LXXXVI.
WHAT WE KNOW NOT NOW WE SHALL KNOW HEREAFTER.
STRANGE how natural it is for each individual to feel that there are no troubles, no sorrows, so severe as his own! How ready we are to feel that if the lessons our Father is teaching us were such as others around us were learning, we could surely bear them with fortitude!
The mother whom we spoke of in the last article, like many more who fully understand her difficulties,—for they are passing over the same rough road,—felt her trust and faith failing; yea, would “gladly lie down and die,” before half her threescore years and ten were accomplished, might she escape the responsibility of teaching her children, and using her best faculties (no one is asked to do any more) to train them up into noble men and women. The task appeared so hard, the way so long, and her faith so weak!
Now another mother claims, at least, our fullest sympathy,—a Rachel, “mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted, because they are not.” One after another has been taken from her, and each one at “the most interesting age.”
When is this “most interesting” age? Can a mother draw the line? In early babyhood the precious gift nestles in her bosom, and lives entirely through her life,—so dependent on her for every care and comfort, that no one else can attempt to supply her place. Utterly helpless as the babe is, when the mother realizes how necessary to its life is her ceaseless watchfulness, can there be any period when it will be so interesting, so dear to her heart, as now, in this state of complete dependence?
But slowly it emerges from this helpless condition. Its first recognition, its first smiles and playfulness, are all bewitching. What can be more lovely? A few weeks pass, and it can sit alone; then it begins to creep; now, with what absorbing interest the first steps are watched, and commented upon with a pride and earnestness as if no child ever did all these things before. The mother’s heart is overflowing with love and tenderness; but God calls, and the lovely babe is forever hid from her sight.
How can she bear it? Whose sorrow was ever like unto hers? Why is it that God has sent this trial? What lesson can be taught by it, that will do half the good which that child’s presence would have accomplished? What is there in the care, the anxieties of watching over its maturing, which can be thought a hardship? How joyfully would this mother bear all this, if the life of her child might have been spared! She longs to lie down and die, not because of the responsibility which she knows would have increased with every added year,—she could have trusted her Father to give her strength sufficient for those duties. Her faith and trust fail, because God took her child from her, and in her anguish she cries, “Why am I thus bereaved?” In answer to these sad questions we can only say, “What ye know not now ye shall know hereafter.” In the first bitterness of this grief, there is nothing more to be said.
Another little one is given to soothe the mother. She watches it with trembling heart, through all the stages that her first-born had passed. Every unusual motion, every cry the child utters, fills her heart with alarm; some fresh cause for fear is found daily. But the little one thrives, has reached and passed all the points of deep interest which once before the mother watched with such pride. Now it begins to lisp her name, and shortly its cunning prattle is the theme of constant thought and conversation. When she rises in the morning,—at the table, by the fireside,—it is again and again repeated, a many-times-told tale, but always fresh, always new and beautiful. The mother has nothing else with which to entertain the friends who call, and truly believes that nothing could be told so new or so pleasing. In her absorbing delight over each new grace and beauty that is day by day developing, has she always remembered the Giver of her treasure? or, has her love become idolatry?
Again death enters, and just as the mother has begun to feel secure, her darling is snatched away from her. In this hour of anguish, what can comfort? Her heart rises up in rebellion, and she sees only cruelty in this second stroke. In her despair she accuses God wrongfully. She demands the reason why, “What evil have I done, that I am bereaved of my children?” And friends can only weep with her, saying, “What ye know not now ye shall know hereafter!”
We grieve with you, poor stricken mother. We know every step of the thorny road you are crossing; but do not allow these trials to make your heart grow cold and bitter. You say, “I see nothing but injustice in these dispensations which have left my home so desolate. Another child has been given us, but I am trying to steel my heart against it, for anything I love is taken from me.”
This is all wrong. You say that your husband is kind, and bearing his own sorrow for the loss of the little one silently, that he may comfort you. Should you not remember that he has been equally bereaved, and may need your sympathy? “Bear ye one another’s burdens,” and by so doing will you not find strength to rise above this affliction, so far that you can perform your duties with comfort, if not with cheerfulness? You say you have no pleasure in the little one still left you. May it not have been sent as a ministering spirit, to awaken in your heart a deeper love and gratitude for the mercies that still surround you, and bring you nearer to the Father, who often “wounds to heal, afflicts to save”? There are trials harder to bear than those which seem to have so nearly crushed you. When, instead of the prattle and frolic of babyhood, the child becomes old enough to be taught how to assist the mother in various ways,—begins to read and study, showing a mind rapidly maturing, giving promise of no common strength of character,—do you not see that it must become even more precious with each new development? Yet when incurable disease fastens upon it, and the parents see their bright and joyous child slowly but surely fading from their home, is not this a heavier calamity than when our little ones are taken from their cradles after only a few days of suffering?
We have seen a mother for months hold back her tears, and minister to the wants of the sufferer; and, hardest of all, sit by the bedside and listen to the child’s anxious questionings,—soothing its fears, when knowing that it is just entering the dark valley; singing of the peace and joys that lie beyond; step by step, as death came nearer, leading this child of her love down even to the banks of the “river that flows close by the throne of God,” that when its timid feet touch the waters she may herself almost lay the child into the Saviour’s arms, who is waiting to receive and bless it. In this, cannot you imagine that there is a depth of anguish which you have not yet fathomed? As our children grow toward manhood and womanhood with promise of rich maturity, does not our love grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength? When their education is just completed, and they are almost ready to begin life’s work, if taken from us, is not the loss greater, the desolation more appalling, than that which you have known?
But your sorrow, though yet unsanctified, must be, to us, held sacred from severe judgment. Nature will rule for a time, and may compel utterance for which you can hardly be held responsible. We only fear that your grief may become morbid and your heart refuse to see the silver lining which may be discerned in every cloud. Why these afflictions have been sent we cannot tell. Our Father sees when our hearts have turned from their allegiance, and knows best what sharp lessons will be necessary to bring us back to him. He may see that your love has blinded you to the solemn duties that rest upon you, and to save the children from the effects of injudicious indulgence, may have taken them to himself, and by their loss design to draw you nearer.
Some lines, sent us by Mrs. Crann, the author of “Little Foxes,” will show you more clearly what we would convey than any words of ours:—