The following is a true narrative of an experience in life:
It was nearing three o'clock of last Easter afternoon, when a woman,
clad in deepest mourning, entered the gates of the beautiful "sleeping
place" on Walnut Hill. Her attitude, as she sank upon a carefully tended
mound, denoted deep dejection. She had not yet learned that the "tree of
death is fruited with the love of God," neither the joy of the
"afterward," but knew only the grope of a stricken soul.
In the distance, sat a child upon a grave, alone. Coming nearer, she
recognized him as one who had never known a mother, and whose father had
lately been taken, leaving him without kindred. The love between that
father and child had been passing sweet.
The bereaved lady knew this, and that he had been thrown homeless upon
the world. Yet, absorbed in her own grief, had given him little thought.
Drawing near, she observed closely the rare beauty of the boy, scarcely
five years of age, genius and nobility stamped on his brow, and
exquisite tenderness on the mobile lips.
He looked up eagerly, asking fearlessly, "Is your name Mary? Are you the
woman who talked with the angel when the stone was rolled away."
"Oh, no, dear," she replied. "Whom are you looking for?"
"For Jesus!" said the boy reverently.
"But he is not here. He is risen."
"Yes, I know, that's it, but I've been waiting here all day for Him to
come and raise my papa up. He's late, and I thought maybe He sent you to
tell me to wait a little, just as He sent Mary to tell His disciples,
you know," said the boy, wistfully.
"Yes, dear, but"--hesitating to shatter the boy's beautiful faith.
"I am tired" (pathetically), "but it is never too late for Jesus," he
added bravely, while a tear rolled down the velvet cheek. "He is sure to
come, 'cause it is the Rising Day" (exultingly). "Don't you 'member?"
The woman stooped to kiss the child, and began to sob violently,
dropping on the grave beside him.
"What makes you cry, lady? Is your papa here to be raised up?"
"No, no, darling, but my sweet daughter is."
"Don't cry, then," stroking the lady's hand. "Jesus never goes by Rising
Day. He'll surely come and give you your little girl and me my papa!
He'll come to-night. I saw the two men who came from [256:A]Emmaus go by
early this morning, and they will be walking back soon in the evening,
and Jesus will meet them and turn and walk with them, and they will all
be talking gently about the dying and the rising, and the men will not
know Him, but I shall, and He will stop here when I call, and raise my
papa up."
"How will you know Him, dear boy?"
"By His smile and the Transfiguration picture that papa showed me in his
study. But I'll know Him bestest in here," putting his hand on his
breast, "by the love!" raising his lustrous eyes to hers.
"Will you know your papa? Are you sure?"
"My papa!" with wondering ecstatic voice. "My own papa! I shall know him
by the love, and you your little girl. They will not look the same,
'cause Jesus didn't, but they knew Him by their love!"
"Yes?"
"And we'll know them by our love!" lingering fondly on the repetition
with lustrous, far-seeing gaze.
The woman clasped the child to her breast with a passionate embrace,
while rising to meet a supreme hour. (The child must not--shall not be
disappointed and his beautiful faith shattered).
"Phillip!" she said, "listen. The angel sent me to tell you that Jesus
had gone into heaven, and to take you to your papa. Come!"
Without a moment's hesitation he took his messenger's (?) hand and
passed out of the gates, looking not backward by a glance. Expectation
held him silent, while the woman's face was illumined by a great light.
Entering the door of a pleasant house, she passed on through the hall
into the dining-room, saying to the maid: "Bring some food for this dear
child; he has fasted all day."
A pitcher of milk and a plate of bread and honey were set beside a plate
of cold, broiled fish.
"Now I know this is the house," the boy exclaimed exultingly, "for they
had the fish, the bread and the honey! It's all here, just the same, and
he'll come to-night!"
Turning swiftly to the hall, the woman almost flew along the corridor to
meet her husband's steps. Drawing him to one side, she told with rapture
of her encounter and the sweet expectancy below.
"Now, Harold, Heaven has sent us a child, who shall be the angel to roll
away the stone from our grave. His wonderful vision must not be
darkened, neither his faith destroyed. Rise, my husband, to the most
glorious hour of your life. 'I shall know him by the love,' he said. Let
us see that he does."
Returning for the child and extending her hand with a smile, he eagerly
asked, "Will you wash and comb me to meet my papa? It isn't too late
yet, is it?"
The voice was half a sob, but full of hope. The ineffable trust pierced
her heart while reassuring him with swift, tender tones.
"Come, Phillip, we will go to him," she cried tremblingly.
As she opened the door upon a winning, noble-faced man with tears on his
cheek, smiling with outstretched arms upon the boy, he hesitated a
moment, took one step forward and then leaped into the open arms, threw
his noble head back, and gazed with lustrous, questioning eyes.
"You don't look like my papa, quite."
"No?" (anxiously).
"'Cause you are changed. But I know you by the love, and you know me,
don't you?"
"By the love, dear boy," with shining eyes, but marble lips.
The child nestled down upon the breast, his chest heaving, while the man
stroked the soft curls, soothing him with every word known to love's
alphabet, till finally, crooning a cradle song, the exhausted child fell
asleep. He had found a father by the love. His faith was saved, and by
it, she who had groped blindly among the tombs had found her Easter.
--_From the Christian Observer_, March 30, 1904.
By Mrs. Helen Strong Thompson.