Woman and Her Saviour in Persia / By a Returned Missionary

by Thomas Laurie

KIND OFFICES.

HOSPITALITY OF NESTORIANS.—KINDNESS OF PUPILS.—BATHING FEET.—LETTERS
OF GOZEL, HANEE, SANUM OF GAWAR, MUNNY, RAHEEL, AND
MARTA.—HOSHEBO.—RAHEEL TO MRS. FISKE.—MOURNING FOR THE
DEAD.—NAZLOO.—HOSHEBO's BEREAVEMENT.—DEATH OF MISSIONARY
CHILDREN.—LETTER FBOM SARAH, DAUGHTER OF JOSEPH.

The foregoing pages have told something of the change that grace has wrought among women in Persia. Let us now look at some points in that change more carefully.

The Nestorians are noted for their hospitality. Kindness to strangers is regarded as a part of their religion; and if, after bringing out the choicest of their stores, it is said, even in a strange language, "How can I eat this?" or, "Who could endure a dish like that?'" the words may be unintelligible, but not so the look and tone of the speaker. Yet even such treatment often only calls forth additional efforts to please. A stranger may not relish some of their dishes. Yet a spirit of kindness would be careful not to let this appear. In the Seminary, the pupils studied how to please, even in the folding of a table napkin; and the kind-hearted steward was perfectly delighted when reminded that the pains he took in the preparation of a meal was so much service to Christ, because it strengthened his servants to labor for him.

The girls were very kind to each other. When any one was sick, her companions not only readily performed her share of domestic work, but nursed her tenderly besides. If their teachers were ill, they coveted the privilege of attending them by night and by day. It may comfort some timid one to know, that in Oroomiah Miss Fiske never had a missionary sister with her by night in sickness; not that they were backward to come, but the services of the pupils left nothing to be desired. It did good like a medicine to see those girls, once coarse and uncouth, showing even kindness in a way offensive to refined feelings, now move with noiseless step, anticipating every wish. They sought to conform every thing to the home tastes of their teachers; and yet there was nothing of that show of effort that says, "See how much we do for you." They seemed to feel that they could not do too much, or do it well enough. If Miss Fiske was exhausted and feeble during the day, they might say nothing at the time, and not trouble her even to answer a question; but when they supposed she was ready to retire, there would be a gentle knock on the door, sometimes on more than one door, and then, with a "Teacher, you looked tired to-day. Shall we come in and bathe your feet? The water is warm, and every thing ready," their loving service would not cease, till every thing was in its place, and they had put out the light after she retired.

Woman, there, as in the days of our Saviour, still bathes the feet of the guest whom she wishes to honor. And sometimes, when stooping over them, she rubs them gently with her loosely-flowing hair—not as a substitute for a towel, but as a token of kindly welcome. This privilege belongs to the oldest daughter of the family; and the custom once liable to perversion, now shines with new beauty, as the expression of Christian love. He who once accepted the service in his own person, will hereafter say, to many a daughter of Chaldea, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me."

Their tender sympathy with the afflicted was not confined to their own household. In January, 1857, Miss Fiske was absent at Seir, assisting in taking care of Mr. Stoddard in his last illness; and from a number of letters written to her, at that time, by her pupils, we select the following:—

JANUARY 1st, 1857.

Many of your flock have observed this as a day of fasting and prayer; and all have looked on it as a blessed day. The pleasant voice of prayer has been heard during all its hours, and it seems as if the Saviour was about to come among us with great power. I trust that he will work in many hearts by the Holy Spirit. We greatly desire to have you here; but again, with all our hearts, we wish you to do for the sick one whom we love. Yes, if each pupil were to write to you, all would say, we wish you to remain, and do all you can for him; and may he be raised up again to labor for our poor people. Give our love to Mrs. Stoddard, and tell her we are glad to have the one we greatly love, with her at this time.

Your daughter, GOZEL.

JANUARY 2d, 1857.

My heart is drawn towards you all the time; but I thank God that he has given you strength to do for our beloved brother Mr. Stoddard. I am very much distressed when I think of him, and can only say, "The will of the Lord be done." I greatly desired to hear your voice yesterday. It was indeed a blessed day. Give my love to Mrs. Stoddard, and though it is hard for her to bear these bitter pains, tell her to try to trust the Lord of our beloved brother.

Peace be to you, HANEK.

The next is written by a graduate, who was then on a visit at the
Seminary:—

JANUARY 3d, 1857.

I cannot tell you what great anxiety and anguish I have for Mr. Stoddard. He has won my whole heart by taking so much pains for my dear companions, and particularly for Elisha. I did not think he would be taken from us. This trial seems to me heavier than losing Elisha and Jonathan (her children, who died by poison), for it is not only a loss to his dear family, but also to this band of stranger missionaries, and a dreadful desolation to our poor people. May the Lord see how great is the harvest, and how few the laborers. I cannot write more; my eyes fail because of my tears. Give my tenderest love to dear Mrs. Stoddard. I know her sorrows in such trying days; would that I could help her.

From your truly afflicted pupil,

SANUM.

The following was written the day after the death of Mr. Stoddard, which took place the 22d of January, and refers to that sad occurrence:—

JANUARY 23d, 1857.

What bitter intelligence comes to us these days!—the taking away of those who carried us in the arms of love to the blood-stained cross of Christ. Truly, my mother, these afflictions fall very heavily on our heads. The guides of our souls are cut off from us. What shall we do?

Dearly loved sister Mrs. Stoddard, sorrow and mourning are ours. There is hope that you will soon meet the ornament of your life. But in his school and in ours are those for whom there is no hope that they will ever see him. Wounded sister, blessed is the heavenly pilgrim who has spent his life in a strange land, and been a well of living water to many thirsty souls. I know this separation is bitter to you; but there is consolation for you, for it is not eternal. But what shall I say of our poor people?

O, how much more than any of you knew we loved that dear brother. It was a quarter past three o'clock this morning when your letter reached us (Miss Fiske's). I handed it to Miss Rice, and never saw such a bitter night except that in which my father died. I did not sleep till almost dawn; and when I slept, I saw the loved one standing in Miss Rice's room, his face shining like the morning star. Both his hands were raised to heaven, when suddenly he stooped and looked in my face. I said, "O, you are not dead!" He answered, "No!" and I cried aloud, "O, Mr. Stoddard is not dead!" and my own voice awoke me. How favored those of you are who see the face of our beloved friend!

MUNNY.

Still later, she writes to her teacher, who was again at Seir, during the sickness of Harriette Stoddard, whose death occurred March 16th, 1857.

Though it is a time of anguish, yet, blessed be God, he has given us One to whom we may look for comfort. A thousand thanks to the Saviour that he does not chastise us by taking away the Holy Spirit. Though the discipline is bitter, yet it is mingled with love, in that the Lord comes by death among his own, and by his Spirit to those who have not known him, that he may make them his own also. What grief would the lovers of the Lord have, if you now sat by the bedside of a sister of whom we had no evidence that her heart was purified by a Saviour's blood? If you are so distressed about one whom you trust your Father Is taking to rest in the bosom of his Son, how would you feel if she were one of those who, as soon as the breath left her body, would dwell with everlasting burnings! How thankful we should be that it is not the bed of one of these!

I have never seen such a trying year; but I do not believe it is for the harm of those that fear the Lord. It only fulfils the promise, "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." O that the gentle voice of Jesus might be heard, whispering, "Daughter, I say unto thee, arise!" Who knows but, if our faith were as Christ would have it, he would call this sister back to life, though now so near to death! But your Father knows what is for your good, and you know that here he often gives anguish to those who love him, that they may be exceedingly joyful with him hereafter. The Lord grant that these afflictions do not harden our hearts.

I have conversed and prayed with all the younger girls, save two. Eleven say that they are resolved to follow Christ; but I fear lest the vineyards and the cotton fields do not testify hereafter that they have walked with God. It is very pleasant to me to sit down by them and ask them of their state.

Yesterday (Sabbath) was a delightful day, but it seemed very short. The Lord help us in our weakness, and cause the dark clouds to rise from all your friends. The God of consolation heal the wounded spirit of your poor sister, Mrs. Stoddard. I have never seen the death of the righteous—only by hearing have I heard of it. The Lord be with you more and more.

MUNNY.

Others, written during the same period, are as follows:—

Sorrower for us, who hast also become as a stranger to us!—Now we know your anxious love for us. We have no doubt that He who directs not according to man's thoughts has directed you to be away from us much this year. We had thought that it would be a very pleasant year; but the Lord has ordered it as he pleases, and let us say, "His will be done." We know that he does all for our profit. What a comfort this is to us who have given our all to the Saviour to do with us as he will!

It is very hard to look at your vacant place; but we thank God it is not made vacant by death. Though not with us in body, we believe that you are, in spirit, and we rejoice that you can do as few can, for the sick. The Lord be with you, who are the second in anguish, and strengthen your weak body. The prayer of your pupils is ever for your life. We have no words with which to comfort you; we can only say, "The Saviour, with whom you are better acquainted than we are, give you comfort."

What can we say to you, dear Mrs. Stoddard, who are shrouded in a cloud that is very dark? We know it is very hard for you to look on the great vacancy that is made in your dwelling. But do trust in the Lord; he will bring light out of darkness. We feel for you, plunged in a sea of sorrow, in the deep places of sighs. Our eyes are every hour upon the door, expecting what we shall hear from Harriette; and our prayer is, that if it can be the Lord's will, she may be brought back to you; but every letter increases our anxiety. We understand not the Lord's dealings this year, except this: we know that he does all things for the profit of our souls.

RAHEEL.

MARTA.

The writer of the following was at that time a teacher in the Seminary, and a striking illustration of the elevating power of a good education. Formerly a female who was either lame or deformed was so despised, that she could never hope to be the head of a family: she was doomed to drag through a miserable life, the object of universal neglect. But Hoshebo, though a fall in early youth had shattered her ankle, and the ignorance of native surgeons made her a cripple for life, yet because of her education was as much esteemed as before she would have been despised, and is now the wife of Meerza, our native helper at Saralon. Miss Fiske might have filled up her school with such, but, with a wise foresight, selected her pupils with an eye to their future usefulness among the people, as well as their own personal advantage.

When I understood from Miss Rice, that you would not meet your loved flock next Sabbath, I felt that I could not let all your absence pass without giving you an account of my charge. I have been sitting with them, as I do every Saturday evening, to search out their spiritual state; and I have good news to tell you of one for whom you, and also others, have been very anxious—Esli, of Takka. I noticed her changed all this week; but last night I saw a great breaking down under Mr. Cochran's preaching. She came out in anguish of soul. I then saw her alone, and found her contrition still increasing. I know this is not evidence that she has passed from death unto life; but I rejoice that she is visited by the Holy Spirit, and I trust she will become a Christian. I am anxious for her and for all the girls of my room. I look for the gentle shower that shall make the withered plants like the fresh springing grass. Though you are absent, we know well that you carry every one of your flock in the arms of love to Him who can do all things, whether you are far away or near to us. The girls send up many petitions for Harriette. We fear much when we recall your former going to Seir. How glad should we be to hear of indications that she will recover. Peace and love to Mrs. Stoddard.

Your affectionate

HOSHEBO.

More than a year after this, Miss Fiske left Oroomiah, and at Salmas, on her way home, met her dear pupil Sanum, the wife of Joseph. Having no other place for devotion, they retired together to an orchard for the parting prayer. In a subsequent letter, Sanum thus beautifully alludes to it:—

"O, the remembrance of that bitter separation! and of those prayers, when the green grass was watered with our tears! How could I have borne it, but for the recollection of Him who prayed and wept in the garden of Gethsemane, and whose kneeling upon the tender grass was for the comfort of our souls!"

The gratitude of the pupils to their teacher extended also to her aged mother. Seldom have they written a letter to Miss Fiske, in America, without its message of kind remembrance to the parent who gave up her daughter, as Hannah gave up Samuel, to be the Lord's; and several wrote letters to her separately. From among these we select the following, written by Raheel (Rachel), of Geog Tapa, Sept. 10th, 1859:—

MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER HANNAH: Though I have never seen you, yet I must write to you, for I love all Miss Fiske's friends as I do my own, and especially yourself. I want to thank you for all your love to me. Blessings have thus reached me which were not given to my early sisters. When it was a great reproach for a girl to learn to read, God had mercy on us in that he poured such love into your heart as made you willing to send your daughter eight thousand miles, by sea and land, to show our people the great mystery that had been previously hidden from their eyes—that there is salvation for women. They used to dwell much on those words of Solomon, "One man among a thousand have I found, but a woman among all these have I not found;" but now they see their mistake, and that Christ died for women also. Many thanks for your patience all these years. I know something of it from the feelings of my own mother, for if she did not see me for five months during term time, she would mourn that she had not seen her daughter for so long.

It was certainly a sacrifice for Christ to come into this world, and deny himself; and it was also a sacrifice for the Father to send his Son, when he knew all the sorrows and wounds there were in the cup which he was to drink in this world of sin.

You will see your daughter much changed from what she was fifteen years ago; but I am confident that when that day comes, which will be longer than any day we have seen in this world,—when He whom the Jews could not bear to hear called king, shall sit upon his throne, judging the world,—then all troubles, sorrows, and separation from friends will appear to the Christian as the small dust of the balance; and I think that it will especially seem so to you, when you see a band of Nestorian girls on the right hand of the Redeemer, whom you, through your daughter, were the means of bringing there. Yes, justly might they have been left to dwell with Satan forever; but instead of that, they will have joyful life with Christ in his kingdom.

I can never repay your love; but there is one so rich that he can give you what man cannot, and I ask him to reward you in heaven.

Is there another Miss Fiske in your country? We can hardly believe it. I hope that I shall see her again, but it is difficult for me to expect it.

It is very pleasant for me to write to friends, and especially to my own dear mother, Miss Fiske. I should never be weary if I wrote to her every day; but I thought that this time she would like to have me write to you, and I trust that you will live to receive it.

Please give my love to Martha, and also to Mrs. Stoddard and Sarah, and tell them that our hearts are with them.

From your granddaughter, whom you have not seen,

RAHEEL.

No reader of the Bible needs any description of Oriental mourning for the dead. The rent garments and sackcloth (2 Sam. iii. 31), loud weeping and wailing (ver. 32), protracted lamentation as for Jacob (Gen. 1.10 and 11), and for Moses (Deut. xxxiv. 8), and the hired mourning women (Jer. ix. 17, and Matt. ix. 23), were to be found nowhere in greater perfection than among the Nestorians. It is very difficult for us, in this land, to realize the force of such habits; but it required much grace to break over them; and even now, when the Christian heart grows cold, it is apt to return to the old ways. One day, in 1845, the whole school were going to attend a funeral. When the time came, one of the pupils requested to be excused. "Why? are you sick?" "No." "Why not go, then?" "I do not wish to tell." But another said, "May I tell you alone?" "It will be a great shame if we do not all weep. We all think we can do it but Sarah, and we are afraid her tears will not come; and so, lest she bring reproach upon us, we do not want her to go." The heart of the teacher sunk within her, as she found that she was about to lead a company of mourning women to the funeral. She asked them how they could make themselves weep. "O, when we go to such places, we call to mind all the sad things we ever knew, and so we weep; but if the tears do not come, we leave very quickly."

But grace has wrought a great change in this matter also. In the journal of Yonan, we find the following entry: "At the close of afternoon service, I had a Bible class with the women: this was followed by a prayer meeting. Then Munny came to see me: she has buried a little child recently. It is a matter of joy to me, that these women can lift up their eyes and see their children with the dear Saviour, and feel that they have treasures in heaven. I asked her, 'Did you ever do any thing for your little girl that you remember now with gratitude?' 'Many times I carried her with me to the stable, and knelt with her upon the straw in the manger, to ask blessings on her.' 'Christ was in the manger, and perhaps there your daughter was consecrated to him.'"

In another place, we find him asking Esli,—the wife of Joseph, of whom he had just said, "Her little daughter has died recently, and her heart is broken,"—"When your child died, did you weep and wail as your people do?" and she answered, "No."

Nazloo, of Vizierawa, a pupil who hoped she took Christ for her Saviour in 1849, and graduated in 1853, within less than a year after her conversion was summoned to the death-bed of her uncle; and scarcely had she returned to her studies before she was called to the bedside of her father. For three days she watched with him incessantly, by day and by night. Those who were present were greatly moved by her tender care of him. During the whole of his sickness, she never failed to improve every opportunity to point him to Christ. Even to the last, she begged him to look to the Lamb of God and live. And when he died, with his head resting on her hand, though she had no evidence that her efforts were successful, her wonderful calmness, under so severe a stroke, led many to feel that she possessed a source of consolation to which they were strangers. But her cup was not yet full. A few days passed, and she hastened once more to her afflicted home, to find her mother entering the dark valley. Others wept aloud, but she pointed the dying one to Jesus; and supporting her in her loving arms, she seemed to plant her feet in the cold waters of the river of death, and commit her departing mother into the hands of Him who could bear her safely to the other side. So sensible was her mother of the benefit she and hers had received from the school, that when the teacher came in, she beckoned her to her side, and said, with difficulty, "God is not willing I should be a mother to my daughters any longer. I commit them to you: they are yours." She soon fell asleep, as was hoped, in Jesus. After this, Nazloo was in the school most of the time till her marriage. As a teacher, no one could have been more faithful: her religious experience was very marked, and she labored wisely for souls. She still lives to show how God can make grievous afflictions yield the peaceable fruit of righteousness in his people.

In this connection, we cannot omit another letter, written by Hoshebo to her teacher, in 1860, on the death of her son Absalom. It is dated Saralon, where she and her husband Meerza reside.

DEAR MOTHER: I received your letter just before I received a bitter stroke from the never-erring hand of my heavenly Father. Many thanks for your loving remembrances of me. I cannot reward you for one of a thousand of the good things that you have shown me, so unworthy. I have many thoughts of you, and of those pleasant days that we passed together in that blessed school. I am very sad when I think that perhaps I may never, in this house of my pilgrimage, see your face, which makes others to be exceeding glad.

Dear mother: like a daughter distressed, who would find a little rest by falling into the kind arms of her mother, I come to tell you what has pierced the heart of your poor child. It is true that you are so far from me that I cannot lean on your kind breast, and let you lead me in prayer to the Father who has afflicted me; but with a feeling like that I write you. Beloved, you used to write me that I must take good care of my dear and tender babe, Aweshalom. Perhaps I did not fully do as you told me. But one thing I know: the Lord, who loves little children, was not willing that I should keep him. And I believe that he will take better care of my dear child than I could. You must know that I am deeply wounded and crushed by the death of Aweshalom. My tears cease not. His first birth was October 14, 1858; his second and spiritual one, April 23, 1860. His life with us was a pleasant one, and he made our lives very sweet and delightful; but now he has gone to heaven, while we remain on the earth. He lives the new life, while we die daily. He is strong, while I am weak. He has grown beautiful, in the light and image of the Saviour, while I am pining away. If you have heard what a child he was, you will not wonder at my sickness since his death. My husband is greatly afflicted in the death of this, our first, our only child. We find no comfort except in casting our wounded souls at the feet of the Saviour, who was tempted that he might heal our wounds. It seems, sometimes, as if our comforters were far from us; but our Saviour is very near to help and comfort.

Our work has been as last year. My husband has taught in the Seminary at Seir, coming here to preach on the Sabbath. I have taught a school of eighteen boys and girls here. Before vacation, my babe sickened, and rested in Jesus. Since that time, I have had fever, and am still very weak.

Five in the village, besides ourselves, are communicants. My father and brother are among them. I trust that my mother and brother's wife will soon unite with us. The work of the Lord in the village goes forward better than formerly. I try to talk and pray with the women alone, and they are more ready to have me do it, which makes me to rejoice in the Lord.

Give my loving peace to my dear grandmother Hannah. Though with the eyes of this mortal body we have not seen each other, nor have I any hope that we shall, the Lord her God help me, that we may meet on the blessed hill of Zion above. I believe, my mother, that you will remember your weak, unworthy lamb, when you bow before the throne of mercy and grace. Perhaps this is the last letter you will receive from me, for death seems very near. Receive loving peace from the priest [her husband].

Your true daughter,

HOSHEBO.

Jesus has seemed to be almost bodily present, taking up these lambs in his arms; and the mothers have not feared, for they felt sure that under such a Guardian it was well with their children.

Perhaps bereaved missionary mothers In Persia do not realize how much their patient suffering has done for their poor Nestorian sisters. The short lives of those twenty missionary children, who lie in Persian graves, were a precious offering to Christ. They were all missionaries, and did not go home till their work was done. Each one had a place to fill among the instrumentalities employed by the Master to promote his kingdom in Persia. There was no waste in the breaking of those alabaster boxes of precious ointment. Nestorian parents looked on, to learn how to lay their children into the arms of Jesus, and become more Christ-like themselves. No years of mature toil have been more blessed than the years of those thus early called home; and in this truth their bereaved parents may find abundant consolation. There are influences too deep and silent to be fully understood; but they are none the less real and powerful; and the mother who to-day misses the little feet, the loving eyes, and the pleasant voice, which God had lent to gladden her earthly home for a season, may rejoice in the assurance that her loving submission to a Father's hand is teaching a lesson to the people whom she loves, such as they could never learn from words.

During the revival of 1846, a little child of Dr. Perkins died; and as the missionaries laid it away, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, it helped them to point others to him who is the Resurrection and the Life. It was buried on a snowy Sabbath day, and the faces of the young converts, who stood in silence around the grave, showed that to them the associations of death were no longer fearful. Turning away from the cemetery, Mr. Stoddard, feeling that he could not be separated from those young disciples even in death, said, "Do you not hope that you shall rest here to rise with these to everlasting life?"[1] Little did they who heard him know how soon that cemetery at Seir would become more sacred as his own resting place. [Footnote 1: See Nestorian Biography, page 242.]

Before leaving this topic, we insert a letter from Sarah, daughter of Joseph, a former pupil in the Seminary, and the oldest of four sisters. The death of little Deborah seemed to draw her heart very closely to her Saviour, and she now sleeps by her side, doubtless understanding better the meaning of those arms of love that here she believed "folded her little sister in his own bosom."

"What word of fitting love can I write, and how tell you what God has done? We are afflicted, for he has taken from us our dear little Deborah. She was only two years and seven months old. We mourn; and yet are comforted; for we know that He who loves little children has taken her into his own arms, that we may love him more and better praise his glorious name. She did not leave us to go to a stranger. The dear Saviour, we think, has made her happier than we could; and now we dwell much on this scripture, 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Deborah was very sick, and suffered much; but when she died, there was a pleasant smile on her little face. Then she rested from sorrow, and Jesus folded the little Iamb in his own bosom."