A PLEASANT spot in the “dog watches” on a tropical evening is the fo’c’stle head. Away in the west the sun has just dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a blaze of lurid, throbbing light behind, while the down-draft from the foresail, and the cool swish of the water as it eddies from the stem, are grateful indeed after the glare and heat of the day. And how peaceful it all seems! Down in the waist of the ship some sailors are yarning on the spars, and away aft, their figures black against the evening sky, the saloon passengers are leaning listlessly over the rails.
On such an evening, as the good ship “Waipa” made her way towards New Zealand, over the long smooth swells, I found myself, with one other sailor, the sole occupants of the fo’c’stle head. It had happened that a few evenings before I had spoken to some of the men about their souls, and one of them called “Scottie” had replied, “Well, sir, I’d like to ask you a question. Are there two hells? The missionaries that come aboard all say we’re going to hell. What I want to know is, are there two hells?”
“No,” replied I, “there certainly are not two hells.”
“Well then,” said Scottie, “we’re right, sir, for we get ours here.”
Seeing that it would be vain to continue the conversation I dropped it then, hoping to get a chance to speak with Scottie alone, as I felt greatly interested in the man; and such an opportunity had now presented itself, for I had seen him on the evening in question go up on to the fo’c’stle head, and I had gone and sat down by his side.
“Well, Scottie,” I began, “you were telling me the other evening that the missionaries said you were going to hell, but I’ve got a different message to you, namely, that God loves you, that He ‘so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life’ — that God, in fact, is love.”
“Well, sir,” said Scottie, looking earnestly at me with his dark, restless eyes, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that God is love. I’ll tell you my story, and then you’ll see whether you would think it either, if you was me. When I was twenty I got married, and how I loved my wife! yes, how I loved her! But I had to go to sea; and on the homeward voyage I was thinking of her, and longing to see her again; and when our ship got in I hurried off to meet her, thinking what a happy surprise it would be, and, as I went up through the docks, an old friend met me, and told me that she was gone — that she had had a little boy and died. Oh, why did He take her when I loved her so? She was the only influence in the wide world over me for good. Why did He take her, sir? No, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that God is love.”
Solemn indeed it was to hear this man, a swarthy, weather-beaten, bearded man of thirty-six, but looking far older, thus telling out, in the silence of that tropic evening, the story of the love of a life, and recalling the wreck of all his hopes, and one felt loth to speak in the presence of such a sorrow as this.
At last I said gently, “Scottie, you have told me a story of your life, I’ll tell you one of mine. just before we were starting, my wife was about saying good-bye to our youngest boy, a little lad of three years old, and, seeing her crying, he came to his mother and stroked her hair gently with his hand, but finding that this was of no avail, but that she still wept, after a moment’s thought he went away, returning shortly with his boy bricks — the most precious thing in his eyes in the world. We never knew why, but the little lad had given himself the name of “Minna,” and always called himself so. Coming, then, to his mother, he put them in her lap, saying, “Minna’s bricks, munner’s own.” Poor little chap, it was all he had, and yet he gave them to her.”
The hard, set look had gradually faded from Scottie’s face, and there was something soft and almost womanlike in his voice as, not leaving me to apply the moral of my tale, he replied, “I see, sir, what you mean. God has given the very best thing that He’d got to die for me.”
Oh, that in an age like this, when millions are refusing God’s gift, and vainly seeking to propitiate a god of their own creation by their works, religion, and morality, or, in fancied wisdom, are madly rejecting the truth in the love of it, one had a thousand tongues to cry — or rather rightly to use the one we each possess — to cry to a perishing world that God is love — that He seeks no propitiation from man; but that He, just because man was helpless to help himself, has sent His own Son to die, so that He can righteously pardon every believer in Jesus, and give them, too, eternal life.
Surely if our poor hearts are touched at the story of Scottie’s or of Minna’s love, the mighty love of God should break them down. And you, into whose hands these words have come, oh, listen to the voice of God beseeching you to be reconciled to Himself! It is not His heart that needs to be reconciled to you, but yours to Him — what is in His heart is fully displayed at the cross, and what was in man’s, and therefore yours and mine, came out fully there too. Close, therefore, now with His gracious invitation. His oxen and His fatlings are killed, and all things are now ready — for Christ has died — and God, in tenderest grace and long-suffering, is still saying to you, “Come.” May your heart truly utter the sailor’s words, “God has given the very best that He had to die for me.”
J. F.