IT has been the common experience of the Lord’s servants that the work, which has cost them something, has been the most manifestly blessed of God. I can look back on many a lovely walk, at sunset or in the moonlight, to preach the gospel at some mission room in the suburbs of a city, or in the country districts—pleasant company, too, making such walks the more enjoyable—as the woods rang with our hymns, and miles slipped away behind us imperceptibly, and almost regretfully. But if you ask me on which occasions I saw most distinctly the hand of God in blessing, I would tell of boisterous nights, when it seemed almost madness to attempt the road, and when snow, wind, and sleet made one stop now and then to take breath—when friends said, “It is useless going; no one will expect you, and no one will attend a meeting on such a night.”
It was on just such a Sunday evening, that I took my way to a little roadside building, which I had secured for a Sunday school. Through deep snow and driving storm I floundered, at first questioning if I should not turn back—then, when I had got halfway, resolving that I would go on, even if it were to find no scholars, for, truly, I could hardly expect a child to put its head out of doors on such a night.
Arrived at the school, as I expected, I found not a single scholar. Glad, however, of the shelter, I went in, and lit a fire that I might dry myself, and rest awhile. At length came a girl of from twelve to fourteen years old, and at my invitation sat down with me by the fireside.
Nearly thirty years have passed, and my one scholar of that eventful evening has in that time been both a wife and a widow; but the memory of that Sunday night lives, and will live forever, for the seed was sown then, which God has made very fruitful, and a work begun in her soul, which has since, through her service to the Lord, brought joy and comfort to many a heart. I can vividly recall that scene—the teacher and the scholar sitting, one on each side of the fire. The difficulty arose in my mind as to how to teach one scholar. Should I take the usual lesson, or keep it for the class next Sunday? In the dilemma I looked to the Lord, and then, recollecting that the scholars had been given a hymn to learn, I asked the girl if we should take it for our lesson. She was delighted, as she had learned it well, although it was a long one. After I had prayed for God’s presence and blessing, the dear Scotch lassie stood up, and repeated verse after verse of the hymn, which was at that time new and unknown in that district. It began—
“I need Thee, precious Jesus,
For I am full of sin;
My soul is dark and guilty,
My heart is dead within.”
I saw that she had learned her lesson thoroughly, for she repeated it without hesitation—indeed, she was the oldest and best scholar in the school, the child of God-fearing parents, and the lady, in whose class she had been for years, considered her a pattern to all other children, and a thoroughly good girl.
As she went on with the oft-repeated words, “I need Thee, blessed Jesus,” her voice trembled, and at the last sweet verse, “I hope to see Thee soon,” the poor girl broke down, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed bitterly. I was at a loss to understand the reason of her distress, and scarcely knew how to break the silence of the almost empty schoolroom, broken only by her sobs. At last I asked what was the matter, and in a little while she was able to tell me that it was the feeling that she needed Jesus that had overpowered her. I said that I had always believed her to be already saved, and so had treated her as a child of God. “Oh! that’s just it,” she sobbed out; “everybody thinks me good, and I try to be good—I don’t mean to deceive them—but I am so wicked; they don’t know how wicked. Oh! I need the blood of Jesus! I am a lost sinner. I have been very, very anxious for a long time, only I could not tell anybody, but now it has come out.”
I tried to soothe the dear girl, and spoke of the joy she would have when she knew in her own soul, as I did, the preciousness of Jesus. Although no ray of light seemed to penetrate the deep darkness of her heart, yet, as we knelt down, and I thanked God for the work He had begun in showing her her need, and prayed that He who had said “Let there be light” might speak that word once more, and flood her soul with the light of knowledge of Jesus and His love, I had a delightful confidence that the Lord was working, and would finish what He had begun.
I walked home with my one scholar through the snowdrifts, and when I left her at her father’s door, and turned homewards, it was with so full and glad a heart that the way seemed short, and the storm nothing.
The following evening I went again to the house, and had a long talk with her mother. She told me that her daughter spent hours alone ever her Bible and in prayer, and that she wished much that she could get peace for her soul, for she knew she had been long anxious. I then conversed with the girl, opening up to her the way of life as the Lord helped me, showing her the simplicity of faith; but it seemed all in vain— the sad, anxious look was still unremoved. I rose to leave, and when she opened the door of the cottage the moon was shining on the pure, white snow—it looked as bright as daylight—and I suggested her coming out to walk with me a little way. It was then, as we walked along speaking of the Lord, that her heart was opened to receive Christ as her own only Saviour, and that she was enabled to rest on His work as the only ground of acceptance with God.
As she bade me good night she could say—
“On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand:
All other ground is sinking sand.”
J. S.