“Do you know,” I continued, “it is one of the greatest troubles of my life that I so often feel just what you describe. It was only a short time ago, I was walking in London; and as I turned into one of the back streets, I saw a little boy sitting on a doorstep, with a baby in his arms about five or six months old; as I passed by, the baby began to cry, and the miserable expression of its little face, and the hopeless look of its nurse, feeling so powerless to do anything to comfort it,—both little faces looking already old from hunger, cold, and neglect,—so troubled me that I could scarcely look at or enjoy anything while I was out. In the evening, after my own healthy, happy children were gone to bed, I was sitting in my comfortable room by the cheerful fire, surrounded by everything to make life comfortable and desirable; but instead of feeling thankful for so many mercies, I sat and cried at the recollection of those unhappy little children.”
“And did ye sure, ma’am?” said the man. “Law! now, how we do feel alike after all, when we come to know! But I suppose, ma’am, that sort of thing does not last long with you?”
“I remember, that evening at family prayer,” I continued, “the chapter which was read had this verse in it: ‘Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.’ I thought it was not my will, either; but there was this great difference,—whatever God willed He had the power to do; that He had sent His Son to die for the world, and these little creatures were part of His world, and He would do with them just what is right.”
“Do you think, ma’am,” said the man, “that God is altogether angry with us for this sort of feeling? He must know that it is very difficult for us to see so much misery, and not be troubled about it.”
“I do not think that is quite so clear,” I said, “as that He is pleased with us for trusting Him entirely. I think He has great sympathy with us in the difficulty we have to contend with in this respect. He says, ‘And blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in me.’ Though He did not blame Thomas for his unbelief, He said, ‘Blessed are they who have not seen me, and yet have believed.’ Even a grain of faith is commended, and spoken of as having much reward connected with it: and the apostle tells us, ‘Cast not away, therefore, your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward.’”
“Well, ma’am,” he replied, “I do pray for faith. I do think it is a glorious thing to be able to trust everything with God. I says to myself often, ‘There, wait a bit, and you’ll know.’”
I answered, “I once heard my dear mother talking to a person who troubled himself very much about the management of God’s world. She said, ‘I have often compared our present condition to that of servants who might be called into a great house to assist in performing some important work; but instead of the same servants being employed throughout, each was expected to work only one hour, and then to give place to others. Of course, from this circumstance, no one of them would be able to understand the object and design of the work; these would only be known to the master. All that he required of them was, to do his bidding a little while, and then to receive a great reward. How foolish it would be of those servants to go fretfully through their short period of service, and dishonour their master by evil reports of what they could not understand, and lose their reward at last!’”
“O ma’am,” said the man, “that is beautiful: it was never so plain to me before.”
Just then the children, who had been sent out by their mother to play, that they might not interrupt our conversation, returned; and, after making a little acquaintance with them, I took my leave. As I returned home, I hoped that this pleasant interview might be the beginning of a long friendship; but I never saw my friend again. Only about a week from that time, he was taken ill, and died a few days afterwards. I did not hear of his sickness in time to see him; but I heard that he died in peace, trusting wholly in the Saviour. How soon was the mystery, with him, exchanged for perfect knowledge! How soon was he admitted where every tear shed, either for himself or others, was for ever wiped away; while we, who tried even out of our own dimness and sorrow to enlighten and comfort him, are still left to wonder and weep!
Foster, after the death of his wife, when writing to a friend, says, referring to the years that may elapse before he may be permitted to join her, “Does that to her appear a long time in prospect, or has she begun to account of duration according to the great laws of eternity? Earnest imaginings and questionings like these arise without end, and still, still there is no answer, no revelation. The mind comes again and again up closer to the thick black veil; but there is no perforation, no glimpse. She that loved me, and, I trust, loves me still, will not, must not, cannot answer me. I can only imagine her to say, ‘Come and see. Serve our God, so that you shall come and share at no distant time.’” And again, in another letter, he says, “How striking to think that she, so long and so recently with me here, so beloved, but now so totally withdrawn and absent, that she experimentally knows all that I am in vain inquiring.”