In a village which lay at the outskirts of a Canadian city, an aged Christian was dying. I was asked to visit her. Having reached the house, I inquired of a woman of middle age, who happened to be in the garden, if Mrs. Morris lived inside.
“Yes, my mother is within; but she is very ill,” was her reply.
“May I go in to see her?” And so I followed into the little bedroom, where lay the dying saint. Her face was toward the wall, and she herself was either sleeping, or else sweetly anticipating the bright future before her.
Her daughter touched her gently on the shoulder, and said, “Mother, a gentleman wants to see you;” and then took her place at the foot of the bed.
“I do not know you, sir,” said the old woman.
“No,” said I; “but I heard you were a dying Christian woman, and that perhaps you would like me to read or speak to you, and so I came.”
Well, I was made welcome. We enjoyed together some happy thoughts in common—thoughts of a dying Saviour’s love, and of present all-sustaining grace. I found that she had, long ago, been converted to God. There did not seem a shade of fear in her soul as to her being soon with the Lord.
After about half-an-hour’s conversation, I said, “Would you like me to pray beside you? Have you any special request that I may lay before the Lord?”
“No, thank you,” said she. “O yes! there is one thing,” she abruptly said, “a heavy burden on my heart. I have four children, all grown up, and only one of them is converted. My daughter there, at the foot of my bed is one of the three. Now,” said the dear old tenderhearted mother, “will you pray God to save my unsaved children?”
I turned to the daughter, and said, “Is it true that you are unsaved?” “Yes, sir.”
“Not ready for death?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you meet your dear mother if you died as you are?”
A silence like death, and then, with tears, “No, sir.”
“Through grace your mother is going to heaven, and you, alas, are at present on your way to hell! Ah! there is no prospect of your seeing her again if you remain as you are. Look into your mother’s face. The eyes that have watched over your infancy, girlhood, and early womanhood, as only a mother’s eyes can watch, will soon be closed in death. Tell me,” I said earnestly, “have you no wish to meet those eyes, to see that face in heaven.” I need hardly say that the question was answered with a muffled, “Yes.”
Who can stand unmoved beside his mother’s deathbed? What heart so callous as to shed no tears at such a moment? How many a resolution has there been made, that, alas, was afterward broken? How many a prodigal, when all else is squandered, retains the imperishable memory of his mother’s last and tenderest appeal? And what an appeal was spoken by the beseeching eyes of this dying mother!
I explained the way of salvation, through the death and resurrection of Christ, and faith therein, to the weeping daughter, and, believing that this might be the moment of her blessing, I said, “Let me give you two texts. First, ‘I will give to him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.’ And second, ‘Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.’ In the first, Jesus says, ‘I will give;’ in the second, ‘Whosoever will, let him take.’ See how the two truths dove-tail, ‘I will give;’ ‘Let him take.’ “Come,” said I, “shall it be take, or taken, with you; a thing of the future, or a thing of the past?”
A silence, then in a whisper, “T-a-k-e-n.” “A little louder, please.”
“Taken,” said she.
“Louder still, please.”
“TAKEN,” clear and distinct, fell from her lips, to the unbounded joy of her dying mother. What a moment of gladness and praise!
The mother just dying; the daughter just beginning to live. Then a moment of prayer and farewell.
A while after, a young Christian corroborated the good news to me. She had, through grace, taken the water of life. Dear reader, have you?