Praying for Visions of Heaven
A sturdy young farmer's boy who had inherited a strong body, a clear
mind, and a good family name sat under a maple tree in the hayfield at
the hot noontide. He was eating a cold lunch and at the same time
reading an article in the weekly paper. The editor had written an
editorial on the romantic history of the poor country boys who had risen
to world-wide fame and to enormous riches. When he had reread the
article he tossed the paper aside, lay back on the odorous new-mown
grass, looked up at the deep-blue sky, and watched the passing of a
pure-white cloud. A vision of what the world might be to him came in a
dreamy way. Other boys as poor as he had graduated from college, had
made great scientific discoveries, had married rich and beautiful women,
had traveled in far countries, had feasted with kings, had held high
office, and had written great books. Why could not he follow their
example? It seemed impossible, and with a deep sigh he arose and seized
his scythe.
But the vision could not be obscured. As his strong muscles drove the
sharp blade through the thick grass he kept muttering to himself,
debating pro and con the possibility of an ignorant farmer, living far
away from city civilization, and too far from a railroad to hear the
whistle, to become powerful in national affairs. How did they start?
What did they do first? When his return swath brought him again near the
shade of the tree where he had eaten his lunch he caught up the weekly
paper and read again the editorial. Then he left his scythe in the grass
and went into the shade, leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old
tree, and, wholly engrossed in earnest thought, forgot his work. He
reviewed his own simple life and examined his own plans and ambitions.
He had expected to marry some one of the strong, sensible, country
girls and bring her home to live with the old folks, as his father had
done. He had a dim idea that he would inherit the old, stony farm some
day. He had a latent ambition to raise more corn than his father had
raised and to clear a large piece of woodland which for centuries had
hidden the mountain side. He would build an addition to the stable and
put in a new pair of bars near the brook where the cattle went to drink
in winter. He had also a half-formed purpose to join the local church,
and perhaps some day he would be an elder.
At last he aroused himself and, with a half-angry impulse, he began to
strike the grass with his scythe as if the grass were some sneaking
enemy. He could not arouse again the sweet content of the forenoon. He
had caught a glimpse of that far-away land, and while he did not hope
ever to enter it, yet the thought disturbed him.
The next Sunday the echo of the old church bell, along the narrow, but
beautiful, Berkshire valleys, called him to church. The cows were milked
and fed, the old horse curried, and the chores hastily finished when he
ran down the road to overtake the old folks. But the grand forest, the
sheening, cascading brook, and the brown fields were not the same to him
that they were the day before. The cows and horses in the pastures near
the road had lost their fascination and value. The hills seemed lower
and the grain fields more narrow, the cottages seemed shrunken, and the
old church was but an awkwardly built bungalow. All had changed. His
clothing was coarser woven and the most attractive girls in their Sunday
attire were rude specimens of country verdancy.
As if by a preconceived purpose to accelerate his sweeping mental
changes the preacher that morning took his text from the Proverbs of
Solomon, wherein he stated that wisdom is more valuable than gold or
rubies. The speaker illustrated his sermon by showing the value of an
education. He mentioned the happiness of the men and women who knew the
structure of vegetation, of animals, and the laws which control their
life. He mentioned cases of self-made men who had read good books and
whose minds could walk with God through his wonderful natural creations.
He spoke of the uselessness or curse of possessions which the owner
cannot enjoy for lack of knowledge. He said that the discipline of
obtaining wisdom was in itself of great value and that God promised
riches, and honor to the man who would earn them. He also said that the
Lord started many of us into life with nothing for the loving purpose of
developing our capacity and inclination to know and enjoy more. The
happiest boy is the one who makes his own toys. The application of the
sermon brought forth the exhortation to read instructive books, to
examine more closely the works of nature and the laws which control our
being. "Learn something every day," said the preacher, and he closed
with the quotation from Luther, "Not a day without learning another
verse" ("_Nulla dies sine versu_").
The young farmer was an only son. But his parents had wisely kept him
from selfishness and egotism. He had been taught to work and to be
grateful for the necessities of life. He had a loyal disposition and
loved his parents with a half-worshipful devotion. He had been
contented, industrious, careful, and honest. His only pride seemed to be
in the distance he could see and in the large burden he could shoulder
or carry. He had left school because his father needed him on the farm
and he had abandoned the expectation of further education. But on that
Sunday he held a long conference with his mother and father concerning
his ambition to be something more than a country farmer. He read to them
the editorial which had so moved him, and tearfully said: "I want to be
great like them! I must improve my mind. I must increase my skill. I
must have more influence and do more good. I must get more wisdom and
more understanding. This farm is too small a place for me. I will stay
at home if I can, or as long as I can, but I must begin to study
to-morrow, and never thereafter lose a day. God helping me, I will be
something worth while." His parents, with sad hearts, saw the
reasonableness of his ambition and gave their consent to his proposed
education. He began to read selected books at home, but he soon saw the
great advantage of academic instruction in some well-equipped
institution. He attended a high school in a near-by village and an
academy in another part of the country. He was the leader of his classes
and a close student of languages and natural science. He had obtained a
glimpse of the world of knowledge and was fascinated with the idea of a
university education. Beyond the university, he occasionally saw himself
a multimillionaire with a palace and a brilliant retinue of servants. He
had chosen for his life mate a brilliant young woman who was a teacher
in a kindergarten school connected with the academy. They were to be
married when he should graduate from the university. All seemed hopeful
and promised a most noble and notable career.
But while he was spending his vacation at the old home in the Hampshire
Highlands of the Berkshire Hills, helping his old father in gathering
the usual crops, he received an invitation from a rich uncle living near
San Francisco, inviting him to visit his estate. The uncle had not often
corresponded with the young man's parents and they had taken no interest
in his history. They had heard that he was a wealthy manufacturer and a
railroad director. So the brother, and the sister who was the student's
mother, had lost all acquaintance with each other in the fifty years of
their separation. The young man gladly accepted his uncle's invitation
to visit him, and the uncle sent on a railroad pass to bring him to
California and return.
The estate of the uncle was on the shore of the Pacific, occupying a
gentle slope with wide lawns, evergreen trees fancifully trimmed, and
gushing fountains. Hedges of lilies, acres of poppies, roses of every
perennial variety, and shade trees in long rows, decorated the great
plateau. Orchards of luscious and rare fruits stretched away in great
lanes from the back gardens. The house was a mansion built for show,
with a front largely Grecian in design, and a rear porch and veranda of
the Old Colony style. Carpets, paintings, mirrors, and a hundred curious
and costly decorations made an exhibition of lavish wealth. Fine horses
and extravagantly furnished carriages in great variety filled the
stables. Servants' quarters were really fine cottages and the
gatekeeper's lodge cost an extravagant sum. To this New England nephew
who had spent his youth in the simplicity and poverty of a back-country
farm, all this display of wealth was bewildering. The great library of
costly volumes, few of which had ever been opened, seemed to him a great
opportunity for his uncle to learn almost everything. The food was so
various and so delicious. The wines which he had never tasted were
sweetly stimulating and had been made on the estate. His uncle
entertained him royally and introduced him to a number of handsome young
ladies of fascinating manners, who volunteered to teach him to dance.
Every kind of musical invention seemed to be stored in the mansion, and
quartets from the university near by came in often to entertain and to
be entertained at the uncle's evening socials. The uncle was a widower
and childless, and seemed to be most pathetically lonely. He was pleased
with his nephew and was proud of his apparently sterling character and
manly appearance.
The evening before the nephew's departure on his return journey his
uncle talked with him until late in the night and told him frankly that
he was going to make the young man his sole heir. But he made his nephew
promise repeatedly not to tell any person, not even his parents, what
the uncle had decided to do.
The return of that young man, when viewed in the light of subsequent
events, must have been a startling experience to his dear, patient,
plodding old parents. His manners, his thoughts, his estimation of
values had undergone a violent change. The old farmhouse seemed to him
to be smaller than ever, the furniture was rude and cheap, the food was
coarse and unpalatable, the horse was shamefully old, his father's
overalls were disgracefully stained, and his mother's old apron was fit
only for rags! The home was lonesome and uncomfortable. He sat by the
fire on the cool evenings, silently picturing in his wild imagination
what he would do with his millions, and sometimes he admitted, for an
instant, the hope that his uncle would die very soon. He abandoned the
idea of going on with his college education. He reasoned that money can
buy anything and assured himself that he could hire men to think for him
if he should need them. Letters from his fiancee became a bore. She was
too plain and too unsophisticated to adorn his future mansion. He could
not think of marrying a woman of whom he would be ashamed in that
fashionable group to which he would be attached. He finally broke the
engagement, telling her that he had discovered that he did not love her
enough sincerely to marry her. The lady became ill and was suddenly
killed in an accident in the sanitarium. The young man would not work.
He refused to help his father on the old place and bluntly refused to
help his mother when she was about her household tasks alone. All was
changed. He was no longer their son. The father felt the impression of
mystery about the son's strange behavior and suggested to his wife that
the boy showed symptoms of insanity. Not many months passed before the
son left his home to take an easy position as a clerk in Boston. But he
soon left that and went to sea in a steamer, where he acted as assistant
to the steward. At Bordeaux, France, he made the acquaintance of two
American young men whose wealthy parents supplied them with funds to
travel, but evidently did so to keep the rascals away from home. Then
his downward course became a reckless race.
A few years later the uncle heard or read that his nephew was sentenced
to three months in the workhouse for drunkenness, and he changed his
will, leaving all his estate to benevolent institutions. From that time
the unrepentant prodigal disappeared from the knowledge or care of his
old neighbors. Both his parents went down to the grave in bitter sorrow
before his reform. The death of the mother was only a few weeks later
than the death of the father.
God pity them both, God pity us all
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these, "It might have been."
Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply hidden from human eyes,
And in the hereafter the angels may
Roll the stone from the grave away.
The friend who reads this account of that young man's broken life may
ask what this biographical sketch has to do with the subject of
"unanswered prayer." It has much to do with it. Such experiences, which
must have been seen in millions of cases, show a reasonable explanation
why so many prayers for a view of heaven are denied. At almost every
funeral the loved ones ask if the departed is still living and why God
does not permit them to come back and tell us about their spirit life.
"What are they doing in heaven?" is a question on the lips of millions.
But in the letters herein mentioned the records of unanswered prayers
included many who prayed for visions of heaven or who wished to see the
angels or the face of the Saviour. One brother prayed continually, "Oh,
for one view of the holy city!" and another seemed never to leave out of
his daily prayer, "Lord, open my eyes to see the faces of the dear ones
hovering about me!" But our eyes are still holden. Our pleading hearts
are unsatisfied. We are not permitted to see our future home nor catch
more than a glimpse of the angels' wings. When, however, we seek an
explanation of this divine arrangement, this separation of this life
from the other, the faithful believer in God's wisdom and love can
easily set up a reasonable theory concerning it. He will see that God
has placed us on this earth to grow in knowledge, to get necessary
spiritual discipline for his heavenly service. To obtain that training
we must keep our attention on the duties of our daily tasks and do them
well. We cannot reap rye with heaven in actual view. It is not
consistent to think after the Apostle John saw the holy city at Patmos
he could devote himself as readily to catching fish. When that
California uncle showed his nephew all that luxury, beauty, and wealth,
and told him that he would some day own it all, it was a foolish
act--almost criminal. The young man's mental and moral development was
stopped then and there. The young man lost far more than the estate
could be worth. Suddenly acquired riches are ever harmful.
Dissatisfaction with this life is a fatal sin. God commands us to be
content and toil. He, therefore, does not himself do so destructive and
discouraging an act as to show us heaven's glories and fill us with a
suicidal anxiety to get out of this world at once and speedily to enter
the other where there is no more pain or sorrow or dying. A prayer for a
view of heaven seems, therefore, to be an unreasonable request. This
conclusion satisfies many who have been denied communication with the
departed dear ones, and they take up their toil, content to labor and to
wait. God does not interfere with the healthful exercise of our free
will by holding bribes before our eyes or by forcing our discipline by
awful fears.