“I’m sure my little boy is in heaven. But I am a mother. Oh, how I want him! I can’t give him up!”
“You don’t know what you can do. None of us knows till we try. Remember, there is a faith that moves mountains.”
“Thank you so much, Father,” said Mrs. Vernon. “A moment ago I was tempted to take my life.”
“I’m sure the angels didn’t notice it, and so it won’t go on the recording book. You have had a great sorrow. But listen to the words of an old priest who has spent his priestly life of forty-three years supping with sorrow—other people’s mainly. When God sends us a great sorrow, He sends us a great strength, if we will only accept it. And more: if we bear our sorrows in simple faith, somehow, somewhere, God will turn our sorrow into joy.”
“Ah, Father, He can never give me back my son!”
“I don’t know about that,” demurred the Father, taking a pinch of snuff. “Didn’t Christ say, ‘Out of these stones I can raise up children to Abraham?’ Never say can’t when you’re talking about God.”
“I see, Father; you want of me the deepest faith.”
“Exactly, my good woman, the faith that moves mountains. ‘Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.’ ”
“Father, I will try.” As she finished these words, Mrs. Vernon fell to weeping.
“Good for you!” commented the priest. “What alarmed me most when I first saw you was the fact of your being so dry-eyed. But let us talk about something else. You don’t belong out here.”