IT was almost midnight on Christmas Eve, 1889, and the augmented staff of the Post, Office in a northern town were straining every nerve to overtake the enormous pressure of work which that festive season brings them. With a van in the outskirts of the town two postmen were busily engaged delivering parcels
“Parcels to right of us,
Parcels to left of us,
Parcels in front of us,
Still without number,”
said John, in a tone that tried to be cheery, although the drooping eyelid and weary brow, with an occasional uncontrollable yawn, told of a frame exhausted with overwork and worry.
“Plague the whole of them,” returned the other with an oath, “I wish I was home.”
His voice was thick and his gait unsteady, for added to the fact that he, with the others, had toiled without intermission since four o’clock in the morning, he had not displayed courage enough to refuse “tastes” which a generous but unwise public foolishly proffered.
“Don’t swear, James,” said John, gravely, “it won’t further our work any.”
A volley of coarse oaths greeted his quiet rebuke, to which he sensibly made no reply. James lifted some parcels from a hamper, and held them up so as to ascertain their addresses by the light of the lamp on his breast. As he jumped down with them his foot slipped, and he fell heavily to the ground, his head coming in violent contact with the edge of the pavement. The lamp was smashed, and the parcels were scattered about in the mire. In an instant John replaced the mail matter in the van, and with difficulty made room in it for the prostrate form of his co-worker. It was now impossible, John reasoned with himself, to attempt continuing the work further. The majority of the houses were shut for the night, and for some time past considerable delay had been caused by having to wait until bolted doors were unfastened. It was imperative that the injured man’s bruises be attended to as quickly as possible, so, after filling his official time-bill, he directed the driver to repair to James’s home.
Next day found James with a bandaged head and an accusing conscience, tossing restlessly on his bed. Friends supposed his fall was the result of accident, accelerated by the long hours he had been on duty, but well he knew that if his brain had not been muddled by the mocking stimulant, in all probability it would not have occurred. An attack of influenza, which at that time assumed an epidemic form, aggravated his bruises. As he lay there, aching in every joint, and a feeling of intense weariness overpowering him, the Spirit of God strove with him, as it had done over and over again, to have done with all earth’s glittering shadows, and vain pleasures, and to rest his weary sin-burdened soul on the man Christ Jesus He was thoroughly out of heart with himself, and was “almost persuaded now to believe,” when his reverie was disturbed by a companion calling.
“Dreadful thing this influenza,” said his would-be helper. “I had a touch of it myself, but not nearly so severe as you, and the thing that benefited me most was a good glass of whiskey. I know you are among teetotalers, so I just brought you a little drop,” and he produced a small bottle of the fiery opiate. “There now, have a good drink, and slip it under your pillow for future use;” and he watched the sick man take a draft of his elixir.
“Doesn’t that feel like the right thing now?” he continued, as he noticed James’s eye brighten, for in truth the love of drink had grown to be his besetting sin. “They’ve been giving you tracts too,” went on his quondam friend, as with cynical smile he lifted a little booklet from the coverlet. “‘The Way of Salvation Made Plain”―reading the title ― “well, it’s enough to give a fellow the blues, being continually dinned at with this religion.”
“You’re right there,” returned James, whose thoughts of eternal realities were now banished. “You have done me a world of good by your visit and your medicine. Slip the tract into the fire, and then I’ll rest in peace.”
In peace! vain delusion, when he had at that moment added another to the many times he had turned his back on the God of peace; had rejected the One who made peace through the blood of His cross, and who was willing even then to fill him with all joy and peace in believing.
Neither the whiskey nor the doctor’s remedies succeeded in combating the disease, and in a short time alarming symptoms of pneumonia appeared. For days the sufferer restlessly tossed his head to and fro on the pillow, while words of wild delirium and weary moans came from the hot parched lips. Scene after scene of his past life rose up before him with vivid distinctness. Now he is a sweet fair-faced boy at his mother’s knee He feels again the touch of her soft hand as she strokes his golden curls. He hears the melody of her voice, as she tells him of the Babe of Bethlehem, and of the multitude of the heavenly host who sang of peace on earth, and goodwill toward men. She tells Him that that Babe was the Son of God, the King eternal, and He had come from the heights of glory into this sin-stained world, that He might raise man from the corruption into which he had sunk, and unite him with Himself in glory. And though so high and holy He did not despise the little children, but gathered them in His arms and blessed them, and said of such was the kingdom of heaven. And the mother prayed earnestly and tenderly that her little James might be one of the jewels in the Redeemer’s crown.
But the scene changed. He was a boy at school, mixing with rude boys, hearing their coarse words, and seeing their mean actions. He repeated their words, he followed their ways, grew passionate and disobedient. Another vision flitted across his fevered brain. It was a darkened room, and a group of friends with tear-bedimmed eyes clustered round the bed whereon lay the form of his dying mother. One by one the departing saint motioned her children to her and blessed them, as did the patriarchs of old. Now he knelt before her, and her hand was on his head. Her once silvery voice was changed to a hoarse guttural sound, but the words came from a heart bright with the glory she was soon to enter, yet quivering with solicitude for the dear ones she was to leave behind. “James, my son”―the words came slowly and with labored breath, but each one, even at this distant time burned into his soul― “you will soon have no mother to care for you, and to pray for you, for in a short time I shall be in heaven with Jesus, and I would like to be sure that you would meet me there. You have a sinful heart, and you need to be washed in the blood of Christ, or you must be separated from your mother forever. Do not think there will be time when you grow older to trust in Jesus, but come now, before your heart gets harder, and be washed, and sanctified, and justified in the name of the Lord Jesus. Your brother Robert has been saved by grace through faith, and after I am gone listen to what he says, for he will give you good counsel.” She heard him sob out a promise that he would fulfil her desire, then indistinctly she murmured―
“And when at last they reach that coast,
O’er life’s brief journey driven,
May we be found, no member lost―
A family in heaven,”
and her ransomed spirit winged its way to realms of bliss. All the anguish of that grief was experienced again, the bitterest drop of it being that he had disregarded the chief desire of his mother’s heart, and neglected the great salvation of which she yearned he might partake. And of the Christian brother into whose care she had specially entrusted him―how had he acted toward him? For a time after her death, when his heart was crushed with sorrow, he found solace in Robert’s society, but as time assuaged his grief, the gulf between them grew greater, and more firmly fixed. At length he scoffed when Robert admonished him about his ways, laughed as he prayed for him, and mocked when he wept over the hardness of his heart. Now on his bed of languishing no rest did the weary youth have from his tormenting thoughts Incident after incident came to his mind with photographic exactness, in all of which a pardon, full, perfect, and free, had been offered him; but he had spurned them all, and put off to a more convenient season the one important reality of life.
Should any one read these lines whose case in any wise answers to this one we are recording; if they have often been exhorted to come to Jesus, to trust His finished work, to accept Him as their own Saviour, and they have as often turned a deaf ear to such entreaties―have imagined there would be time enough by-and-by―perhaps when laid aside by sickness, and a Saviour became a necessity, we would entreat such to be warned by this episode, which we heard from the lips of the sufferer, of the dangers of such delay, and the horrors of an illness where the memory is loaded with remorseful accusing’s of conscience, and the soul dreads it may be about to return to God who gave it, with the burden of a lifetime of sin upon it.
God in His rich mercy raised up James even after the good doctor had despaired of his convalescence. Slowly his strength returned, and he was advised to hasten his recovery by a sojourn in a salubrious country district. It might reasonably be thought, after the anguish of heart he had endured during his delirium, that his first act, on the return of consciousness, would be to seek pardon from the God against whom he had offended. But the wail of the Man of Sorrows when on earth, “Ye will not come to me, that ye might have life,” is re-echoed today, for with returning health James’ desire for forgiveness of sins waned. At the rural retreat to which he went he met some former companions, and his genial open nature quickly made more. With them he indulged in revelry and dissipation. On his return to town a kind friend met him at the station “How are you now?” she asked gently, but with a look in her eyes that betokened an inquiry alike for his spiritual, as well as his physical state “A viler sinner than ever,” he returned doggedly.
They reached their abode in silence, a fervent prayer ascending from her heart meanwhile that he might no longer procrastinate. “Won’t you come to Jesus now?” she asked tenderly.
There was a long pause, during which the tempter busily plied his hitherto successful devices for the enthrallment of this soul. At last faith gained the victory, and giving her his hand, he answered firmly, “Yes, I’ll trust Jesus now,” adding, in a wavering tone, “if He will have me.”
“Oh,” she cried, joyfully, “you need not doubt His willingness to save you, for He says, ‘Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.’”
Some assert that these words are meant for the believer and not the sinner. Most certainly they are precious for the saint, who feels his old forward ways clinging to him, and fears that the Lord, on their account, may disown him, but without doubt they have been used of God, in hundreds of cases, to give assurance of acceptance to trembling souls. Thus it was in this case. The peculiar charm of the words acted as healing balm on an open sore. Not all at once did James enjoy the fullness of the blessing. At first the light glimmered, and he appeared to see men as trees walking. At night he accompanied his friend to a Gospel meeting, and drank in as never before the preaching of the blessed Gospel. But still fears clung to him; he was so unworthy, so depraved, and had so often made light of the invitation, it seemed impossible he could be forgiven all at once. Yet such is the grace of God―no matter how vile the sinner―the moment he by faith accepts Christ as his Saviour he is transformed into a child of God. During the singing of a hymn at the close all doubts vanished, and peace, rest, and joy reigned in his breast. As the music trilled and swelled, with pause and cadence, his voice blended in harmony with the others, for the words gave appropriate utterance to the feelings of his heart.
This is what they sang: ―
“Blessed assurance―Jesus is mine!
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God;
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture burst on my sight;
Angels descending, bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.
Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Saviour am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.”
Then followed that season of testing, when older Christians trembled lest the seed which be had received with joy might have fallen on a rock, and having no root, might wither away.
The sequel proved that the Word had found a good soil, as with honest heart he began to bring forth fruit with patience His former companions were met now only to be told of the redemption of his soul, and earnestly entreated that they too would flee for refuge Very sweet was the daily fellowship he enjoyed with his brother, and other brothers in Christ sprang up all around.
What a network of influences were employed in bringing James to the feet of Jesus! His childhood’s training―his mother’s prayers―his Sunday school recollections―his brother’s constant care for his soul―the times he had been taken to hear the Gospel faithfully proclaimed―the evangelists who had reasoned with him of judgment to come. The One who could command snore than twelve legions of angels used a scourge of small cords to accomplish His work. Surely in this case we see how another and another small cord was added―cords of love―ere the wanderer was driven to the fold.
We know of many around whom a similar fabric of small cords is being wound, and we beseech such to allow God to bring back their soul from the pit and enlighten them with the light of the living, lest haply they one day stand speechless and hear the awful words, “Bind him hand and foot, and appoint him his portion with the unbelievers.” Rather now let the ear be opened, and the instruction sealed, and the captivated heart be bound in the “bundle of life.” M.M.