The Story of a Lavender Bag
CANON STATHER HUNT, of Tunbridge Wells, who ranks as a Territorial Lieutenant-Colonel amongst Chaplains, has charge of a fine new hotel, now commandeered as a hospital. He told me a beautiful story of one of his patients. The man had been shot right across the eyes, so that the sight of one was permanently lost, and that of the other was threatened. To this blinded man Mr. Stather Hunt said, “You can’t see, my dear friend, but I have here something you can enjoy.” He put his hand into the satchel which he carries on his rounds, containing various gifts for the men, felt for and pulled out at haphazard a little bag of lavender. A number of these, with different texts attached, had been sent him by friends at home. “There,” he said, “that sweet smell will remind you of home. It will fade away in time, but there is a message written on it which will last much longer. Let me look at it and read it for you.” As he spoke he turned the bag round and read this astonishingly appropriate text: — “When I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me” (Mic. 7:88Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me. (Micah 7:8)). Perhaps the kind unknown friend in England who sent the gift and the message, doubtless selected with prayer, will read these words and rejoice.
Greater Britain Messenger.
A Sermon Five Minutes before Death
Life in the trenches must lead men to think of God. An utterly worldly man who had been wounded said to a comrade, “I’ve prayed night and morning since I’ve been in the trenches; if I get through this I have made up my mind to lead a better life.” An officer said to one who had spoken to him about death, “I’m not good enough to die yet.” Just after he had said this he was shot dead.
A beautiful episode of life in the trenches is given in the March Sunday at Home. Two men were fighting side by side. One morning one was hit and fell mortally wounded. His comrade knelt beside him in the trench and asked him if he could do anything for him. “Yes,” he said, “in my pocket there is the address of my father and mother; if you live to get home tell them how I died, and tell them religion was good for me away from home in the trenches, and death has no fears for me.” “I said, ‘Yes, I’ll tell them.’”
“Then he opened his eyes and pulled me down. ‘Supposing a shot came for you next,’ he said, ‘how would it be with you?’ And although he only lived five minutes longer, he talked to me all that five minutes about my soul, trying to get me converted. Then he closed his eyes and died.” No, not died; he went from that battle trench to endless life with Christ. Dear fellow, he was Christ’s soldier, as well as King George’s, and he did his duty to his earthly and his heavenly King to the end. And now he rests with God.
The Soldier Son of a Praying Mother
Writes to a Christian friend: — “I can relate many instances where the Lord has been pleased to spare me. One of these occurred at Ypres, where we had billeted for the night in the big Cloth Hall. It is an immense building, and held two regiments numbering roughly about two thousand. We had all retired for the night, and I suppose the majority were asleep when the enemy put one of their noted ‘Jack Johnsons’ clean through the roof. It was a deafening report, and everybody was awake in an instant, and of course everything was in a state of confusion for about five minutes. Then could be heard the groans of those that were wounded, so we lighted a couple of candles and commenced a search for them. We found four killed and seventeen wounded.
“The most wonderful part was that the chap on my left was struck only slightly in the elbow, and the one on my right had a great piece of shell stuck in a bully-beef tin which was in his haversack, and which he was using as a pillow. He had a wonderful escape, and it is a wonder how it got into his haversack without touching me, for I was sleeping close to him. You can’t imagine how the Lord has taken care of me since I have been out here, and that verse,
“Not a single shaft can hit,
Till the God of love sees fit,”
surely applies to me and has fixed itself in my mind.”
This incident should be a comfort to those who at home are praying for their loved ones at the Front.
A dear worker writes: — “On passing one of the ‘Message from God’ to someone to send to a soldier at the Front, they told me that he had written saying that he was in the trenches, and when a relief man came for him he was shot in front of him. While he was waiting for another to relieve him he said to himself, ‘Why was I spared?’ May your ‘Message’ sent to him be a message from God to him; may it tell him of a Saviour’s long-suffering grace, not willing that any should perish.”
God is not mocked. — Our dear friend told me a solemn incident. It was told him by the brother of one who was present. When the Germans were shelling a farm where a doctor was amputating a man’s arm, a young lad was holding a light, and the sight of the operation being too much for the lad, he began to feel faint. With many curses the doctor called him a coward and no Englishman. Then the shells began to wreck the farm and they had to clear out hastily, packing up what they could. When they got outside, the doctor, still swearing, got upon his horse, when a shell struck him and his horse, and both were shattered to pieces.