A CRUSHING SITUATION--WONDERFUL VISION--THE STORY OF RITA.
We had not been very long in the second-from-the-front pew of the First
Baptist church, when Rita, who, at the private suggestion of the
matron, I had placed next to me, began to embarrass and disconcert me
by her actions, causing the rest of the girls to titter (sometimes
audibly) and thus to attract the congregation, also the pastor, so that
finally an usher had occasion to whisper to me, admonishing me to
retire with her, to which she replied, "I ain't agoing out."
Mortified beyond measure, I let my head sink forward on the back of the
pew in front of me. I soon became oblivious of my surroundings, for _I
was being blest with a wonderful vision._
I saw the Garden of Gethsemane. It was night, and sleeping souls lay
all around. One there was who was not sleeping. He was prostrate in
agony of prayer. As he wrung his hands, the blood started through his
pores, and dripped down upon the ground. Then a light shone around him,
a glorious light. Presently he arose, and the place filled suddenly
with soldiers who led him away, shouting in triumph as they did so.
Quickly the scene changed. Christ was now before the high priests.
Again the scene changed. He was passing by a man who was strenuously,
indignantly denying that he knew or had had anything to do with the man
under arrest. Oh! would that words of mine could picture the suffering,
sorrowful countenance, as Jesus gave poor Peter that parting, yearning
look. Pilate's hall was soon in sight, and the men in charge of Jesus
were mocking and smiting him. It was cold, and scarcely dawn of day.
What a throng, as they crowded into the presence of Pilate.
Again the scene changes. The Christ is being mockingly arrayed in a
once gorgeous, now old, shabby robe. Soon he is wearily pulled and
pushed back to Pilate's hall, where they strip the Son of God in the
presence of that howling mob, and beat him, until the blood streams
down his poor, lacerated back. Surely that is sufficient; but no! they
spit in his face. They press a cruel crown hard down upon his brow. Now
Pilate has washed his hands, and the Savior of the world is led away.
The soldiers are compelling him to bear some heavy wooden beams in the
form of a cross. Oh! can't they see that he is too weak, suffering too
much, to be able to carry such a weight? They do not care; but look! he
has fainted! Some one is helping him now. God forever bless him! 'Tis
Simon the Cyrenean who enjoys that precious privilege. Simon, the
cross-bearer.
I can not bear to witness any more. But I must. I must watch to the
end.
Oh! the awful thud, _thud_, THUD, as they hammer the spikes, the cruel
spikes into his hands and feet, and he never once cringes. How can he
be so courageous?
I am looking up at him now, and he is looking down with such an
uninterpretable look _on me_, and I hear him faintly say: _"For you."_
"Yes, Lord, I know."
"And now won't you try to love my poor shorn little lambs? 'Tis for
them also."
"Yes, dear Lord, I am trying to."
"Would you be willing to lay down your life for little Rita, for the
sake of her soul?"
"Blessed Savior, surely that will not be required, but fill me full of
love, a great love for her soul and other souls. I promise that with
thy help I will do my best, for oh, how I love thee now! how I love
thee! and I will do anything thou dost require to prove my love."
Some one is pulling my sleeve. I turn my head to find Rita leaning
against me and quietly whispering, "Mother, don't cry; I'll be good.
Don't cry."
From that time on the change in Rita was unmistakable, and although she
had many hard battles to fight, to lose, and to win, she came out
gloriously victorious.
"Who was Rita?" I'll tell you.
Rita was a roguish, fun-loving, childish little woman, twenty-one years
old, who neither acted nor looked her age. Her mother had been a
waitress in one of the dives of a locality called "The Barbary Coast,"
San Francisco, where are many low, vile haunts of vice. Her father, she
never knew. She was very dark, apparently part Spanish, quite
attractive, and rather pretty.
Some time prior to my advent she was brought to the home in a
semi-intoxicated condition by one of the Lord's consecrated
missionaries. Full of mischief and depravity, she was, from the first,
a trouble-maker. From her earliest recollection, her companions had all
been of the type with whom her mother associated; therefore it would
take time, great and loving patience, and a constant waiting on the
Master for her to harmonize perfectly with new environments.
This poor girl had seen no other life, up to within a few weeks of my
meeting her, than a life replete with vice from one day's ending to
another. Much of the time she had participated. But be it recorded to
the credit of her mother that, to the extent of her knowledge, she had
guarded her girl from criminal assault as long as she was able to
control her, and that, when told of Rita's being in the rescue home,
she seemed greatly pleased that at last her daughter had found friends
who would do their utmost to help her lead a better life.
Rita had an uncontrollable temper, in consequence of which the entire
household was sometimes made to suffer keenly; but she would eventually
yield to earnest persuasion, then kneel down and ask forgiveness of God
and the family. She was very ambitious to learn to read, being entirely
devoid of education. Different members would take it in turn to teach
her, and it was a proud day when she could decipher a few words in her
Bible. I never shall forget the evening of her first realization of the
price Jesus had paid for her. It dawned upon her soul so suddenly, so
beautifully, following a mid-week prayer-meeting, in which some of the
Christians interested in this work often participated, that a great
shout of joy went up, and when we retired that night, some of us were
too grateful and too excited to sleep. Oh, how the adversary attacked
and tried over and over again to get her back to his territory! He once
so well succeeded that we finally deemed it necessary to exchange her
into another home. I was the one deputized to take her there, and very
soon was introducing myself to Mrs. Elizabeth Kauffman, whose noble
work for the erring, in San Francisco and other places, is known to the
thousands. After placing Rita under her kind care in the rescue home,
then situated on Capp Street near Twenty-first Street, in San
Francisco, I returned to my post of duty in Sacramento, little dreaming
at that time what an important place I was destined, in the future, to
occupy with Sister Kauffman.
Erelong I learned, through correspondence, that my little Rita (who, by
the way, was the first one outside of my own family to give me the
endearing title of "Mother," which title has clung to me ever since)
had found a warm friend in a deaconess whose name I have forgotten, but
who took a loving interest in her and greatly aided her, especially
from the spiritual point of view.
Rita, with the approval of her guardians, married a Christian young
man. Together they are bringing up their little ones to know and love
the Savior so precious to them; and, through the daughter's example the
mother, so long a wanderer in paths of degradation, was, I have
understood, finding purity and peace for her soul. At the time of the
earthquake and great fire in San Francisco, Rita and her loved ones, I
am told, escaped without so much as the loss of a dish. This remarkable
fact proves that God is ever mindful of those who put their entire
trust in him and who live as does this precious jewel and her family,
on the promises of the ninety first Psalm.