There is an honest confession, and one that proved to be good for the
soul of the man who made it, in the Seventy-seventh Psalm. Asaph, the
singer of that song, had had a bad spell of the blues. He was nervous,
sleepless, fretful, full of vague regrets and querulous complainings.
He had reviewed the whole troop of his imaginary miseries, and wound up
by wondering whether God really cared anything about him. One might
well believe that he had been taking in altogether too many social
functions. Whatever the cause, he had come to an exceedingly
disagreeable condition.
Despite the fact that many suppose that saintliness is never fully
achieved unless the whole nature be soured, it still remains true that
of all the blights upon this earth, few are more contrary to the will
of a God of love and sunshine than the disposition that abides in the
chronic blues. It lives on regrets for the good things that might have
been and dreadings of the evil things that yet may be. It is either
complaining or criticising.
Their gall enters the hearts of such people. They who look within and
see nothing but bitterness, when they look without find a film over
their eyes that colours their whole world, until they lose faith in God
and hope for man. Then they lay the blame on their circumstances, or,
worse yet, on what they call an "All Wise Providence," whom they
imagine to be as bitter against them as they are against the world.
This attitude soon becomes fixed. Unconsciously it is cultivated.
Then friends and members of the family turn with loathing from the
atmosphere of chronic pessimism; the habitué has become a cuttlefish
among his fellows, only emanating floods of inky misery. He wonders
why things do not come his way; why business associates desert him and
troubles assail him more and more. The truth is that imaginary
troubles tend to become real, and fortune never smiles on a man who
turns a sour face towards her.
Character is contagious. Even if we had the right to enjoy our own
misery we have no right to infect our neighbours with it. You are
bound by social obligations as well as by selfish reasons to cure the
blues every time you have them.
And there is a remedy. Asaph began to cure himself when, instead of
saying, "All things are against me," he said, "This is my infirmity,"
my fault; I am enough to turn a beehive sour. His cure was almost
perfect when he said, "I will remember the years of the right hand of
the Most High." The cure for the blues is simple, then. First, own up
to it that the largest part of your miseries comes out of your own
mind, out of your distorted views of things. Then begin to thank God
for His goodness, call to mind the many things for which you should be
grateful.
To remember our mercies is to bury our miseries. There is a lot of
good in this old world and they get it who go for it. There is
something good in every man; the best people find the best in people.
After all, our lives are determined not by the things about us but by
the things we invite into us. It is impossible to keep that man blue
who persistently looks for the bright side of things, or to keep him
poor or sad who is affording a welcome to every good thing, every
happy, cheering thought. Soon the man who lives like that gets so busy
keeping track of his own and other people's happiness that he forgets
to think whether he is happy or not, just as a healthy man forgets to
count his pulse or his respirations. So, if you are tempted to feel
blue, remember it is a sin to nurse your sadness; it is a duty to
cultivate happiness.