Stephen Grellet, after much waiting on the Lord to shew him His will,
was directed by the Spirit to take a long journey into the backwoods
of America, and preach the Gospel to some woodcutters who were felling
forest timber.'[42]
At first Stephen did not know which was the wood he was meant to
visit, having travelled through hundreds of miles of forests on his
journey. So he waited very quietly, his heart as still as a clear
lake, ready to reflect anything God might show him.
Suddenly a picture came. He remembered a lonely forest clearing, far
away. Workmen's huts were dotted about here and there, and a big
wooden building rose in the midst of the clearing. All around were
woodcutters, some busy sawing timber, some marking the tall forest
trees, others carting huge logs and piling them at a little distance.
Stephen now remembered the place well. He remembered, too, the
workmen's rough faces, and the wild shouts that filled the air as he
had passed by on horseback. He had noticed a faint film of blue smoke
curling up from the large building, and he had supposed that that must
be the dining-shanty where the workmen's food was prepared and where
they had their meals. He remembered having thought to himself, 'A
lonely life and a wild one!' But the place had not made a deep
impression on his mind, and he had forgotten it as he journeyed, in
the joy of getting nearer home. Now, suddenly, that forest clearing,
with the huts and the dining-shanty and the busy woodmen all round,
came back to him as vividly as a picture in a magic-lantern view,
while a Voice said, distinctly but very gently in his own heart, so
that only he could hear, 'GO BACK THERE AND PREACH TO THOSE LONELY
MEN.'
Stephen knew quite well Whose Voice it was that was speaking to him,
for he had loved and followed that Voice for many years. Obedience was
easy now. He said at once, 'Yes, I will go;' and saying good-bye to
his wife, he left his home, and set forth again into the forest. As he
journeyed, a flood of happiness came over his soul. The long ride
through the lonely woods, day after day, no longer seemed tedious. He
was absolutely alone, but he never felt the least bit lonely. It was
as if Someone were journeying with him all the way, the invisible
Friend whose Voice he knew and loved and obeyed.
When at length he drew near the clearing in the forest, he both
trembled and rejoiced, at the thought of soon being able to deliver
his message to the woodmen. Coming yet nearer, however, he no longer
saw any blue smoke curling up in a thin spiral between the straight
stems of the forest trees. Neither did he hear any sound of saws
sawing timber, or the men shouting to their horses. The whole place
was silent and deserted. When he reached the clearing, nobody was
there. Even the huts had gone. He would have thought he had mistaken
the place if the dining-shanty had not been there, by the edge of a
little trickling stream, just as he remembered it.
Nowhere was there a living soul to be seen. Evidently all the woodmen
had gone away deeper into the forest to find fresh timber, for the
clearing was much larger and many more trees had been cut down than
on Stephen's first visit. The neglected look of the one big wooden hut
that remained showed that the men had not used it for many days. Weeks
might pass before any of the woodcutters returned.
What was Stephen to do? He had no idea in which direction the woodmen
had departed. It was hopeless to think of tracking them further
through the lonely forest glades. Had the Voice made a mistake? Could
he have misunderstood the command? Was the whole expedition a failure?
Must he return home with his message still undelivered? His heart
burned within him at the thought, and he said, half aloud, 'No, no,
no!'
There was only one way out of the difficulty, the same way that had
helped him to learn his Latin lesson years ago when he was a little
boy. But it was no tiny mossy track now, it was a broad, well-marked
road travelled daily, hourly, through long years,--this Prayer way
that led his soul to God. Tying up his horse to the nearest tree,
Stephen knelt down on the carpet of red-brown pine-needles, and put up
a wordless prayer for guidance and help. Then he began to listen.
Through the windless silence of the forest spaces the Voice came again
more clearly than ever, saying: 'GIVE YOUR MESSAGE. IT IS NOT YOURS
BUT MINE.' Stephen hesitated no longer. He went straight into the
dining-shanty. He strode past the bare empty tables, under which the
long grass and flowers were already growing thick and tall. He went
straight up to the end of the room, and there, standing on a form, as
if the place had been filled with one or two hundred eager listeners,
although no single human being was to be seen, he PREACHED, as he had
never yet preached in his life. The Love of God, the 'Love that will
not let us go,' seemed to him the most real thing in the whole world.
All his life he had longed to find an anchor for his soul. Now that he
had found it, he must help others to find it too. Why doesn't everyone
find it? Ah! there he began to speak of sin; how sin builds up a wall
between our hearts and God; how, in Jesus Christ, that wall has been
thrown down once for all, and now there is nothing to keep us apart
except our own blindness and pride; and how if we will only turn round
and open our hearts to Him, He is longing to come in and dwell with
us.
As Stephen went on, he pleaded yet more earnestly. He thought of the
absent woodcutters. He felt that he loved every single one of those
wild, rough men; and if he loved them, he, a stranger, how much more
dear must they be to their heavenly Father. 'Grant me to win each
single soul for Thee, O Lord,' he pleaded, 'each single soul for
Thee.'
Where were they all now, these men to whom he had come to speak? He
could not find them. But God could. God was their shepherd. Even if
His messenger failed, the Good Shepherd would seek on until He found
each single wandering soul that He loved. 'And when the shepherd
findeth the lost sheep, after leaving the ninety and nine in the
wilderness, how does he bring it home? Does he whip it? Does he
threaten it? No such thing! he carries it on his shoulder and deals
most tenderly with the poor, weary, wandering one.'
While he was speaking he thought of the absent woodcutters with an
evergrowing desire to help them. He thought of the hard lives they
were forced to lead, of the temptations they must meet with daily, and
of the lack of all outward help towards a better life. As he repeated
the words again, 'Grant me, O Lord, to win these lost sheep of Thine
back to Thee and to Thy service; help me to win each single soul for
Thee,' he felt as if, somehow, his voice, his prayer, must reach the
men he sought, even though hundreds of miles of desolate forest lay
between. Towards the end of his sermon, the tears ran down his cheeks.
At last, utterly exhausted by the strength of his desire he sat down
once more, and, throwing his arms on the rough board before him, he
hid his face in his hands.
A long time passed; the silence grew ever more intense. At last
Stephen lifted his head. He felt as tired as if he had gone a long
journey since he entered the wooden building. Yet it was all exactly
the same as when he had come in an hour before,--the rows of empty
forms and the bare tables, with grass and flowers growing up between
them. Stephen's eyes wandered out through the open door. He noticed a
thick mug of earthenware lying beside the path outside, evidently left
behind by the woodcutters as not worth taking with them. A common
earthenware mug it was, of coarse material and ugly shape; and
cracked. As Stephen's eyes fell upon it, he felt as if he hated that
mug more than he had ever before hated anything in his life. It seemed
to have been left behind there, on purpose to mock him. Here he was
with only an earthenware mug in sight, he who might have been
surrounded by the exquisite and delicate porcelain that he remembered
in his father's factory at Limoges. All that beauty and luxury
belonged to him by right; they might still have been his, if only he
had not listened for years to the Voice. And now the Voice had led him
on this fool's errand. Here he was, preaching to nobody, and looking
at a cracked mug. Was his whole life a mistake? a delusion? 'Am I a
fool after all?' he asked himself bitterly.
He was in the sad, bitter mood that is called 'Reaction.' Strangely
enough, it often seizes people just when they have done some
particularly difficult piece of work for their Master. Perhaps it
comes to keep them from thinking that they can finish anything in
their own strength alone.
Stephen was in the grip of this mood now. Happily he had wrestled with
the same sort of temptation many times before. He knew it of old; he
knew, too, that the best way to meet it is to face this giant Reaction
boldly, as Christian faced Apollyon, to wrestle with it and so to
overcome. He went straight out of the door to where the mug was lying,
and took up that mug, that cracked mug, in his hands, more reverently
than if it had been a vase of the most precious and fragile porcelain.
He took it up, and accepted it, this thing he hated worst of all. If
life had led him only to a cracked mug, at least he would accept that
mug and use it as best he could. Carrying it in his hands, he walked
to the little stream whose gentle murmur came through the tall grasses
close at hand. There he knelt down, cleansed the mug carefully, filled
it with water, and putting it to his lips, he drank a long refreshing
draught. In his pocket he found a crust of bread. He took it out,
broke it in two pieces, and then drank again. Only a piece of dry
bread! Only a drink of cold water in a cracked cup! No meal could be
simpler. Yet Stephen ate and drank with a kind of awe, enfolded in a
sustaining, life-giving Presence. He knew that he was not alone; he
knew that Another was with him, feeding and refreshing his inmost
soul, as he drank of the clear, cold water and ate the broken bread.
A wonderful peace and gladness fell upon his spirit as he knelt in the
sunny air. The silence of the great forest was itself a song of
praise. He rode homewards like a man in a dream. Day after day as he
journeyed, the brooding peace grew and deepened. Even the forest
pathways looked different as he travelled through them on his homeward
way. They had been full of trustful obedience before. They were filled
with thankfulness now. But the deepest thankfulness was in Stephen's
own heart.
* * * * *
Is that the end of the story? For many years that was the end. Stephen
never forgot his mysterious journey into the backwoods. He often
wondered why the Voice had sent him there. Nevertheless he knew, for
certain and past all doubting, that he had done right to go. Perhaps
gradually the memory faded a little and became dim....
* * * * *
Anyway nothing was further from his thoughts than the lonely backwoods
of America one afternoon, years after, when on one of his journeys in
Europe his business led him across London Bridge. The Bridge was
crowded with traffic. Everyone was bustling to and fro, intent on his
own business or pleasure. Not many people had leisure to notice one
slight figure distinguished by a foreign air of courtliness and grace,
in spite of the stiff, severe lines of its Quaker hat and coat. Not
many people, even if they had noticed the earnest face under the
broad-brimmed hat, would have stopped to gaze a second time upon it
that busy afternoon. Not many people. But one man did.
As Stephen was hastening across the crowded Bridge, suddenly he felt
himself seized roughly by the shoulders, and he heard a gruff voice
exclaiming: 'There you are! I have found you at last, have I?'
Deep down inside Stephen Grellet, the Quaker preacher, there still
remained a few traces of the fastidious French noble, Etienne de
Grellet. The traces had been buried deep down by this time, but there
they still were. They leapt suddenly to light, that busy afternoon on
London Bridge. Neither French nobleman nor Quaker preacher liked to be
seized in such unceremonious fashion. 'Friend,' he remonstrated,
drawing himself gently away, 'I think that thou art mistaken.'
'No, I am not,' rejoined the other, his grip tighter than ever. 'When
you have sought a man over the face of the globe year after year, you
don't make a mistake when you find him at last. Not you! Not me
either! I'm not mistaken, and I don't let you go now I've found you
after all these years, with your same little dapper, black, cut-away
coat, that I thought so queer; and your broad-brimmed hat that I well
remember. Never heard a man preach with his hat on before!'
'Hast thou heard me preach, Friend? Why then didst thou not speak to
me afterwards if thou wished?'
'But I didn't wish!' answered the stranger, 'nothing I wished for
less!'
'Where was it?' enquired Stephen.
'Why, I heard you preaching to nobody, years and years ago,' the man
returned. 'At least you supposed you were preaching to nobody. Really,
you were preaching to me. Cut me to the heart you did too, I can tell
you.'
A dawning light of comprehension came into Stephen's face as the other
went on: 'Didn't you preach in a deserted dining-shanty in the
backwoods of America near----' (and he named the place), 'on such a
day and in such a year?'
He asked these questions in a loud voice, regardless of the astonished
looks of the passers-by, still holding tight to the edge of Stephen's
coat with one hand, and shaking the forefinger of the other in
Stephen's face as he spoke, to emphasize each word.
By this time all traces of Etienne, the fastidious French nobleman,
had utterly disappeared. Stephen Grellet, the minister of Christ, was
alive now to the tips of his fingers. His whole soul was in his eyes
as he gazed at his questioner. Was that old, old riddle going to find
its answer at last?
'Wast thou there?' he enquired breathlessly. 'Impossible! I must have
seen thee!'
'I was there, right enough,' answered the man. 'But you did not see
me, because I took very good care that you should not. At first I
thought you were a lunatic, preaching to a lot of forms and tables
like that, and better left alone. Then, afterwards, I wouldn't let
you see me, for fear you should see also that your words had gone in
deeper than I cared to show. I was the ganger of the woodmen,' he
continued, taking Stephen's arm in his and compelling the little
Quaker to walk beside him as he talked. 'It all happened in this way.
We had moved forth into the forest, and were putting up more shanties
to live in, when I discovered that I had left my lever at the old
settlement. So, after setting my men to work, I came back alone for my
instrument. As I approached the old place, I heard a voice. Trembling
and agitated, I drew near, I saw you through the chinks of the timber
walls of our dining-shanty, I listened to you; and as I listened, your
words went through a chink in my heart too, though its walls were
thicker than those of any dining-shanty. I was determined you should
not see me. I crept away and went back to my men. The arrow stuck
fast. I was miserable for many weeks. I had no Bible, no book of any
kind, not a creature to ask about better things.'
'Poor sheep! Poor lost sheep!' Stephen murmured gently; 'I knew it; I
knew it! The Good Shepherd knew it too!'
'We were a rough lot in those days,' continued the other, 'worse than
rough, bad; worse than bad, wicked. There wasn't much about sin that
we didn't know among us, didn't enjoy too, after a fashion. That was
why your sermon made me so miserable. Seemed to know just all about
the lot of us, you did. After it, for weeks I went on getting more and
more wretched. There seemed nothing to do, me not being able to find
you, but to try and get hold of the book that had put you up to it.
None of us had such a thing, of course. It was a long time before I
could lay hands on one. Me and a Bible! How the men laughed! But they
stopped laughing before I had done with them. I read and read till I
found what you had said about the Good Shepherd and the lost
sheep--'and God so loved the world,' and at last--eternal life. And
then I wasn't going to keep that to myself. It's share and share alike
out in the backwoods, I can tell you. I told my men all about it, just
like you. I never let 'em alone, I gave them no peace till they were
one and all brought home to God--every single one! I heard you asking
Him: "Every single soul for Thy service, every single soul for Thee, O
Lord." That was what you asked Him for,--that, and more than that, He
gave. It's always the way! When the Lord begins to answer, He does
answer! Every single one of those men was brought home to Him. But it
didn't stop there. Three of them became missionaries, to go and bring
others back to the fold in their turn. I tell you the solemn truth.
Already one thousand lost sheep, if not more, have been brought home
to the Good Shepherd through that sermon of yours, that day in the
backwoods, when you thought you were