardoned if it is a sin."
Presently, in came Jacques, the charcoal burner, her husband. After his tea, Jeanne rather timidly produced her book for his inspection. As she rather feared, he was tired and cross, and upbraided her for spending his money in this fashion.
"But," said she, "the money is not all yours, Jacques. I brought my dowry when we married. The money I paid was as much mine as yours."
"Give me the book!" shouted Jacques in a temper. He snatched it from her hands. "The money was half yours and half mine, you say. Very well, the book is the same!" He opened the book roughly; tore it in two pieces, dropping one into his blouse and throwing the other to Jeanne.
"Several days later Jacques sat in the forest by his charcoal fires, feeling lonely. Suddenly he remembered the torn book. He would investigate it. His rough fingers had divided it in Luke's Gospel. His part began where it says, "—and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee and am no more worthy to be called thy son."
Spellbound, he read to the end of the story, and then a dozen questions presented themselves.
What had he done—the poor lost son? Why was he exiled? Where had he been? What made him return? The questions haunted him. "I wish I had the beginning of the story" he sighed. At first, his pride prevented him asking Jeanne for her part of the book.
Meanwhile Jeanne lived her monotonous days and used her leisure moments poring over her part and spelling out its contents. She began to delight in it, but when she reached the end, her interest was doubly quickened. That younger son—his waywardness, his journey, his sin, his misery, the wonderful change in his thoughts. "I perish with hunger. I will arise and go to my father—. "There the story stopped.
But what happened? Did the father welcome him? Her tender heart longed for a satisfactory answer. She even cried over the story, but she could not screw up her courage to consult Jacques.
The days passed. On one, however, the rain poured down with special vigor, and Jacques came home feeling specially weary. He ate his soup and bread for supper as usual, and at last, he blurted out:
"Jeanne, you remember the book I tore in two?"
"Oh, yes," said she, half fearing.
"My part had in it a wonderful story, but only the end of it. I cannot rest until I know the beginning of it. Bring me your piece. 
"Oh, Jacques! How wonderful!”
“Why?”
"The same story is ever in my mind, only I lack the ending. Did the father receive that willful son?"
"He did. But what was it that separated them?"
"She brought her piece and knelt by his chair. Together they read the whole of the beautiful parable, and the Spirit of God, who had been working in both their hearts, caused its hidden meaning to dawn on them. Both have yielded hearts and lives to the Lord Jesus Christ.
To you, that parable of the prodigal son is probably quite familiar, but has it ever raised in your mind the questions that it did in theirs?
What had he done? Let the answer be given in the prodigal's own words: "I have sinned"; and at once, we have a confession which common honesty should put on all our lips. We have sinned, possibly in different ways, but we all have sinned.
And when the sinner turns to seek the Father, another burning question is raised. Did the father receive that willful son? Why yes, indeed he did. "When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him." —F. B. Hole. 
“Gospel Gleaners” Aug. 1948