TWO bonnie round cheeks as rosy as could be, and two little dimples nestling there whenever the red lips parted in laughter; two great wondering eyes, speaking of some possible depth in the baby-soul as yet scarcely conscious of its own existence; a loving little voice with a pathetic ring in it. As little “Honey” sat upon the doorstep — for he really did sit for five whole minutes sometimes — in the sunshine, the neighbors passing had always time for a kiss and “Bless his heart”; and the tall lady, who so often went in and out where sin and sorrow beckoned, never forgot to bestow her kiss upon the dirty little face, whose sweetness no amount of black could hide.
Solemn consideration — the mischief-loving, laughing, dirty little boy has eternity before him. Will the soul anchor upon the everlasting Rock, or lie, a wreck, upon that fearful ocean where God’s creatures, sought and loved by Him, groan in the anguish of eternal remorse?
The years have rolled by, the babe has grown up to be a man. It is a cold Christmas night, not more than three years ago, and a ragged, wild-looking young man and his consumptive, thinly-clad wife, step into a little chapel in a small country village in Hampshire. Night after night through the year the young man’s evenings had been spent at the public house close to the hovel he called home; week after week his earnings had gone in drink; while his delicate wife, and the four children, were almost starving. But this night he had yielded to his wife’s persuasions to go with her to some service. “I don’t care where,” he said: and so they sat together for once, to hear the message which the wondrous heart of God has been giving out through so many, many years.
The young man returned to his home. He had heard nothing, he said, but he knew the preacher’s eyes were fixed upon him all through the address.
Day after day passed, days of wretchedness and unutterable despair. “Give up the drink and all will be right,” said a voice to him. So, much to the astonishment of the landlady, her best customer failed to appear. But that gave no rest of heart to the young man.
“Give up swearing,” urged the giver of false peace; and for a little while the wondering wife and children missed the accustomed oaths; but the oaths were still in his heart, and the closed lips were not the means of opening the heart to Jesus.
“Give up the smoking,” whispered the one who had kept so close, and as “Honey” sat before the fire that evening, the pipe was taken out of his mouth, and, with the tobacco-pouch, consigned to the flames, and the wife who watched him thought him gone mad, for although she knew about the Saviour, and felt that He alone could change her husband’s life, she did not know Him for herself.
But still the fear and wrestling were at this young man’s heart, so he turned toward the little chapel in which he had spent his Christmas evening. He told his history to the minister, who was just coming out of it, who listened to the story of conviction of sin and its terrible horror.
“Come to me on Sunday evening,” said the minister; and the wretched young man turned away with his soul full of misery and death, wondering where he could find a resting-place for his crushing load. He walked to the bridge spanning the ever-flowing river, and as he watched its quiet, ceaseless course, he told himself that surely, within those peaceful waters he should find peace, that lying white and still beneath them his heart would be beyond the strife of sin and the agony of fear. But swiftly came the words, “As that river is running onward, so surely and swiftly is your soul going to hell,” and he left the bridge, realizing that life, even as it was, would be more bearable than the unknown darkness beyond.
The following Sunday evening he met the minister again, who, when he told the sin-stricken young man to call upon him in three days, had surely forgotten that “now” is God’s time. But God is gracious. At the service in the chapel the young man heard the word of God, and through that word the Holy Spirit spoke rest to his soul, and he was plucked as a brand from the burning, and his sin-stained feet were set upon the Rock.
Now a new life opened upon “Honey” —for such was his nickname. The brightness of this young man was unclouded, his faith strong and full, his love and earnestness for souls, deep; and afterward, when struck down by pleurisy, unable to have even a fire in his wretched little bedroom, with his wife fast dying of consumption, too ill to nurse him, or sit with him in the fireless room, and with the prospect of four little ones to be left fatherless, motherless, and penniless, his faith looked up to his Father in heaven. He trusted in His pitifulness, and said he knew all would be well. Then, joyfully and without a shadow of care, he passed away, and in a few weeks later his wife followed him, to be “forever with the Lord.”
What remains to be told? The little hovel where poor “Honey” lived is now pulled down, being unfit for habitation; three of the children are in an orphanage, and little “Bobby,” the youngest, sits daily upon his granny’s doorstep, looking the picture of health and happiness.
The footprints of the Lord in His compassionate seeking and tender loving-kindness are deep trodden in the little village where “Honey” lived; and, reader, Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, to-day and forever.