THE Christian minister is frequently dejected when he reflects upon the few visible signs of success which sometimes attend his ministry of the Word. He may labour with unremitting diligence, be instant in season and out of season; yet, to the end that his faith and patience may be tried, he may not be permitted to have any outward proof that God is making him instrumental in turning souls from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God. But if on this account we may relax in our labours to do good, and fail to seek to use every season of doing good which presents itself, we may thus, for the time being, become indifferent to the very circumstances in which the Almighty intends to show to us that we were not labouring in vain nor spending our strength for nought. For oft-times after a season of long apparent dearth and darkness, and just perhaps as we had begun to give up hope, the wilderness suddenly appears to blossom as the rose, and the desert becomes fruitful as the garden of the Lord. By some remarkable instance, it may be, it is made plain to the patient labourer in His Master’s vineyard that God is with him establishing the work of His hands. And this revelation of the Master’s presence with him is, to the Christian labourer, what a friendly light in the distance is to a traveller, journeying amidst the darkness of the night through a wild and lonesome country: he sees the light and takes courage, and feelings of doubt and despair are dispersed, even as the gloomy night clouds vanish under the beams of the rising sun.
* This deeply affecting narrative was recently printed in the Magazine Waymarks, edited by Mr. S. R. Hunt, Newquay, Cornwall. It is from a book published many years ago by the Religious Tract Society. We take the liberty of publishing it in our pages also.—Editor.
Thus was I encouraged in the young days of my ministerial life. In weak health and in depressed spirits, I had been labouring, apparently without any success, for a lengthened period. No words of mine seemed to avail in turning back the swollen tide of wickedness which, like a torrent, rolled down the streets of our town, and I was beginning to despair of ever labouring profitably in such a place; when I was requested to occupy a pulpit in a neighbouring city for a single Sabbath evening. Somewhat unwillingly, I consented to do so, for I was just then meditating a retreat from the ministry altogether, thinking it not impossible that I had mistaken my vocation in life.
When the Sabbath evening came round that was to find me preaching at D—, I well remember debating with myself long and anxiously whether I should go or not. It was a dull November evening; I had more than four miles to walk, and a cold drizzling rain was falling. More than once I determined to send someone else to fill my place; but while thus in doubt as to what I should do, the words sounded in my ears, clearly and solemnly, as if a voice had spoken them, “In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand; for thou knowest not whether shall prosper either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.” I hesitated no longer; but, breathing a prayer for help and utterance, I set forth for D—.
When I arrived at the scene of my evening’s labour, I found but a very small congregation assembled: the place of worship was filled with a cold raw fog, through which a few tallow candles faintly glimmered. The atmosphere was damp and unhealthy as that of a vault, and seemed to strike everyone who entered with a perceptible chill. Throwing myself, however, upon the promised aid of the Holy Spirit, I began to speak to the people the Word of life. Taking for my text the glorious words, “There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus,” I endeavoured to illustrate and to enforce the following truths—that man as a sinner was under condemnation; that this condemnation was of a most fearful character, and involved in it the most terrible results; that man by himself was wholly unable to escape from this condemnation and its consequences; but that God, in the gospel of His Son, had met fallen man in his low estate, had provided a means of escape from the terrors of a broken law, and from the accusings of a guilty conscience; that He had established a sure foundation for the sinner’s hope, and was merciful to him who, casting himself by faith upon this most precious Foundation, was longing to be saved according to God’s way and purpose.
While I was proceeding with my address, my attention was forcibly arrested by the appearance of a poor lad, who was standing, or rather crouching in the aisle near the door. He was shivering with cold, and occasionally, as the wind howled past the windows in fitful gusts, he would draw his tattered garments closer round him to protect his emaciated, sickly looking frame. He seemed afraid to meet the eye of anyone, for once when he found my gaze fixed upon him he immediately cowered, dropped his head upon his bosom, and did not look up again for some moments. How it was that I began to lose all thought of the congregation, and to speak as if that poor boy were my only auditor, I know not, but so it was: like a magnet he drew my thoughts and feelings towards himself, and I found myself speaking more emphatically to him than to anyone else. I forgot the cold, dull place of worship in which I was preaching; and even while I was speaking, my heart earnestly prayed to God to bless the words to the salvation of that wretched outcast. New thoughts and illustrations came into my mind, and God seemed speaking through me, more especially to him who had so forcibly awakened my sympathies. He looked so poor, so miserable, and wistful so desirous of having a word of kindness spoken to him, that at the close of the service I determined to send for him; but on looking to the place he had occupied during worship I found it vacant; the boy had gone. No one, it appeared, had observed him but myself; and all the way home my fancy followed the unknown, apparently friendless lad, wandering in his tattered garments, through the wind and rain of a November night, without a home to which to direct his wearied steps.
I cannot explain the cause, but I inwardly felt that night that I had been made instrumental in doing good. I was as certain of it as if the fact had been announced to me by a messenger from the skies; and I returned to my own field of labour rebuked for my want of faith, and resolved to press on, begging for more implicit trust in God. So vivid was the impression which the service at D— made upon my mind, that I even used to dream about it; and always, as the central figure in the dream, was the poor boy who had so deeply interested and affected me. Again I could see him, standing cold and solitary in the aisle, the very image of want and sorrow, and I would sometimes awake with words of sympathy intended for him upon my lips. On several occasions I made inquiries with regard to him of persons who were likely to meet such as he, but always without success; and yet the thought would often occur to me that he and I were destined to meet. We did meet, and under circumstances never, never to be forgotten by myself.
It was the middle of winter, and the snow was lying deep on the earth, when one evening, as I was reading in my study, I was told that a very poor woman wished to speak to me. “She would not come in,” the servant said, but would be very thankful if I could allow her to ask me a question at the door. Upon going to the door, a most pitiable object met my view. Prostrate upon the steps, her forehead touching the cold stones, lay the poor woman: she was very thinly clad, and seemed almost frozen by the severity of the winter air. At the sound of my voice, she started and made a languid attempt to rise, but her strength failed her; and shivering with cold she sank down again into a kneeling posture, looking at me with a mute appeal for compassion and succour. With the assistance of my servant, I carried her in almost a fainting state into the kitchen, and for a time she remained without power to utter a single word; but gradually she recovered through the restoratives we employed, and accepted very gratefully some food that was set before her. She had not, however, eaten above a mouthful or two, before she suddenly recollected the object of her errand: she burst into tears and exclaimed, in a voice broken by emotion, “I didn’t come here to beg, sir, indeed I didn’t.” There was that in her very wretchedness, and in the large tears which coursed down her cheeks, which forbade even the thought of her being an impostor; and in as kind words as I could use I expressed my willingness to help her. She paused for a moment, struggled with herself to obtain the mastery over the feelings which were agitating her, and then, in more quiet tones, gave me the following account of herself.
She was a widow, having lost her husband about five years ago; she had seen better days for, while her husband was alive, she together with her son, her only child, was enabled to subsist very comfortably; but upon his death ruin and want stared them in the face, and they were reduced almost to beggary. By dint, however, of great exertions, she had contrived to maintain herself and her child, and she was beginning to regard the future even hopefully, when her son, just as he was approaching the age when by his efforts he might have assisted his widowed parent most materially, ran off to sea. Thus was she deprived of both husband and child, and left with only penury and grief as her bitter portion. She followed the prodigal with her tears and prayers, but more than two years elapsed without any tidings of him reaching her. At length, one Sunday evening, while she in sad loneliness of heart was brooding over his case and trying to reconcile herself to the thought of his death, her boy, whom she still loved with all the depth of maternal affection, notwithstanding all his waywardness and disobedience, had suddenly presented himself before her, and with many tears besought her forgiveness. “God knows, sir, how readily I forgave him. I thought no more of his past misconduct in the delight I experienced in his return. He had been shipwrecked, and escaped by almost a miracle: he came home to me in rags, and looking very weak and ill, quite the ghost of his former self. But since then, sir, he has been more than any mother can wish, working night and day, poor fellow, to make up for his running away from me.”
At this point in her narrative she broke out into a stream of tears. I tried to comfort her and told her how glad and thankful I was that her son had returned to her.
“Oh, sir,” she said, between the sobs which were rending her poor bosom, “how shall I tell it you? My boy, my darling Richard, is dying. He has been dangerously ill for more than a month, and I am afraid there is no hope of his recovery. I have parted with almost everything we possessed to provide him with necessaries.”
I took out my purse with the intention of giving her a trifle of money, but she hastily said, “It was not money I am seeking of you, sir”; and then, after a short pause, in which her tears flowed freely, she continued, “During his illness he has frequently told me that had it not been for a sermon he heard when he came home to his native land, he might still have continued disobedient and wild. It seems, on his way home, that he heard some singing, and was so attracted by it that he entered the place where it was, and it was a place of worship. There he heard the sermon which was made the means of causing him to change his course, and he, prodigal-like, came home that very evening to ask his mother’s forgiveness. And oh! sir, it is after the minister that preached that sermon that I have walked miles and miles. My poor Richard says that he should be so glad to shake hands with that minister before he goes hence; but though several have come to see him, he says to me when they have gone, ‘Mother, he has not come yet.’ At last someone advised me to come to you to tell the story I have told to so many. If you could come and see my dying boy, a mother’s deep gratitude will ascend to heaven for you. We live a little way out of D—”
“What!” I said, starting with a suspicion that now for the first time crossed my mind; “and was it in D— that he heard the sermon about which he speaks?”
“It was indeed, sir. Oh! were you ever there?”
“Was it about Christmas time that your poor boy came back?”
“It was in the month of November, sir; how well I recollect—”
“Say no more,” I replied; “I believe God has sent you to the one you want at last. I was preaching at D— about that time, and I verily believe I saw your son there.”
To describe the mother’s gratitude upon my signifying it as my intention at once to accompany her home, is next to impossible. I quickly obtained a conveyance, and taking with me a few necessaries for the sick boy’s comfort, we set off together. On the way I communed with my own thoughts, and was still, being lost in wonder at the mysterious ways of Providence. I was yet in a reverie when we arrived at our destination; and leaving the conveyance in the town, I followed my sorrowing guide to her dwelling. She had prepared me to expect a very miserable place, for she had been obliged to part with almost every article of furniture to buy food for her son; but I think I never entered a room so chill and comfortless. Not a spark of fire enlivened the rusty grate; a feeble rushlight was flickering in the window, and was in danger every moment of being extinguished by the wind, which penetrated through the broken casement, which the widow had vainly striven to mend with pieces of old newspaper; and in the corner of this abode of wretchedness was a heap of straw, upon which the dying boy was fast breathing out his life. The parish surgeon was leaving just as I entered, and to him I said with some warmth, “Is it in a hole like this, sir, that people, however poor, ought to breathe their last?”
“You must complain to the authorities,” he said, not unkindly; “I can only tell you that I have to see poor people die in worse places than this, almost every day of my life.”
It was quite true; and in my own immediate neighbourhood I had seen people worse housed than even this poor boy was. My voice seemed to touch a chord in the sufferer’s heart; for as soon as the door was closed, and a rustling in the straw attracted my attention to the spot where he was lying, I heard him utter, in tones that went to my very soul, “There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.”
I approached the prostrate figure of the poor boy, and for some moments my heart was too full to speak, as I recognised in those wan and wasted features the countenance of the youth who had so attracted my attention when preaching at D—. His head was resting upon the arm of a neighbour, who had come in to keep him company during the absence of his mother, but upon the approach of the latter she assigned her post of affection into her hands, and parent and child tenderly embraced. I soon saw that death had marked him for his own, and that even a few hours would terminate his earthly existence. It was with great difficulty that he could bring his tongue to utter the words his heart wished to speak; a hectic flush spread his countenance, and his breathing was short and irregular. I sent the kind neighbour, whom we had found with him on our entering, to buy a little wood and coals; and with as little noise as possible a fire was quickly lighted, and began to send forth a cheerful blaze. After having given him a little wine, I said, “Richard, my poor boy, I am sorry to see you so ill; I have thought very much about you ever since I saw you at D—, now more than twelve months ago, and I have often prayed God to bless you.”
A smile of blessed calmness, as of the heaven to which he was going, lit up the features of the dying one, as he replied in a whisper, “It is so kind of you to come; I knew you would if you could but be found out; and mother, dear mother, has been so kind to take so much trouble. I behaved very ill to her.”
His mother knelt down and kissed his parched lips.
“But your mother, Richard, has forgiven you,” I replied; “and there is a Saviour more loving and gentle, and more ready to forgive than the tenderest mother who ever watched by a sick bed.”
“Yes, sir, I know there is; I know there is,” he repeated with great emphasis. “Thank you a thousand times for telling me about Him in a way that He made me understand” and then, to my grateful surprise, he repeated the pith of the discourse I had delivered at D—.
“Oh, how I prayed that night, sir, as I was going home to ask mother’s pardon! Once I felt almost inclined to turn back and not go home, but then there sounded in my ears the words, ‘There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.’ And so I knelt down in a field near to where mother was living then and prayed to God to have mercy upon me, and give me a new heart; and I have often thought since, sir, that God’s reception of the sinful wasn’t unlike mother’s receiving of me; for she didn’t mention anything about the past, except to forgive me for it and to encourage me for the future.”
“Yes, Richard, God meets His penitent and prodigal ones when they are a great way off, and clothes them in royal robes; and His angels in heaven rejoice over the repentance of a sinner.”
A violent fit of coughing prevented for awhile any further conversation, but upon its subsiding, he said, in a painful whisper, “You have come, sir, to see me die. Do not weep, mother; it’s all for the best, and we shall meet again where men hunger no more, nor thirst any more, and where God wipes away all tears from our eyes. It seems hard to part now, but we shall hereafter see that it was for the best—for the best,” he repeated.
The night winds howled dismally past the lattice and shook the frail walls of the room in which a soul, redeemed not with things corruptible, but with the precious blood of Christ, was awaiting its dismissal to the enjoyment of the heavenly inheritance; and in the pauses of the storm the dying boy went on, “I used to think, sir, when I was at sea, that the wind howling like that was the angry voice of God rebuking me for my ingratitude and sinfulness. When I was shipwrecked, and was clinging to a mast for my life, the wind howled like that, and I expected to be lost here and in the world to come; but, praise be to God, He has made me feel it to be a faithful saying, that Christ came into the world to save sinners, and that in Him there is no condemnation.”
“And do you feel, Richard, that Christ is with you now?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, “I feel Him underneath my soul, holding it up like mother’s arm is holding my head now.”
“His arm, my dear boy, is an everlasting one,” I said; “you cannot slip through that, and—
“He will present your soul
Unblemished and complete,
Before the glory of His face
With joys divinely great.”
I read and prayed with him and committed his soul to the keeping of a faithful and merciful Creator. His faith was fixed upon the Rock of Ages, and a sweet assurance of faith had been given him; he had the witness of the Spirit within himself that he was born again and reconciled to the Father of spirits. I could not but gratefully thank the Giver of all good for permitting me to witness a scene like this, and for making my feeble labours a blessing to this poor boy’s soul.
Being determined to spend the night with him, I went out, and sent the conveyance back with a message that I should not return home that night, and upon my re-entering the widow’s abode her son had dropped into a deep and quiet slumber. We stood silently watching him, believing that he was sinking into his last sleep. Anything more solemn than the chamber of the dying there cannot be on this earth of ours; the death-bed, be it where it may, in the cottage or in the palace, is a spot round which our tenderest and most solemn thoughts and feelings gather. To this honour some of my deepest feelings stand associated with that night of watching by poor Richard’s dying bed. Towards morning he awoke and said in an altered voice, “Mother, where are you? I cannot see you.”
His mother knelt down and supported his fevered head upon her arm.
“Is the minister gone, mother?”
“No, Richard, I am here,” I said, gently drawing my hand across his forehead, upon which the dews of death were thickly rising.
“How the wind roars, mother! It has put out all the light!”
Alas! it was death’s blindness that was taking hold upon him.
“Richard, my dear boy, there is a world where they need no candle, neither light of the sun; there is no night there, Richard.”
“No,” he replied with startling energy, “the Lamb is the light thereof.”
He now laboured fearfully for breath, and more than once I thought the vital spark had fled. Suddenly he became quite calm, drew his hand from mine, and lifted his arms in an an attitude of prayer; then in words that, for their strength of tone, seemed rather to belong to the living than the dying, he cried out, “There is NO condemnation.” And fell back on his mother’s bosom and died there.
TIME.
Time is generally thought to be of little use, except as it may be employed in amusements or in the prosecution of worldly business; but its value, as it stands connected with eternity, exceeds all calculation. The manner in which every hour is spent is recorded in Heaven; every moment as it were increases our eternal happiness or misery.—Charles Simeon.