I had often heard of conversions, and knew that I must myself be converted if ever I was to go to heaven; but how I or anyone else was to be converted was a matter of which I was profoundly ignorant. Not ignorant from want of instruction, nor from not knowing, even from childhood, the theory of the gospel; but, like thousands of other persons, my ignorance lay in this, that I thought I believed everything. That is, I. did not doubt the truth of what is declared in the Scriptures, but how believing that; Jesus died for sinners, even for me, would save my soul, was something I never could' see, or rather feel Awakened, through God's mercy, to a sense of my sinfulness before God, and to my) need of a Savior, I passed a few years of my life with a good deal of inward strife; for the world on one hand, and Christ on the other, were both bidders for my worthless heart.
Such was pretty much my state at the time I have named, when my French tutor, who had for six years been my instructor, and to whom I was much attached, was taken ill with a disease from which it was not possible he could recover.
My father and mother had often spoken of his soul, and longed for his blessing; but there seemed a barrier in the way. My tutor, like too many of his fellow-countrymen, had lapsed into utter carelessness as to God, and even into infidelity. He never went to church, chapel, or meeting-house.
It is true that on one occasion he accompanied me and my brother to hear the famous Pasteur M— preach a sermon in French, and that on another occasion he came with us to hear a young man deliver a special gospel address to young men. But, beyond these two instances, I never knew my poor friend to go to hear the Word of God anywhere.
One day, while my parents were still wondering how his soul could best be reached by the sound of the gospel, some friends came to say we ought certainly to get someone to call and see Monsieur I—, as he was dying, and he ought not to be allowed to die like a heathen.
Accordingly, the next day my father suggested that I should ask Monsieur I—if he would like to see a friend of ours, a devoted servant of Christ, who had spent many years in France in the Lord's work. He had just come to town, and the Frenchman had often heard the name of Mr. D—in our house.
I rather objected to doing this, on the ground that I did not make any profession of religion; but I afterward consented. I went, therefore, that morning to see the sick man, taking with me some little comforts for the body, such as he required, but hardly knowing how I was to broach the subject of a visit from Mr. D—.
As soon, however, as I went into his' room, I found the way was already plain for me. The sick man was unhappy in a way I had never seen him before. As soon as he saw me he said, "I am a miserable man. I wish I was dead. But I am afraid to die. I am a burden to you, and I am a burden to myself and to everybody. I wish I was dead. If I were as holy as that young man" (meaning the one we had heard preach some months before), "I should not be afraid to die.”
I felt for the poor fellow, and gave him such comfort as I could, telling him to cheer up, and take a more hopeful view of his case; that perhaps, after all, he would pull through, and be himself again.
"By-the-by," I added, "our friend Mr. D—is here at present. You have often heard of him. He speaks French like a native. Perhaps you would like him to call upon you, and cheer you up a little?”
To this the sick man, with all the natural grace and politeness, not only assented, but even seemed most thankful for the suggestion. After a little more conversation I left him.
My next step was to call upon Mr. D—and ask him if he would be willing to come with me in the afternoon to see the man whose case I described to him. He very readily consented to accompany me, so about four o'clock we proceeded to the house of the dying Frenchman.
The introduction over, Mr. D— was very soon seated by the bedside of the patient, talking to him of his, native land, and various places in it which they both knew. It was a pleasant conversation to the sick man; and it was very easy to see that Mr. D—had quite gained his confidence.
Presently the conversation changed. Mr. D— turned to the subject of the dying man's state before God, and immediately met with a hearty response. There was an eagerness about the way in which he seemed to grasp at every word spoken (as a drowning man would catch at a straw), which, in my ignorance, I supposed arose from politeness on the part of Monsieur I—who must needs assent to all that was said.
In the course of their conversation (which I cannot detail as I should wish), Mr. D—spoke of Christ as the sole and all-sufficient Savior.
"Ah!" said the Frenchman, "if I only knew Him; if I only had Him!”
"Well," replied Mr. D—, "He is beside you. He is here. He is knocking at the door of your heart, wanting to come in. He says, `Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.' " Rev. 3:2020Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. (Revelation 3:20).
The moment the sick man heard these precious words, he sat up in the bed, and with both hands pulling his night-shirt open, and baring his breast, he looked up, and said with the most intense earnestness, "O! I am open, I am open. Come, Jesus, into my heart!”
A little more conversation followed, and we took our leave.
As soon as we were outside the house, Mr. D—took my arm, and said, "Do you know, F—, I believe that man is converted!”
"Converted!" I thought. "I— converted!" It seemed more than I could credit.
I said nothing, but thoughts passed rapidly through my mind;
"Could this marvelous change, by which a guilty sinner is made meet for the glory of God, take place in so short a. time, and in so very simple a way? Was it possible that if Monsieur I— died now, he would go to heaven to be with, Christ? Was every question settled between him and God? Was he really ready to go, while I, with so many more advantages, was still unsaved? Ah well!" I thought, "time will tell, and time will prove all." And so it did.
Monsieur I—was saved. He knew it; he knew his Savior, too, and his whole heart's craving was to be with Him. He wanted to see the blessed One who had plucked him as a brand from the burning. Several times he said to me, When I had brought him little bodily comforts, "Ah! I don't want these things now. They only help to keep me here, and I would rather go to be with Jesus.”
Have you, beloved reader, opened your heart to the blessed Savior who stands knocking, and seeking an entrance? Many and many a time has He knocked, and long has He waited. He has knocked every time you have heard the gospel; He has knocked by sickness, it may be, or by the removal, through death, of a beloved one from your side. He has knocked in a thousand ways and at a thousand times; and yet have you never, as the dying Frenchman did, opened your heart to let Him in?
You mean to do so, no doubt; you intend to open to Him some day. You perhaps think the grace that has waited so long will still wait your convenience. You think of a future day, another time, a convenient season. But O! how you slight the love of Him who knocks, and how you imperil your own soul, by listening to the devil's gospel, "Tomorrow!”