This afternoon we went over to Monksburn to say farewell.
Flora and Annas had a good deal to settle about our journey, and all the
people and things we were leaving behind. They went into the garden,
but I asked leave to stay. I did so want a talk with Lady Monksburn on
two points. I thought, I hardly know why, that she would understand me.
I sat for a few minutes, watching her bright needles glance in and out
among the soft wools: and at last I brought out the less important of my
two questions. If she answered that kindly, patiently, and as if she
understood, the other was to come after. If not, I would keep it to
myself.
"Will you tell me, Madam--is it wrong to pray about anything? I mean,
is there anything one ought not to pray about?"
Lady Monksburn looked up, but only for a moment.
"Dear child!" she said, with a gentle smile, "is it wrong to tell your
Father of something you want?"
"But may one pray about things that do not belong to church and Sunday
and the Bible?" said I.
"Everything belongs to the Bible," said she. "It is the chart for the
voyage of life. You mean, dear heart, is it right to pray about earthly
things which have to do with the body? No doubt it is. `Give us this
day our daily bread.'"
"But does that mean real, common bread?" I asked. "I thought people
said it meant food for the soul."
"People say very foolish things sometimes, my dear. It may include food
for the soul, and very likely does. But I think it means food for the
body first. `Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these
things.' That, surely, was said of meat and drink and clothing."
I thought a minute. "But I mean more than that," I said; "things that
one wishes for, which are not necessaries for the body, and yet are not
things for the soul."
"Necessaries for the mind?" suggested Lady Monksburn. "My dear, your
mind is a part of you as much as your body and spirit. And `He careth
for you,' body, soul, and spirit--not the spirit only, and not the
spirit and body only."
"For instance," I said, "suppose I wanted very much to go somewhere, or
not to go somewhere--for reasons which seemed good ones to me--would it
be wicked to ask God to arrange it so?"
Lady Monksburn looked up at me with her gentle, motherly eyes.
"Dear child," she said, "you may ask God for anything in all the world,
if only you will bear in mind that He loves you, and is wiser than you.
`Father, if it be possible,--nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, be
done.' You cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which lay
between those words. If the world were to be saved, if God were to be
glorified, it was not possible. Did He not know that who asked it with
strong crying and tears? Was not the asking done to teach us two
things--that He was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain and
death as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we may
ask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that God's will
be done?"
"Thank you," I said, drawing a long breath. Yes, I might ask my second
question.
"Lady Monksburn, what is it to trust the Lord Jesus?"
"Do you want to know what trust is, Cary,--or what He is? My child, I
think I can tell you the first, but I can never attempt to paint the
glory of the second."
"_I_ want to know what people mean by _trusting_ Him. How are you to
trust somebody whom you do not know?"
"It is hard. I think you must know a little before you can trust. And
by the process of trusting you learn to know. Trust and love are very
near akin. You must talk with Him, Cary, if you want to know Him."
"You mean, pray, I suppose?"
"That is talking to Him. It is a poor converse where all the talk is on
one side."
"But what is the other side--reading the Bible?"
"That is part of it."
"What is the other part of it?"
Lady Monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which I do not know
how to describe. I can only say that it filled me with a sudden
yearning for my dead mother. She might have smiled on me like that.
"My darling!" she answered, "there are things which can be described,
and there are things which can but be felt. No man can utter the secret
of the Lord--only the Lord Himself. Ask Him to whisper it to you. You
will care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when He has
done so."
Is not that just what I want? "But will He tell it to any one?" I
said.
"He tells it to those who long for it," she replied. "His smile may be
had by any who will have it. It costs a great deal, sometimes. But it
is worth the cost."
"What does it cost, Madam?"
"It costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worth
nothing at all. It costs the world's flatteries, which are as a net for
the feet; and the world's pleasures, which are as the crackling of
thorns under the pot; and the world's honours, which are empty air. It
often costs these. There are few men who can be trusted with both."