A man in his Gethsemane utters words that burn themselves into
your memory in letters of fire. The personal experiences of
one’s friends are sacred; sacred forever the events of the
household, when grief and repentance lay healing hands like
angels upon a broken life. But recently I saw with mine own
eyes, and heard with mine own ears, and received a charge. The
house was a mansion on an avenue, and the man was approaching
threescore years and ten. Beside us was the coffin of his dead
daughter. On the other side sat his chum, his closest friend.
Suddenly the sorrowing man broke into speech, and this was the
substance of his soliloquy: “There is nothing in these things.
You and I have been living for a good time and success. We have
gotten everything we could during the week. We have been good
poker-players on Saturday night, we have spent our Sundays in
the automobile and driving, and in social pleasures. We have
put the club and the bank first, and my son has disgraced me
with his shameless marriage, and my daughter is dead. I tell
you,” he said, using his friend’s name, “there is only one
place in which to bring up a family, and that is the Christian
Church. There is only one way to use Sunday for children, and
that is to take them to church. What with money, and wine, and
poker, and pleasure, all day Sunday, and parties all Sunday
night, my family has been ruined. People don’t know what the
result of this kind of living will be until the end comes, but I
know.”--N. D. HILLIS.
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