“One at once, little Christie—the one which thy Father giveth thee; let Him choose which, and how, and when. By times he may give thee more than one, but methinks mostly ’tis one at once, though they may change oft and swiftly. Take thy cross, and follow the Lord Jesus.”
“There’s banging doors,” pursued Christie with the same thoughtful air; “that’s one. And when my back aches, that’s another, and when my head is so, so tired; and when I feel all strings that somebody’s pulling, as if I couldn’t keep still a minute. That last’s one of the biggest, I reckon. And when—”
The little voice stopped suddenly for a moment.
“Father, can folks be crosses?”
“I fear they can, dear heart,” replied her father, smiling; “and very sharp ones too.”
Christie kept her next thoughts to herself. Aunt Tabitha and Cousin Friswith certainly must be crosses, she mentally decided, and Uncle Edward must have been dear Aunt Alice’s cross, and a dreadful one. Then she came back to the point in hand.
“How must I ‘take up’ my cross, Father? Doth it mean I must not grumble at it, and feel as if I wanted to get rid of it as fast as ever I could?”
Roger smiled and sighed. “That is hard work, Christie, is it not? But it would be no cross if it were not hard and heavy. Thou canst not but feel that it will be a glad thing to lay it down; but now, while God layeth it on thee, be willing to bear it for His sake. He giveth it for thy sake, that thou mayest be made partaker of His holiness; be thou ready to carry it for His. ‘The cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?’”
“There’ll be no crosses and cups in heaven, will there, Father?”
“Not one, Christabel.”