Life's byways and waysides

Front matter

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.

"B3i5 V

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Life's Byways and Waysides ... 7

II. Unto His Nest Again 21

CHAPTER I. Life's Byways and Waysides

" There lives and sings a little lonely brook Up in a wild where few men come to look, — Living and singing in the dreary pines, Yet creeping on to where the daylight shines.

Pure from the heavens, in mountain chalice caught, It drinks the rain, as drinks the soul her thought j And down dim hollows where it winds along Pours its life burden of unlistened song."

Many of the best things of life are found in the byways. The map-makers show us the great thoroughfares, but they pay no heed to the country roads and the paths that run through the meadows, forests, and gardens, and climb the mountain sides. Yet many of the loveliest things in nature are found along these byways. Much of the world's beauty hides in out-of-the-way nooks, where human feet rarely go. Some of the sweetest flowers on the earth grow on beetling crags, or in the crevices of cold, gray rocks, where one would scarcely expect to find any trace of life. Nature does not array herself in loveliness merely to be seen of men, for in the depths of great forests and in inaccessible valleys among lofty mountains, where no human eye has ever looked upon them, the flowers are as rich in their beauty as in the gardens where throngs are ever passing and admiring.

" White lilies and fragrant, behold How coyly they nestle and fold Their petals round hearts of deep gold,

Wearing never a stain of the sod, — And content on the lake's placid breast With shadows to float and to rest, Giving freely their sweetest and best,

To forests primeval, untrod, — Enriching the water and air, And abiding in peace, unaware That nothing on earth is more fair

Than white lilies, created by God !"

There are byways also in life. There are a few distinguished people whom everybody seeks to know and whose praises are borne on every breeze. But, meanwhile, in the list of those unknown to fame are countless lives just as noble, as brave, as holy, as unselfish, as useful, as many of those who receive the world's commendation. The real worth of men's and women's lives is not to be rated by the measure of their earthly fame. Popularity itself is ofttimes but the whim of a day, to be replaced to-morrow by forgetfulness and neglect, perhaps by execration. There is a picture by Tintoretto, which shows Jesus on his cross. Then, as the observer looks closely, he sees in the background an ass feeding on withered palm leaves, the palms which had been waved on Palm Sunday. This feature of the picture is intended to recall the acclaim of the triumphal entry in contrast with the demand of the people, five days later, for the crucifixion of Jesus.

Fame is often but the glitter of an hour. Then, even when it is born of love, and is the just meed of true worth, it carries in it no disparagement of other lives which do not receive human praise. Many of the unpraised have as high encomium with God as those whom men applaud. Many of earth's unsung heroes are as real heroes in the sight of angels as those for whom monuments are set up in public squares and whose deeds are commemorated in oration and song. Many of the world's nameless saints have as high honor in heaven as those whose devotion, service, and sacrifice are enshrined in immortal memory in the church. If all the life of any day could be seen, it would appear that in the quiet byways, in lowly homes, and among the poor, there are thousands of God's children who are living nobly, beautifully, self-sacrificingly, making whole neighborhoods purer, sweeter, yet hearing not one word of human praise. They stay near the heart of Christ. They come every morning from his presence, their very garments smelling of myrrh, aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory palaces. They go through their humble daily rounds in the spirit of love. They pour blessings on the common paths, wherever they move, making the world a little sweeter, happier, and better for their staying in it. We do not know how much of

" The healing of the world Is in its nameless saints."

There are byways of usefulness. There are in every community a few people who are noted for their large charities, for their valuable services, or for their personal helpfulness. They are like the shadow of a great rock in a weary land to the troubled and distressed who turn to them. They are comforters in every home of sorrow. Their influence is a benediction over a wide neighborhood. They have a share in every good work.

But there are many others who, in quiet ways, and without appreciation, give out blessings scarcely less rich and helpful. The circle in which they move is narrower. The things they do seem smaller. Yet they minister continually in Christ's name and seek not to be ministered unto. They shine as quiet lights, brightening a little space about them.

Some of the divinest things done on this earth are done by the poor for others who are poor. They make sacrifices and spend their strength in rendering personal assistance in times of trouble. The other day, at the house of a sick woman, another woman was met, who had walked three miles, carrying one child in her arms, with another tugging at her skirts, for the purpose of putting her neighbor's house in order, preparing some food, and doing whatever she could for the comfort of the patient. The rich give their money, but the poor give themselves. Nothing is holier than such ministry, and yet it gets no earthly praise.

Mary Lyon used to say to her pupils on graduation day, " My dear girls, when you choose your fields of labor, go where nobody else is willing to go." There are always plenty of

ii workers for conspicuous places. There is no trouble in finding pastors for great city churches and men for the positions which pay large salaries. There are many kinds of service for which there are scores of candidates. After having passed through the experience of considering the claims and qualifications of the applicants for one of these conspicuous and attractive places, one would never think that laborers are few. There seem to be a great many people who reverse the counsel — that they go where nobody else is willing to go — and try to get their field of labor where everybody else would like to go.

But, meanwhile, what about the byways of service and usefulness ? There is always room enough here for all who will consecrate themselves to such work for the Master, and there is a field here also for the largest measure of usefulness. There is no throng at the gate, pressing applications, urging brilliant gifts, and bringing piles of endorsements and commendations, competing for the privilege of doing the Master's work in these obscure and unsalaried places. There are not many who are really seeking to go where nobody else is willing to go. Here, indeed, it is found that the Master's lament — the harvest is plenteous and the laborers are few — is still to be made.

Yet, in all the world there are no richer fields for Christ's service than are found in these byways. No one can do more wisely than to choose a place and a work which no other one desires to take. Years ago there lived and wrought in Italy a great artist in mosaics. With bits of glass and stone he could produce the most striking works of art, works which brought a great price. In his shop there was a boy whose business it was to keep the place in order. One day he came to his master and asked that he might have for his own the bits of broken glass which were thrown upon the floor. The boy's request was granted. " The bits are good for nothing," said the master ; " do as you please with them." Day after day the child might have been seen examining the pieces, throwing some away, and laying others carefully aside.

One day the master came upon a beautiful work of art in an unused storeroom. The poor boy, with an artist's soul, had used the rejected fragments, and had patiently and lovingly fashioned them into this — a real masterpiece. So may those do who choose to serve in life's byways, doing the things of love which no others care to do. These are Christliest ministries. When the Master comes, it will be seen that those who have wrought in these lowly ways have been preparing for themselves a record of blessing whose glory shall be eternal.

There is another class of Christian service which may be called wayside ministry. Much of the best work of life is of this order. We do not plan to do it. We go out to do other things, and on our way this comes to our hand and we do it, and it proves full of helpfulness and blessing.

Many of the most beautiful deeds of love in the life of Jesus were wayside ministries. One day he was going with a troubled father to heal his dying child. As he passed through the crowds there was a timid touch on the hem of his garment. There was a heart's cry in the touch, a poor woman's pleading for healing. Instantly Jesus stopped, not minding the appealing look in the eyes of the anxious father, and patiently and sweetly ministered to the need of the sufferer who had crept up timidly behind him. The healing of this woman who touched the hem of his garment is one of the most interesting of all the miracles of Jesus, and yet it was a piece of wayside ministry, which came, as it were, by accident, without purpose, into his life, and was wrought as he hurried on another errand.

The talk with Nicodemus seems also to have been a bit of wayside ministry. It does not appear to have been planned for as part of the day's work. We may suppose that one evening the Master came to the house of a friend, weary from the day's toils and strifes. He was preparing for a quiet, restful evening when a visitor was announced. Nicodemus, the ruler, came in and desired to talk awhile with the Rabbi. Then followed that wonderful conversation which has proved such a blessing all the years since, and which was but a fragment of unstudied wayside talk.

Another time the Master was very weary after a long journey in the heat, and sat down on an old well-curb to rest, while his disciples went to a neighboring village to buy food, for he was hungry as well as tired. He had just settled down for a quiet time of rest, when there came a woman to the well to draw water. Her sore need appealed to his quick sympathy, and he roused himself to help her. The conversation which took place — one of the very gems of the gospel — was also an hour's wayside talk.

These incidents illustrate and confirm the statement that much of the most valuable service in the life of Jesus was wayside ministry. As he went here and there on his purposed errands these opportunities for helpfulness were continually breaking in upon him, and he never thrust one of them from him. There was not a day, however full, whose interstices were not crowded with common kindnesses to those he met on the way, — pieces of beautiful wayside work. Sometimes he was working miracles, sometimes he was preaching, but always, wherever he went, he was serving in a thousand gentle ways.

There is a legend that, when Jesus arose from his grave and walked out of Joseph's garden, white lilies blossomed in his footsteps, so that wherever he went bloom and beauty sprung up. The legend faintly illustrates what was true of him all his days on earth. Blessings followed in his footsteps. The sick were healed, discouraged ones were cheered, sorrowing ones were comforted, and the weary received inspiration and strength from his words.

In our degree — lesser because of the littleness of our lives — all of us may continually perform a wayside ministry as we go along on our purposed errands for God. We have our allotted tasks for the day, and these are enough to fill our hands. But this need not make machines of us. We have human hearts, and while we are busy, with not a moment to lose, our sympathy and love may be flowing out to all whom

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we meet or touch. We may be kind to our fellows who are working beside us. We may be thoughtful in speech. Our face may carry in it a benediction for every one who passes. Our merest hand-shake and cheerful " Goodmorning" may be full of God's hearty love, and may send those whom we salute to a brighter, braver, happier day.

" Such a heart I'd bear in my bosom,

That threading the crowded street, My face should shed joy unlooked for

On every poor soul I meet; And such wisdom should crown my forehead,

That, coming where counsels stand, I should carry the thoughts of justice,

And stablish the weal of the land."

Such wayside kindnesses will never hinder us in our day's task-work. Jesus bade his disciples salute no man by the way as they passed abroad on his errands. That was because in Oriental lands it took a long while to make such a salutation, and time spent in such a senseless way was wasted, when human lives were waiting for the coming of the messenger and the word of mercy he bore. But we can give out our blessings of love as we go by, without wasting time or dallying on our way. We need not even slacken our pace nor lose a moment. b 17

Then, even if, sometimes, services of love do break into our busy days and do hinder us somewhat, may it not be that these are fragments of God's will, bits of God's work, sent for us to do, even at the cost of interrupting our own plans, breaking into our own programme ? This is the only way the Master can get some of us to do any work of his, for our hearts and hands are so full of our own things that we have no time for tasks for him. We need never fear that our hands will be any less full at the end because we have slackened our pace a little, now and then, to do some slight wayside service for Christ.

There is a story of one who began to run in a race and ran well, — was foremost of all. But by and by he stopped to lift up a fallen child and place it out of danger, thus losing something of what he had gained. Farther on, a fainting comrade appealed to his sympathy, and he turned aside to help him to rise. Again he stayed his steps for a little to guide a feeble woman to safety. Whenever duty called or sorrow appealed, he left his chosen path to give aid or comfort. Thus he fell behind, and another won the prize which might have been his. He stood unheeded, uncrowned, with empty hands, at the end. But who will say that in heaven's sight he was not the real winner of the race ? He had lost the prize, but he had brightened all the course with gentle ministries of love. Many of what to men seem failures will prove in the great revealing to have been divinest successes. To be true and to strive truly is to succeed, though nothing seem to come of it. Kate Tucker Goode writes, —

He cast his net at morn where fishers toiled, —

At eve he drew it empty to the shore $ He took the diver's plunge into the sea,

But thence within his hand no pearl he bore.

He ran a race, but never reached his goal j He sped an arrow, but he missed his aim j

And slept at last beneath a simple stone,

With no achievements carved about his name.

Men called it failure ; but for my own part I dare not use that word, for what if heaven

Shall question, ere its judgment shall be read,

Not " Hast thou won ?" but only " Hast thou striven ?"

It may be that those who live a life of love in this world, while they also do well their part in the business of the passing days, will sometimes seem losers. They have not gotten on so well in the world as their competitors. Yet their loss is truest gain. It is not worth while to live at all, if love be left out. The priest and the Levite got clear of some delay, some trouble, and some cost by passing on when they saw the wounded man by the wayside ; but who will say that the good Samaritan did not make more of his opportunity that day than they did ? The priest and the Levite neglected the wayside work for humanity which was offered to them, sparing themselves trouble but missing the reward of faithfulness. The good Samaritan stopped in his journey to do love's service, doing it well, making personal sacrifice to do it, but he was never sorry for it, nor the poorer for what it cost him.

Life's byways and waysides are full of opportunities for noble service. He is wise who is not afraid to leave the beaten path and the purposed task to do God's work where it waits.

CHAPTER II. Unto His Nest Again

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain ; If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain ; Or help one fainting robin

I shall not live in vain.

Emily Dickinson.

One day, President Lincoln and a friend were walking together in a field, when they found a little bird fluttering in the grass. It had fallen out of its nest in the bushes, and could not get back again. The great, gentle-hearted man stopped in his walk, stooped down, picked up the little thing, and put it back into its place. If it was a noble deed for a great man to lift a fluttering bird back into its place ; if even helping one fainting robin unto its nest again redeems a life from uselessness, what work of high honor is it to help back a fainting human soul into its nest of faith and love in the bosom of Christ ! That is the work Christ is doing continually.

That is what he wants us to do in his name when we find a soul that has fallen out of the nest of trust and peace.

John the Baptist had lost the perfectness of his confidence. This seems very strange to us. We remember his noble words, as he foretold the Messiah, then as he pointed him out to his disciples and spoke of his glory. We remember his sublime courage when he faced the terrible Herod and reproved him for his sin. Is it possible that a shadow of doubt ever came over his sky ? Yet listen to the question which his disciples are sent to ask Jesus: "Art thou he that should come ? or do we look for another ?" Why should such heroic faith as we see in John by the Jordan be changed to doubt and fear a little later ?

We must remember John's circumstances. For a few months, multitudes flocked to hear him preach, and then the throngs melted away. His mission was only to prepare the way for Christ, and when Christ came John paled, as the morning star pales before the sunrise. It is hard to be forgotten by those who a little while ago sang one's praises. Then, John was now in prison in one of the gloomiest castles ever built, in one of the most desolate places of the earth. To any man such a prison must have had its dreadful horrors, but to John this imprisonment must have been an unspeakable bitterness. He had lived, a child of nature, in the freedom of the mountains and the deserts, breathing the air of heaven and gazing up by night at the stars. Worse than death to this untamed, passionate spirit was the prison of Machaerus. No wonder that, shut up in its desolate dungeon, this great eagle soul began to lose its majestic courage.

Meanwhile, to his prison there came fragmentary reports of the ministry of Jesus. He was very popular. Throngs followed him. He wrought many miracles. But why was his forerunner left unhelped, undelivered, in this dark dungeon ? He had been faithful to Jesus ; why did not Jesus come and open these prisondoors for him ? Among so many mighty works, could not one be wrought to release him ? Was it just, was it right, that he should be neglected here, in the darkness and the wretchedness, while Jesus was in the midst of great honor ? Perhaps such questions arose in the mind of John, as he lay in his dungeon and heard of the works of Jesus. Is it any wonder that " the eye of the caged eagle began to film" ?

There are true Christians in every age who have their times of spiritual discouragement.

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No doubt a child of God should always rejoice. Yet some of the holiest saints who ever lived have had experiences of disheartenment. What earnest soul is there that never finds in the passionate supplication and longing of the fortysecond psalm its own liturgy of longing ?

There are many causes which may produce spiritual depression. Some people have a gloomy temperament. They live in the valleys, and the valleys do not catch the morning sunshine until long after the mountain tops have been gilded. Thus Thomas was the last of the disciples to get the joy of the resurrection. This same disposition keeps many good Christian people much of the time in the shadows. Sometimes sickness is the cause of despondent feelings. Ofttimes persons whose faith is ordinarily bright and clear are cast into gloom when there is no spiritual reason whatever, solely by their physical condition. Sore trials sometimes cause the clouding of faith. Peter wrote : " Ye are in heaviness through manifold trials." Sometimes, in the sharpness and in the continuance of affliction, the heart grows weary and is thrown out of its nest of peace. Or there may be mental perplexities caused by questionings that receive no answer.

These are a few of the causes which tend to produce spiritual disheartenment, and lead good people to ask whether or not Jesus is the Saviour and the Friend they had supposed him to be. We all know that we do not need to have these doubts and fears, that we should never be shaken for a moment out of our nest of confidence and peace. The word of God is : " Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee." Amid all trials, gloom, sorrows, mysteries, questionings, there is one blessed truth on which we may rest. Browning puts it in one great, noble sentence :

lt God, thou art love; I build my faith on thee."

Yet we are all human, and weak because human. The strongest of us may be swept away for a time from our refuge, or at least may lose the full joy of our Christian hope.

What should we do in such experiences ? We have the answer in the example of John. He sent two of his disciples to Jesus to ask him plainly, " Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another ?" Instead of nursing his questionings, in the gloom of his dungeon, he laid them at once before Christ. That is what we should do with all our fears and perplexities — take them to Christ. No other can answer them so well as he can. No other will answer

2 5 them so gladly, so wisely, so lovingly. He was not impatient with John when he sent to ask his question. Good men sometimes are impatient with any who have doubts, or who are swept away from their moorings. But Jesus never was. With unbelief he had no sympathy. He not only marveled at men's unbelief; it angered him. But with doubt, or sincere questioning, he had infinite patience, and took the greatest pains to help the inquirer into the full, clear light.

Mark well the distinction between doubt and unbelief. " Doubt is can't believe," says a recent writer ; " unbelief is won't believe. Doubt is honesty ; unbelief is obstinacy. Doubt is looking for light ; unbelief is content with the darkness." Jesus severely reproved unbelief; but when any one came to him with questionings, seeking light, desiring to find the truth, he dealt with him with wondrous gentleness. He sat down and talked with Nicodemus. He showed Thomas the wounds in his hands and feet. He let the Baptist know the beautiful work he was doing. He is the same to-day. If we have questionings or fears, we may be sure of most patient, gentle dealing if we bring them to him. He will never chide for our dullness and slowness in understanding ; he will teach us what we want to know. One writes :

The years Roll back, and through a mist of tears I see a child turn from her play And seek with eager feet the way That led her to her father's knee.

" If God is good and kind," said she, " Why did he let my roses diei" A moment's pause, a smile, a sigh, And then, " I do not know, my dear ; Some questions are not answered here."

" But is it wrong to ask ?" " Not so, My child. That we should seek to know Proves right to know, beyond a doubt ; And so some day we shall find out Why roses die."

And then I wait, Sure of my answer soon or late j Secure that love doth hold for me The key of life's great mystery ; And, oh ! so glad to leave it there ! Though my dead roses were so fair.

Our Lord's own word is comforting: "What I do thou knowest not now ; but thou shalt know hereafter." It is faith we want. Faith is believing when we cannot see. Wait a little longer and all the sad mystery shall be cleared away. A tourist tells of sailing out of the muddy waters of Lake Huron into the crystal waters of Lake Superior. When night came on, the vessel was in Lake Huron and his eye could not penetrate beneath the surface. Rising in the morning, he came on deck, and looking over the prow, he was surprised to find how clear the water was through which the vessel was moving. He could see the great jagged rocks, and it seemed as if the keel would strike upon them. In reality, however, they were fifty or sixty feet below the surface. The water was so clear that the depth appeared to be only a few feet.

We are moving now through dark, cloudy waters. Mysteries impenetrable surround us. We cannot understand the things that befall us. We cannot comprehend the deep things of God, of Christ, of the Bible, and of Providence. But as we move on we shall pass at length out of the obscurities and mysteries into the clear, crystal knowledge of heaven. It is said in Revelation that there shall be no more sea in heaven. To the ancients the sea was the emblem of mystery. To say there shall be no sea in heaven means that there shall be no mystery there. All that here is dark and strange shall there be made clear.

The comfort Christ gives to those who come to him with their doubts and fears may not be the removal of the things that cause the darkness. John was not released from prison after he had sent his disciples to Jesus. Jesus did not go out to the desert and tear down the frowning walls that shut his friend away in the gloom. John was left there, and before a great while died as a martyr. But when the messengers returned and told their master what they had seen and what Jesus had said to them, we may be sure John's doubts fled away and assurance of peace came again into his heart.

Nor will Jesus now always remove the things that discourage us. But he will give us grace to believe in his love even when we cannot see, and to wait in faith for the fuller, clearer revealing. Indeed, sometimes the sorrows and losses that cause us so much darkness and doubt are caused by the removing of obstacles in the way of our wider vision. There were some lilac bushes at the window of a farmer's house. They kept out the sunshine and air, and they obstructed the view so that the mountains could not be seen. One day the farmer's axe was heard, and bush after bush was cut away. " Only a little more cutting," he said, " and we shall get it." Then the mountains could be seen from the window. It is ofttimes thus with our earthly joys. They are very sweet, but they hide our view of the