I WILL tell you of an incident which a godly man related of his youth:
“When I was about nine years old, I was one day playing with my younger brother by the bank of a large mill-pond near my home. But, sorry to say, I did not remain there very long, but was soon jumping up and down on an old plank that extended out into the water, and which was partly loose. In my boyish merriment, enjoying the splashing of the water, I went higher and higher until suddenly, the board broke, and—I landed in the water and would surely have drowned, had not just then a man passed by, whom we called, “Beanstalk”, who came and pulled me out of the pond. Without wasting any words, he simply placed me on dry ground, shook most of the water off from me, and then went his way.
“O, if only it had not been he!” Thus we thought, and so said an inner voice accusingly. The man’s real name was not Beanstalk, but we mischievous boys had given him this nickname because of his tall, thin stature, and we had provoked him more than once by calling him that name on the street. What burned deeply in my heart now, was the fact that it was this same man whom I had often mocked, who drew me out of the water.
We reached home, and told the whole story honestly. There I received, amidst a mother’s tears, hot tea and warm clothing, but from father, —something else.
The next morning my brother and I were sent to Mr. Beanstalk, who lived about a mile out of town. We were given a letter from my father, with a receipted bill for medical service, which he had rendered at one time when the man was sick, (for father was a physician). Besides this, a large basket with meat, coffee, sugar, fruit, etc., and in addition to this, we were to express hearty thanks, and also apologize for having previously insulted him.
We willingly delivered everything but the last request, i.e. the apology, which to us proud boys seemed too humiliating, to this, as we thought, simple-minded man. So as he seemed exceedingly joyous over the letter, the present, and our thanks, we silently passed over the part of our confession of wickedness which we were told to make; and when we arrived home again, and were questioned about it all, we wisely dodged this point. This again, was not right or honest.
Not long after that, my father one day told us that Mr. Beanstalk had suddenly died. This pierced my heart so keenly, that I feel it even to this day. I felt hot and cold alternately, and wept bitterly; which was approved of, and considered favorably by my parents. But it wasn’t a feeling of sympathy, but rather of remorse, because I had not confessed my wrong to him, and now it was too late. Since that memorable day it has rested like a ban upon me, and as a stone weighing me down; yet I was too proud to own or confess it to anyone. Even to this day I feel this debt, although I have earnestly confessed it to the Lord.
It was customary at all funerals, for us, the older school children, at the open grave, under the direction of our teacher, to sing the hymn,
“My life is but a pilgrimage.”
But I could not sing because of the way I felt. On account of this, our dear teacher, who was not acquainted with the cause of my sorrow, and who had a right to require me to sing, gave me several painful nudges. At that moment I really did not deserve this, for at the grave of Mr. Beanstalk, I experienced for the first time in the depths of my whole being, the living reality of the words I had so often heard, but never really understood, that man’s heart is hard, proud, wicked, deceitful and incurable, and that we cannot enter heaven except with a new nature. I then realized my need of a Saviour.
Dear reader, have not you too? And perhaps you realize the weight of sins on your conscience? O, come with them all to the Saviour, confess them, and He will forgive you.
ML 01/30/1927