Reporters in the war-smitten countries of Europe tell us that one effect
of the horrors of death, wounds, and heartbreak is that the men are
turning back to the churches. Out of the obscene muck of materialistic
force is springing a revaluation of the spirit in man.
Man is a curious animal. He seems to give forth his finest product only
when crushed. We expect him to “curse God and die,” and suddenly his
face lights up with the heavenly vision.
We loathe poverty and fight disease and avoid wounds, tyranny, and
oppression. Yet, somehow only when these come, do the rarest flowers
appear on the human bush.
I know a young man, twisted, crippled, paralyzed, unable to feed or
dress himself, yet who sits daily by his window with a shining face. He
is cheerful, helpful, a fountain of joy to all who know him. The boys
love to gather in his room at night and play cards and tell stories. One
would think he would be a gloom and a burden; he is an uplift. You soon
forget his limitations. You soon cease to pity him, for he does not pity
himself. He does not drain you; he inspires you.
In how many another family is the sickroom the shrine of the house. How
many a stricken invalid woman is the resting-place for her worried
husband, the delightful refuge for her children’s cares!
It is not the strong, wealthy, and powerful that always gleam with
optimism and radiate hope. Too often the house of luxury is the nest of
bitterness, boredom, and snarling. Petulance waits on plenty. Luxury and
cruelty are twins. Success brings hardness of heart.
The world could get along without its war lords, millionaires, and big
men, with all their effective virility, better than it could do without
its blind, deaf, hunchbacked, and bedridden. Some things we get from the
first group, but the things we get from the second are more needed for
this star-led race.
Little girl, with twisted spine and useless legs, with eyes always
bright with golden courage, with heart ever high with undaunted love, we
could spare all the proud beauties of the ballroom or the stage better
than you.
Their bodies are finer than yours; but then we are not bodies.
What a strange and strangely magnificent creature is man! And how proud
his Maker must be of him, for all his faults! You cannot crush him. Put
him in prison and in its half-light he writes a “Pilgrim’s Progress.”
Strike him blind and he sings a “Paradise Lost.”
When Beethoven died, a post-mortem examination showed that since
childhood he had suffered from an incurable disease, aggravated by
improper medical treatment and by want of home comfort and proper food.
His liver was shrunk to half its proper size. He always had family
troubles that annoyed him beyond endurance. His finest works were
produced after he was deaf. And this was the majestic soul that was
unparalleled master of music, whose art was immeasurable, will be
immortal! Yet we have heard fat artists whine because they are
mistreated!
What a piece of work is man! Too wonderful, too unconquerable, too
divine for this earth! His home must be among the stars!