Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

by T. S. Arthur

One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was cloudy and cold.

The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she was dangerously ill.

"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she will surely be better to-morrow."

We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth.

The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her comfort.

How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to say that she was dead, we were stunned. I really think we were almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness; for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn must take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover.

But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of rebelling against His most righteous decrees. "Be still, and know that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, as it were, rivers of tears.

I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over her, she said,

"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant places, and I"—raising her beautiful eyes to heaven—"have a goodly heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who have been so kind to me."

She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust." And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went peacefully home.