WHILE carrying on mission work in a low district of a large city, I observed, amongst those who came to hear the gospel preached, a woman and her daughter, whose demeanor bespoke a higher culture and more refinement than I was accustomed to among my audience. Their clothes were not much better than those of the others, but a certain gentleness and politeness marked them, and I observed, also, a handsome old-fashioned brooch in the mother’s shawl, and a ring of the same type on the daughter’s finger.
For a time, they came and went almost unobserved, no special opportunity occurring for me to make their acquaintance, and I feared if I took notice of them I might frighten them away.
However, one evening the daughter was alone. The subject of the address on that occasion was particularly impressive, and I thought I could see indications of deep emotion on her face, so I determined, if possible, to follow her up. Hastening to the door at the close of the meeting, I inquired after her mother, and heard that she suffered from a trying and incurable complaint, and that that evening her pain had forced her to remain at home. I asked if the invalid were a converted person. The daughter at once replied that she was, and with an assurance that made my heart rejoice.
I learned, too, that her father had died some time before, and that she was the only child alive out of a large family. She admitted that her own hope of long life was feeble, as she suffered from heart complaint, which a doctor had said might carry her off at any time. Then I said, “I suppose under such circumstances you have given yourself into the Lord’s hands?”
“I don’t know that,” she replied; “I do say my prayers, and read my Bible, and go to church, but I cannot say that I am at peace with God. I wish I were.”
“Indeed,” was my answer, “if you only knew what it is to have perfect peace with God, to have the knowledge that your sins are put away, and to be sure that the smile of a loving Father, as well as the friendship of Jesus, are yours, you would wish very much more than you do now to possess all these things.”
She had been gay and foolish in the days of prosperity, and her love of gaiety had caused her mother much anxiety. Fear of sudden death had been her only reason for giving up the ball room, and this fear had also solemnized her thoughts, drawing her to think more of her mother’s God, and at length to long for the calm and peace her mother possessed. She had sought this peace, and prayed for it, but it seemed to be far away, and, during the preaching of the night in question, she had felt as if God would not have anything to do with her, and her heart seemed ready to break.
I pointed out to her that God proclaims peace to sinners, solely through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, reminding her that while God has said, “There is no peace to the wicked,” He has also sent the message of peace to them through the blood of His Son. “Peace has been made through His blood,” I continued, “and, because of this, God now proclaims it to all who believe in Jesus.”
“But,” she said, “I don’t know what this ‘believing’ means, I thought I did believe; I do not doubt God’s word.”
“Well,” I replied, “you believe that you are very sinful?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“That you cannot save your own soul, and that unless you are saved by another, you must perish?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe that God has provided a Saviour, even Jesus, His only begotten Son?”
“Yes.”
“And that the blessed Lord Jesus willingly came from heaven, laying aside His glory, and took a body of flesh and blood, and that, having become a man, Jehovah laid on Him, Jehovah, Jesus, the iniquity of us all, and that He bare our sins in His own body on the tree?”
“I think I do believe that,” she replied slowly.
“Let us put it to the test,” I suggested. “God points us to the cross, and bids us look there and see His Son, whom He gave for us, and upon whom He laid our sins. God graciously tells us to believe His record about His beloved Son, and about the work He did there. We look to Christ on the cross, and thank God for giving His Son to die in our stead. Test yourself. As you think of your sins and of God’s love, can you respond by faith, saying, ‘The Son of God, who—’”
Slowly she repeated, “The Son of God” — “Go on with the text,” I said. “Who loved me,” she continued, and then stopped, exclaiming, “But is it not presumption in me to say that?”
“No,” I replied, “not if you are a believer. Paul said it, and he was the chief of sinners; I said it, and I, too, was a great sinner. Appropriate Christ as your own Saviour, and, as you believe on His name, believe unhesitatingly that He loved you, and gave Himself for you.”
I was sure my young friend’s heart had received Christ, and I urged her to confess Him.
At last she did so, and, as we parted, I said, “Never mind about your enjoyment of peace, trust Him wholly who loved you, even to die for you.”
The peace this seeking one longed for, soon filled her heart. It could not be otherwise, for her sins were forgiven, and the judgment she feared was past. She had nothing to fear, and everything to hope for, now that she knew and believed the love of God.
The mother and daughter continued to attend the meetings for some months. Occasionally I missed the mother, but did not wonder, knowing her weakness. I had bright moments of conversation with the daughter, Annie, and heard her gratitude to the Lord for having revealed Himself to her in His love and grace. By degrees, I came to know more about their circumstances, and found that there had been many deaths in their family, and lastly the father’s, and that their means had been greatly reduced. The mother could do very little work, and that only of the lightest description; her occupation was dressing dolls for a wholesale fancy goods store, and very little per dozen she received. Annie went out to work, and her earnings were their chief income, from which the rent and other things had to be met. Her little gains scarcely afforded sufficiently warm clothing in the cold winter mornings, as she hurried to her work. This much I knew, but perhaps unwisely excused myself from helping them, fearing they might be offended.
The rest of my story I will relate in the mother’s words. “One day, Annie complained that she did not feel well, but she kept on with her work, although I could see she was not fit for it. At length she was obliged to take to her bed, and sorely wasted and enfeebled she was. I was not able to get what she needed, for I had to nurse her; the money was gone, and you see she would not let me tell anybody our troubles, or ask help from any of our relations. I saw that her illness was just like that of the others.
“Well, she was sitting up in the bed one afternoon, and it came into her head that she would like a little beef tea, such as her father had when he was ill. ‘Mother,’ said she, ‘will you make me a cup? I think it would do me good.’ Oh, sir,” continued her mother, “you cannot think what it cost me to tell her that we had no money. Then she took the ring off her finger, and said, ‘See, mother, I shall never wear this ring again; go and sell it, and buy what we need.’ It had been my own mother’s ring, and I would have kept it, if I could, as a family relic, and in memory of my poor child, but it was sold, and I made her the cup of beef tea, which revived her.
“Then she made me sit on the bed beside her, and asked me to hold her in my arms, and she looked out at the sunset, for you see we are high up, and these windows are large.
“As we watched the sun go down, Annie made me repeat all the passages of Scripture that I could remember, and then she said, ‘Mother, put your arm lower’; and she laid her head upon my breast, as she used to do when she was a little girl. She then asked me to sing the hymns I used to sing to her when she was a child. They came back to me, or I seemed to get back to them, as I held her like a child upon my breast.
“I had sung all I could remember, and you know they were none of the new kind, but the hymns I learned at the Sunday school in my childhood. When I stopped, Annie said, ‘Mother, there is a hymn we have at the meeting that I love so much; I think I could sing it myself,’ so she began:
“Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.
Hark ’tis the voice of angels,
Borne in a song to me,
Over the fields of glory,
Over the jasper sea.”
“It was softly and sweetly that she sang, and I felt she would soon be ‘safe from corroding care, safe from the world’s temptations.’ I knew it would be to me only a few more trials, ‘only a few more tears,’ and I wept. Still she sang on:
“Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,
Jesus has died for me;
Firm on the Rock of Ages
Ever my trust shall be.”
“And then her voice died away. I thought she had sung herself to sleep, but when I looked at her, I saw that she had fallen asleep in my arms and in His.”
J. S.