Failures?
BUT sometimes old Devai brings us little ones who do not come to stay.
Failures, the world would call them. Twice lately this has happened, and
each time unexpectedly; for the babies had stories which seemed to imply
a promise of future usefulness. Surely such a deliverance must have been
wrought for something special, we say to ourselves, and refuse to fear.
One dear little fat "fair" baby was brought to us as a surprise, for we
had not heard of her. It had seemed so improbable that Devai could get
her, that she had not written to us to ask us to pray her through the
battle, as she usually does. The sound of the bullock-bells' jingle one
moonlight night woke us to welcome the baby. She had travelled fifty
miles in the shaky bullock-cart, and she was only a few days old; but
she seemed healthy, and we had no fears. "Ah, the Lord our God gave her
to me, or never could I have got her! Her mother had determined to give
her to the Temple; and when I went to persuade her, she hid the baby in
an earthen vessel lest my eyes should see her. But earthen pots cannot
hide from the eyes of the Lord. And here she is!" The details, fished
out of Devai by dint of many questions, made it clear that in very
truth the Lord, to whom all souls belong, had worked on behalf of this
little one; moving even Hindu hearts, as His brave old servant pleaded,
making it possible to break through caste and custom, those prison walls
of most cruel convention, till even the Hindus said: "Let the Christian
have the babe!" We do not know why she was taken. She never seemed to
sicken, but just left us; perhaps she was needed somewhere else, and
Dohnavur was the way there.
The other meant even more to us, for she was our first from Benares, the
heart of this great Hinduism; and her very presence seemed such a
splendid pledge of ultimate victory.
This little one was saved through a friend, a Wesleyan missionary, who
had interested her Indian workers in the children. The baby's mother was
a pilgrim from Benares, and her baby had been born in the South. A
Temple woman had seen it and was eager to get it, for it was a child of
promise. Our friend's worker heard of this, and interposed. The mother
consented to give her baby to us. It was not a case in which we dare
have persuaded her to keep it; for such babies are greatly coveted, and
the mother was already predisposed to give her child to the gods.
When we heard of this little one, old Devai was with us. She had only
just arrived after a journey of two days with a little girl, but she
knew the perils of delay too well to risk them now. "Let me go! I will
have some coffee, and immediately start!" So off she went for five more
days of wearisome bullock-cart and train. But her face beamed when she
returned and laid a six-weeks-old baby in our arms--a baby fair to look
upon. We gathered round her at once, and she lay and smiled at us all.
Hardly ever have we had so sweet a babe. But the smiling little mouth
was too pale a pink, and the beautiful eyes were too bright. She had
only been with us a month when we were startled by the other-world look
on the baby's face. We had seen it before; we recognised it, and our
hearts sank within us. That evening, as she lay in her white cradle, the
waxy hands folded in an unchildlike calm, she looked as if the angel of
Death had passed her as she slept, and touched her as he passed.
She stayed with us for another month, and was nursed day and night till
more and more she became endeared to us; and then once more we heard the
word that cannot be refused, and we let her go. We laid passion-flowers
about her as she lay asleep. The smile that had left her little face had
come back now. "She came with a smile, and she went with a smile," said
one who loved her dearly; and the flowers of mystery and glory spoke to
us, as we stood and looked. "Who for the joy that was set before Him
. . . endured." The scent of the violet passion-flower will always carry
its message to us. "Let us be worthy of the grief God sends."
And oh that such experiences may make us more earnest, more self-less in
our service for these little ones! Someone has expressed this thought
very tenderly and simply:--
Because of one small low-laid head, all crowned
With golden hair,
For evermore all fair young brows to me
A halo wear.
I kiss them reverently. Alas, I know
The pain I bear!
Because of dear but close-shut holy eyes
Of heaven's own blue,
All little eyes do fill my own with tears,
Whate'er their hue.
And, motherly, I gaze their innocent,
Clear depths into.
Because of little pallid lips, which once
My name did call,
No childish voice in vain appeal upon
My ears doth fall.
I count it all my joy their joys to share,
And sorrows small.
Because of little dimpled hands
Which folded lie,
All little hands henceforth to me do have
A pleading cry.
I clasp them, as they were small wandering birds,
Lured home to fly.
Because of little death-cold feet, for earth's
Rough roads unmeet,
I'd journey leagues to save from sin and harm
Such little feet.
And count the lowliest service done for them
So sacred--sweet.
But grief is almost too poignant a word for what is so stingless as this.
And yet God the Father, who gives the love, understands and knows how
much may lie behind two words and two dates. "Given . . . Taken . . ."
Only indeed we do bless Him when the cup holds no bitterness of fear or
of regret. There is nothing ever to fear for the little folded lambs. If
only the veil of blinding sense might drop from our eyes when the door
opens to our cherished little children, should we have the heart to toil
so hard to keep that bright door shut? Would it not seem almost selfish
to try? But the case is different when the child is not lifted lovingly
to fair lands out of sight, but snatched back, dragged back down into
the darkness from which we had hoped it had escaped. This work for the
children, which seems so strangely full of trial of its own (as it is
surely still more full of its own particular joy), has held this
bitterness for us, and yet the bitter has changed to sweet; and even now
in our "twilight of short knowledge" we can understand a little, and
where we cannot we are content to wait.
Four years ago, after much correspondence and effort, a little girl was
saved from Temple service in connection with a famous Temple of the
South from which few have ever been saved. She had been dedicated by her
father, and her mother had consented. Devai got a paper signed by them
giving her up to us instead. But shortly after she left the town, the
father regretted the step he had taken, and followed Devai, unknown to
her. Alas, the child had not been with us an hour before she was carried
off.
For two years we heard nothing of her. Old Devai, who was broken-hearted
about the matter, tried to find what had been done with her, but it was
kept secret. She almost gave up in despair.
At last information reached her that the child was in the same town; and
that her father having died of cholera, the mother and another little
daughter were in a certain house well known to her. She went immediately
and found the older child had not been given to the gods. Something of
her pleadings had lingered in the father's memory, and he had refused to
give her up. But the mother was otherwise minded, and intended to give
both children to the Temple. Devai had been guided to go at the critical
time of decision. The mother was persuaded, and Devai returned with two
sheaves instead of one--and even that one she had hardly dared to
expect. Once more we were called to hold our gifts with light hands. The
younger of the welcome little two was one of ten who died during an
epidemic at Neyoor. The elder one is with us still--a bright,
intelligent child.
The only other one whom we have been compelled to give up in this most
hurting way was saved through friends on the hills, who, before they
sent the little child to us, believed all safe as to claims upon her
afterwards. She was a pretty child of five, and we grew to love her very
much; for her ways were sweet and gentle and very affectionate. Lala,
Lola, and Leela were a dear little trio, all about the same age, and all
rather specially interesting children.
But the father gave trouble. He was not a good man, and we knew it was
not love for his little daughter which prompted his action. He demanded
her back, and our friends had to telegraph to us to send her home. It
was not an easy thing to do; and we packed her little belongings feeling
as if we were moving blindly in a grievous dream, out of which we must
surely awaken.
There was some delay about a bandy, but at last it was ready and
standing at the door. We lifted the little girl into it, put a doll and
a packet of sweets in her hands, and gave our last charges to those who
were taking her up to the hills, workers upon whom we could depend to do
anything that could yet be done to win her back again. Then the bandy
drove away.
But we went back to our room and asked for a great and good thing to be
done. We thought of little Lala, with her gentle nature which had so
soon responded to loving influence, and we knew her very gentleness
would be her danger now; for how could such a little child, naturally so
yielding in disposition, withstand the call that would come, and the
pressure that had broken far stronger wills? So we asked that she might
either be returned to us soon or taken away from the evil to come. A
week passed and our workers returned without her; they evidently felt
the case quite hopeless. But the next letter we had from our friends
told us the child was safe.
She had left us in perfect health, but pneumonia set in upon her return
to the colder air of the hills. She had been only a few days ill, and
died very suddenly--died without anyone near her to comfort her with
soothing words about the One to whom she was going. Even in the gladness
that she was safe now, there was the pitiful thought of her loneliness
through the dark valley; and we seemed to see the little wistful face,
and felt she would be so frightened and shy and bewildered; and we
longed to know something about those last hours. But one of the heathen
women who had been about her at the last told what she knew, and our
friends wrote what they heard. "She said she was Jesus' child, and did
not seem afraid. And she said that she saw three Shining Ones come into
the room where she was lying, and she was comforted." Oh, need we ever
fear? Little Lala had been with us for so short a time that we had not
been able to teach her much; and so far as any of us know, she had heard
nothing of the ministry of angels. We had hardly dared to hope she
understood enough about our Lord Himself to rest her little heart upon
Him. But we do not know everything. Little innocent child that she was,
she was carried by the angels from the evil to come.
Old Devai keeps a brave heart. When she comes to see us, she cheers
herself by nursing the cheerful little people she brought to us, small
and wailing and not very hopeful. She is full of reminiscences on these
occasions. "Ah," she will say, addressing an astonished two-year-old,
"the devil and all his imps fought for you, my child!" This is
unfamiliar language to the baby; but Devai knows nothing of our modern
ideas of education, and considers crude fact advisable at any age. "Yes,
he fought for you, my child. I was sitting on the verandah of the house
wherein you lay, and I was preaching the Gospel of the grace of God to
the women, when five devils appeared. Yea, five were they, one older and
four younger. Men were they in outward shape, but within them were the
devils. I had nearly persuaded the women to let me have you, my child;
and till they fully consented, I was filling up the interval with
speech, for no man shall shut my mouth. And the women listened well, and
my heart burned within me--for it was life to me to see them
listening--when lo! those devils came--yea, five, one older and four
younger--sent by their master to confound me. And they rose up against
me and turned me out, and told the women folk not to listen; and you--I
should never get you, said they; and so it appeared, for with such is
might, and their master waxes furious when he knows his time is short.
But the Lord on high is mightier than a million million devils, and what
are five to Him? He rose up for me against them and discomfited
them"--Devai does not go into secular particulars--"and so you were
delivered from the mouth of the lion, my child!"
We are not anxious that our babies should know too much ancient history.
Enough for them that they are in the fold--
I am Jesus' little lamb,
Happy all day long I am;
He will keep me safe from harm,
For I'm His lamb--
is enough theology for two-year-olds; but Devai's visits are not so
frequent as to make a deep impression, and the baby thus addressed,
after a long and unsympathetic stare, usually scrambles off her knee and
returns unscathed to her own world.