PART II.
OUR OPPORTUNITIES.
"As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all."—Gal. vi. 10.
Now that the days are shortening and the weather dull, those of us who took holiday during the summer and early autumn will once more gather round the fireside in the twilight, and find pleasure in looking back upon the happy time we spent in lovely inland places or by the sea. Our winter gatherings are brightened by such retrospections, and as we talk we seem to see again the waves glittering in the sunlight, or to hear their roar as they break angrily on the beach, more beautiful in storm than in calm. We tell of new experiences and impressions, of minds enriched, and of bodily strength renewed by change of scene and occupation, or it may be by rest and quiet surroundings.
These words apply specially to those amongst you, my dear girl friends and fortunate holiday makers, who were able to leave ordinary cares and anxieties behind you, and enjoy to the full the new beauties amid which you found yourselves.
To take holiday, without need for care about ways and means, and possessing a good share of health and strength to begin with, would seem to most of us the perfection of enjoyment. Yet I am by no means sure that we should judge rightly. Can you not well imagine that the rare holiday, obtained at the cost of long saving and even self-denial, may have brought to some an intensity of enjoyment unknown to those who have only to will in order to obtain any indulgence they desire. If each could give her personal experience this evening, what varied stories should we hear. Some, who longed for and much needed a holiday, would tell that they had been kept at home and at work all through the hot days by poverty or the sickness of one they loved and could not bear to leave.
Others, who left home hoping for renewed health, may have returned disappointed. Some may have expected only enjoyment, and have found pain and trouble as their constant companions. To those amongst you who have had all and even more than you hoped for, let me say, "Look back upon your happy experiences with heartfelt thankfulness to the Giver of all good, and resolve that, by the help of the Holy Spirit, you will use your increased knowledge and strength in His service and for your neighbour's good."
If any of you have spent money lavishly upon yourselves, or upon those who did not need your gifts, think, before another holiday season comes round, of some of those who are poor and longing for what you could so easily give them. You, who can take holiday and have change when you wish, might make some of your poorer sisters very happy by giving them a taste of what you can always enjoy even to repletion. Try to diffuse blessings by sparing something out of your abundance, and your own enjoyment will be doubled, as well as your sense of wealth, in the very act of imparting. I am speaking in time—am I not, dear girls? I think I hear some of you say, "When the days are lengthening again it will be time enough to talk of the next summer holidays."
It may be so with those who can give out of their abundance, but by far the greater number of us could only render such help by saving a little at a time the year round. In all earnestness, but leaving the method to yourselves, I ask such of you as are able to give in the future to some poor toiler a taste of the happiness you can now look back upon from the home fireside. If, in any neighbourhood, a few of you, my dear girl friends, will combine for this purpose, all your own pleasures will be increased, and your memories enriched by so doing.
To those amongst you who have this year been saddened by disappointment, I say, "Look forward hopefully, asking the while that the power to do this may be given you. Try not to look back upon the dark days, or to dwell mentally on what cannot be undone."
Several years ago, I was staying in a charming home, from the different sides of which we could look on scenery of very opposite kinds. The house stood just beyond what is called "The Black Country," and looking into a valley in one direction, we could see the glare of the smelting furnaces, and the smoke rising from the coal-pit banks. From these indications we knew that both aboveground and below it in the mines work never ceased.
If we looked from the other side, we saw a lovely range of beautifully wooded hills in the distance, and below them all the fair features of an English landscape. If we had kept our eyes fixed on the valley behind us, we should have seen only blackness and comparative desolation, whilst the sense of ceaseless toil would have been ever present to us.
So, dear disappointed ones, I pray you turn your backs on the inevitable, and, though there may be no fair landscape within sight, you can always look heavenward with your mind's eye, even whilst your hands are busy, and, it may be, your spirit is heavy within you.
Friends may be forgetful. No human message of cheer or comfort may reach you, or bit of much needed help be in sight, but still there are messages which you can claim, and consolations meant expressly for you, which are better than the best which mortal lips can utter, for they come from Him Who cannot lie. You are invited to cast your care upon God, for "He careth for you." This one sweet assurance is like the fair landscape on which we can turn the eye of faith, and forget the gloomy realities which lie behind us.
But God works by human instrumentality, and it is for those whom He has helped with the power to exercise the precious privilege of brightening the lives of others. Let your givings be in accordance not only with your own means, but with the needs of those whom you help.
I daresay you have often noticed the number and costliness of the gifts bestowed upon those who have already much of this world's wealth. You have heard such words as these when a friend's birthday or some other festive occasion called for special remembrance: "I could not give a poor present. I felt that I must give something really handsome, or I should have been ashamed of my gift among so many beautiful things."
Oh! it is sad to think that our givings are influenced so much more by the thought of how they will impress our neighbours, and how the gifts will look in comparison with theirs.
There is a verse in the Book of Proverbs which I have seldom heard quoted, but which bears upon what I have said. "He that oppresseth the poor to increase his riches, and he that giveth to the rich, shall surely come to want." In beautiful contrast are the words also from the Book of Proverbs, "He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack" and "He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again."
So, dear ones who have enough and to spare, I ask you to make the Lord your debtor—precious thought!—by devising plans for the benefit of your poorer sisters, and be sure of this—your paymaster will not fail you. Your reward will not come to you in gold and silver, but it will satisfy you here, and you will reap an eternal harvest in return for every hour of happiness purchased for others by willing self-sacrifice on your part. I trust that by your efforts many hearts will be gladdened and bodies strengthened, through what we have talked about to-night, in the twilight side by side.
Now I want to ask you what precious opportunities you had, and whether you used or wasted them, during your summer holidays? When we last met, I quoted an expression I had heard from the pulpit, and which had impressed me deeply. "We should be misers in the use of time and opportunity." We talked at some length on one of these precious trusts, but little was said about the second.
I am sure you will feel with me that we cannot be amidst new scenes and brought into contact with fresh people, and fail to have new opportunities of speaking kind words, giving little messages of comfort, and showing, though it may be only by trifling actions, consideration for others. In order to take advantage of such openings we must not be self-absorbed. We must be on the look-out for opportunities, or we may miss them.
It happens, not infrequently, that a holiday-time is regarded as a season of pure self-indulgence. We have worked hard for our holiday, or we can afford to have whatever we desire. So we decide to fill our daily cup of enjoyment to the brim. We care little what trouble we give by our untidy habits to the tired workers who serve in the houses which are our temporary homes. We leave orderly ways and punctuality behind us, and rather enjoy the idea of having escaped from home rule in every shape, saying to ourselves, "It is holiday-time. Surely we may follow our own inclinations."
We laugh perhaps over nearly empty purses when packing-up day comes, and are apt to wonder where the money has gone. If we ask ourselves the questions, "How much has been devoted to others? What have I given towards the expenses of the church I have attended during my stay in this place?" I fear a blush of shame would often come to the owner of that purse whose contents have been so carelessly scattered.
I have known, and I still know, dear friends both young and old who, when going for a holiday, put aside a weekly sum in accordance with their means to be spent in good doing as opportunities present themselves. This is their thank-offering to God for their own bright holiday. Those who have pinched and saved and been obliged to calculate every penny before leaving home, and who, whilst absent, have "to turn a penny both sides up before spending it," as I heard a poor woman remark, cannot spare coin from their purses. But opportunities come, nevertheless. The possessor of a comfortable seat on shore or promenade, or beneath a sheltering tree, may give place to a wan-faced mother, weary with carrying her baby, and looking longingly but vainly for an empty place whereon to rest.
Ailing people are often eager to speak of the sad time of sickness they have passed through, and it is no small comfort to them if a stranger, resting on the same bench, will listen patiently, sympathise with their weakness and encourage their budding hopefulness by cheering words. What opportunities these incidental meetings give for saying something about the Great Physician of souls; of God's love in Christ; of our daily needs and dependence upon God, and His willingness to supply all our needs.
If the help of a girl's strong arm can aid age and weakness in the journey from the shore to the humble lodging, why should any young servant of Christ wait to compare her pretty summer dress with the faded black—the badge of poverty and widowhood—worn by the feeble, old body she would like to help? Should we not try to think how God regards even the smallest labour of love undertaken for our weak neighbour, rather than of what our fashionable friend will say if she sees us in such lowly company?
It needs a very grateful and a very loving nature to be constantly on the look-out, so as to lose no opportunity of good doing. The heart must be full of gratitude to God for mercies bestowed, and of tender consideration towards every human sister and brother, for His dear sake.
Many years ago, I was honoured by the friendship of a good man who possessed such a nature as I have described. In whatever place or company he might find himself—and more especially if he had been unexpectedly brought into it—his first thought would be, "I am not here for nothing;" his first question, "What work has God for me to do in this place?"
Stranded on one occasion at a country railway station through the lateness of a train which caused him to miss another, he was for the moment inclined to chafe at the delay. Time was very precious to him that day, and two hours of waiting would probably hinder him from saying farewell to a son about to start on a long voyage. But the habits of submission to the inevitable, and of looking around him for some opportunity of doing his Master's will and serving his neighbour, asserted themselves. A few minutes later, a young man, a passenger delayed by the same cause as he was, sat down beside him, and, after remarking, "You and I are in the same boat, I suppose, sir," began to find fault with the bad railway arrangements, and to threaten all sorts of things against the Company—actions for damages, and so on.
My friend could hardly help smiling at his neighbour's impetuosity, but he listened patiently, and at length the young man cooled down and laughed also.
"I daresay this seems foolish talk," he added; "and it is a great deal easier to threaten than to do, when it is a question of taking the law against a big railway Company; but this delay is a serious matter to me, as you would say, if you knew all about my business. You are a clergyman, I see. I am the son of one. May I——"
The young man paused, and my friend, thinking to himself, "I am not delayed for nothing," finished the question, or rather answered it by saying, "You may look on me as your father's representative, if you will, or as a friend to whom you may speak freely."
I am not going to tell you what followed. The story would be too long in detail, but I may say this much. To the end of his days my friend thanked God for that delay at the railway station, and the young man had still greater cause to do so. He was about to take a rash step, which would have caused sorrow to those who loved him and spoiled his own career; but, won by the fatherly manner of the old minister of God, he was induced to confide in him, and the wise advice he received set him thinking. Thought was followed by repentance, and this by change of purpose. Instead of continuing his journey, he took the homeward train, and before my friend resumed his, the two had parted with a warm hand-clasp and a promise of letters to follow.
Years after, when the old pastor told the story, he said, "I felt sure that I was not stranded at that railway station for nothing, but that there must be some chance of usefulness, some work that my Master meant me to do. The chapters of that young man's life story that have been written since are very different from what they might have been but for that opportune delay which gave him time to pause and think. Thank God! His father never knew how near the lad was to life wreckage, and to-day he is proud of the son who is the staff and comfort of his age.
"Did I see my own son before he sailed? you ask. No—I was too late, but the telegraph took him my farewell and blessing, and we have had many happy meetings and hopeful partings since then."
My dear old friend's earthly labours have long been ended; but, as I think of him, I seem to see his face shining with glad thankfulness, as he recalled this opportunity of usefulness given him by God and so happily utilised, though the delay in another sense cost him a disappointment.
Had my friend spent the time in grumbling at the delay, instead of thinking how it could be turned to good account, how different would have been the result! Or, if he had kept sullenly aloof, or answered his young neighbour's remark curtly, thus repelling his half-offer of confidence, the current of a life would have set in the wrong direction, and the chances of doing and receiving good would have been lost for ever.
Opportunity comes under so many forms, means so much, and is so often lost.
We live, it may be, near places of beauty and interest. Because we are near, we think we can visit them at any time, but we never see them at all. We have opportunities of obtaining useful information, of gaining valuable experiences and increasing our stores of knowledge. We put off availing ourselves of them until some unknown future time, which never comes.
But the time does come to most of us when we want just the knowledge or experience that we might have had if we had utilised past opportunities, and then, we either gain it at much greater cost of time and trouble, or we suffer for the want of it, to say nothing of the additional pang of self-reproach which comes with the need.
Money frittered away in vanity and folly means the loss of chances for making others happy and lifting the burdens from overweighted shoulders. Lost opportunities for giving pleasure to those we love are brought home to us with a terrible sting afterwards.
Do we ever lose a relative or beloved friend without feeling our sorrow intensified by the thought of some little wish neglected, some opportunity for giving pleasure lost?
It is generally the little ones that are missed, when they concern those we dearly love. Great opportunities are seldom ignored. But when it is too late and we feel, oh, so sadly, that we might have availed ourselves of the lesser ones also, these, however trifling, assume an importance not realised until, with the sense of omission, comes the thought that they are lost for ever.
I should feel guilty were I to close our talk to-night without reminding you, dear girl friends and companions, of the supreme importance of some opportunities which you may not have valued, because they are always open to you; I mean the blessed privilege of coming to God as your Father and unchanging Friend; a Father whom you have often disobeyed and neglected—even forgotten, but who yet loves you with an everlasting love, loves you so much that He did not spare His own beloved Son, "but delivered Him up for us all," that through His death eternal life might be purchased and bestowed—a free gift on you and me.
May our Father bestow His Holy Spirit upon us all, so that, seeing our sinfulness and need, we may go to His footstool pleading Christ's sacrifice, and thus obtain pardon, joy and peace in believing.
(To be continued.)