Unfinished Rainbows, and Other Essays

by George Wood Anderson

There is the quality of Faith that makes God real. To many people God seems so far away that it is an impossibility for him to be a very important factor in their daily lives. He is a sort of good-natured Generality, to whom they may address petitions of greater or less degree of piety, without fear of being embarrassed by an answer. Should it be announced with certainty that at a given time the accumulated prayers of a twelvemonth would be answered, fifty per cent of the people would be afraid to face the hour. Some have prayed for purity of heart, but if there is anything in the world that they do not want, it is purity of heart. Nothing would be more embarrassing to carry into their haunts of enjoyment and more difficult to explain to their companions. Others have prayed for God to accept them as living sacrifices, yet sainthood, to them, is as shocking as yellow fever. I once knew a man who prayed “Let justice rule supreme.” It is a pleasing phrase and a consummation to be devoutly wished for, but had it been answered in this particular case, the man who uttered the prayer would have gone to the penitentiary. Few people deny the existence of a God, but many live as though there were no God. But these are not the real lives. The men who really live and give a homelike feeling to the world are those who have stirred up the embers of their faith until they burn with an all-consuming warmth that makes God a guest of honor. To such souls God is marvelously real, and they rejoice to have him dwell within. When faith once lays hold on the Almighty no other experience is half so real. One needs read about it in no book, consult no priest or preacher, nor plead with friend to lend the information, for he knows it for himself. Sitting beside the hearthstone of a living, flaming faith, our hands feeling the pressure of that mighty Hand that never harms but always serves, our souls rejoice with unmeasured joy to realize that we are in the presence of God who knows and understands, and who not only walks the weary ways with us, but gladly dwells within.

There is the quality of hope that makes heaven real. So long as hope burns within the heart there is no fear of winter winds, but when hope dies the soul dies. How gladly may old age look over the world in which it spent the four-seasoned life of toil! Here is the spring of life where the daisies grew and the cowslips scattered gold about the feet. Yonder the harvest fields of manhood’s power in which a bared arm of strength gathered the treasures of the soil while right merry thoughts centered upon a nearby cottage toward which he knelt each time he tied a band of gold about the garnered sheaf. Yonder the carefully planted violets grow upon a tiny mound, bright children of the sun making battle with the cold shadows of a marble slab. Now the autumn time of life fades into wintry quiet. The song of the brook is hushed beneath ever-thickening ice, the trees are robbed of color, the fields are trackless wastes of snow. The four seasons of life are growing to a close, the last afternoon is coming to its twilight, and yet one is not sad. The fires of hope still burn upon the hearthstone of the heart, and fill the soul with the light of its immortal home. Heaven is not a far-away land, vague with mystery, and dim with distance, but a place that is real and very close. We breathe its scented air, and bathe in its golden light while hope is burning divinely bright within our hearts.

The hope of heaven does more than offer us compensation for the wrongs of life; it gives man an intelligent interpretation of the things of time. Until one believes his citizenship is in heaven he cannot intelligently perform his daily task. The painting that lacks perspective is a daub; the hopeless life is dismal failure. Therefore, as one prizes the best, he should stir up the gift of hope until heaven is as real as home.

There is the quality of love that makes the world seem real. At the fireside of a loving heart, one readily learns the true secrets of the world in which he dwells. There is nothing so potent as love to give vision to the soul, clearness to the eye, effective service to the hand. Then stir up the gifts of love. Build in your heart the fires of a quenchless affection that refuses to believe the worst, that will never give consent that anyone has gone too far in sin for reclamation, but ever believes that one more touch of kindness will bring the person back to God; a love that gladly sacrifices everything of value in his effort to redeem that which has no value; a love that knows no selfish interest and daily seeks the welfare of another. Then will the world cease to be hazy and fantastic, but will be as real as the ones of your own household, who gather each evening hour about your fireside.

Let not your love for one single individual die; it robs you of too great a joy. Warm up your hearts by allowing the fires of faith in God, hope of heaven, and love for all men to blaze and burn in high, exultant flames that know not how to die. Without it your life will be as barren as the deserted house through which the winter winds pass undisturbed. Make your life homelike by keeping bright the hearthstone of the heart.

XXVI.
The Unoared Sea

Each one spends his childhood playing upon the golden sands of an unoared sea, over which in the after years he must find his way to shipwreck or safe harbor.

How little does childhood in its helplessness know of life! Pleased with simple things, it greets the world with gladness, and shouts for very joy when finding a tinted shell or bit of seaweed. With spades of tin it undertakes to dig a hole “clear through the earth,” and smiles in contemplation of a vision of the Chinese sky. With chains of sand it undertakes to bind the rushing waters of the tide which granite cliff and flinty rock cannot subdue. The child undertakes great things while he himself is not strong enough to withstand the smallest wave, but, leaving his unfinished task, runs homeward at the coming of the tide. The waves roar with laughter and the spray sparkles with merriment as they destroy the feeble efforts of his puny hands. Childhood knows little of the unoared sea of life whose marvelous power of wave and tide threatens to destroy all the childish and manly efforts of his life.

The desires of the sea may be fulfilled. With youthful enthusiasm and unguarded courage he may make fatal venture and be lost. There are many such of wholesome soul and worthy purpose whose most cherished hopes and plans came to shipwreck and disaster. The seas of life are strewn with wreckage. Yet one must not be pessimistic and forget that the raging sea is not omnipotent. With all its wild dashing waves and boisterous winds it is not as strong as that little lad may become. The weakest child may yet be able to dig a pit large and deep enough to bury all the swollen waves; and build a cable of sand strong enough to bind securely the rising and the falling tides. Some day, over the calm and quiet waters of a perfectly conquered sea, this tiny lad may pass into the harbor of safety and success.