ANXIOUS THOUGHTS.
BUT however impossible it might seem to me, as well as to Robert, that
we should send Maimie into the workhouse, yet making up my mind that
she had to be kept, and making up my mind to accept the new burden
cheerfully, were two entirely different things. I saw that the addition
to our family was for the moment unavoidable. I did not see myself
bound to take the burden with a smile. There are two ways of going
through life: either smiling or sighing; either singing or groaning;
either rejoicing or complaining. There are burdens which must be borne,
and we cannot escape them. God chooses our way for us, and that way has
to be walked. It is of no use for us to try to choose our own path;
or, as it has been beautifully expressed, to attempt to row our boat
any way contrary to the rowing of our Father’s Hand. Still, though the
choice of a direction is not ours, we must choose whether we will go in
the direction He wills with a smile, or whether we will complain and
resist and only give in because we cannot help it.
I am afraid the last was the case with me. I would give in, because I
felt that the thing had to be; but I would not give in happily.
The journey home from Aunt Briscoe’s was heavy and sad to me, therefore
to Robert. A cloud upon one heart cannot but react upon other hearts.
We said little by the way. Indeed, a long omnibus-drive, in company
with strangers, does not generally make one talk much of the things
which interest one most. But I do not think I should have talked, even
if we had been alone. I felt so hopelessly dull and depressed. I saw
Robert steal a glance at me now and then; and the shadow on his face
deepened.
The spring days were growing long. Still we had remained so late at
“The Gables,” that it was almost dark when we reached home.
Cherry came out to meet us, with our fourth boy, Fred. The two
youngest, Bob and Teddy, were in bed. I knew in a moment that the
others had not returned: for Jack never failed to give me a welcome, if
I had been absent and he were at home.
It was not, however, till I asked Cherry that she said, “No, mother,
they are not back yet. I suppose they have forgotten how time was
going.”
This was an unusual matter. The boys knew well that their father and
I liked them to be back early from such excursions. A trip into the
country would have been a different matter; but London on Saturday
evening was not so desirable. And they had Maimie with them!
“I suppose they have been drawn on farther than they thought,” Cherry
added, as if in apology. “It is all so new to Maimie, you know, mother;
and Jack was quite excited at taking her.”
“They would not find so very much to see at Westminster,” I said.
“The Abbey, mother, at any rate,—and they talked of a long ramble on
the Embankment, and taking Maimie across two or three bridges. Oh, they
will find plenty to show to a stranger; and Maimie says she can walk
any distance. They must have mistaken the time. But they are sure to be
in directly.”
“Directly” is an elastic word sometimes, and it seemed so in this
instance. We brought out our work, to finish some little mending
needful for the morrow. Fred was sent to bed, and my husband opened a
book, but speedily went to sleep over it. After some time I said softly
to Cherry—
“Aunt Briscoe will give us no help with Maimie.”
“Mother, did you think she would?” Cherry spoke in a tone of surprise.
“I should have been very glad,” I said.
“I really don’t see how we are to meet the additional expense.”
“Don’t you think it will come all right, mother?” Cherry asked.
“It may,” I said.
“I think it will,” she murmured.
After a pause, she added,—“Perhaps Uncle Churton will soon write.”
“And if he does not?” I asked.
“If not—won’t there be something else instead, mother? Isn’t there sure
to be?”
I did so want a little comfort of some sort. I found myself catching
at Cherry’s words, as if for help. And I put down my work, and said,
lifting my eyes to her dear face,—“What do you mean, Cherry?”
Cherry’s work went down also. She drew her chair nearer, and took both
my hands, kissing them lovingly.
“Mother, you know it all,” she said in a low voice. “You know all a
great deal better than I do. It is only—only—that the Bible says we are
not to take too much thought, because ‘all these things’ will be added
to us. Doesn’t that mean that we should be wrong to fret and worry?”
“Perhaps so,” I said. “Yet we must look forward, and try to arrange
things.”
“O yes, of course,” Cherry said, smiling. “And of course it wouldn’t
be right for us to spend money carelessly on anything we like. I think
I should be quite wrong to have a new jacket just now, because there
really is no extra money to spare. But that is different from being
anxious and fretted.”
“I am both, this evening,” I said.
“Yes; about Maimie,” said Cherry. “But, mother dear,—if God has given
us Maimie to take care of for a little while, won’t He give us food
for her too? The Bible says ‘all these things,’ mother,—and ‘shall be
added.’ That seems strong enough. And there is that other verse too
about ‘all your need.’ I am sure food is one need.”
I could not help stroking Cherry’s soft smooth hair. She had always
been such a good loving child to me. But generally we were reserved,
and said little on such subjects. It is often so with a mother and
daughter,—I do not quite know why. This new pressure, however, seemed
to have broken down the barrier for once.
I repeated the words,—“‘All your need,’” only half thinking what I was
saying.
“It is in Philippians, mother,” Cherry said, flushing, and looking
almost pretty. “You know it, don’t you? ‘My God shall supply all your
need, according to His riches in glory, by Christ Jesus.’”
“I have always supposed that to mean spiritual needs,” I said.
“But, mother,” Cherry said wistfully,—“But, mother dear,—of course we
have those needs too,—but I don’t see that spiritual needs are our only
needs. Because we do really need food and dress as well. And the words
are—‘all your need.’”
The simple common-sense of my child’s words struck home to me.
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said slowly. “I believe I have always found it
easier to pray for spiritual things, than for everyday earthly things.
One can ask for faith and love and patience, and really expect an
answer. But when it is a question of food and money—”
“Mother,” Cherry whispered, “don’t you think that is perhaps just the
reason why the people have not always quick answers about food and
everyday needs?”
“What reason?” I asked, not at once catching her thought.
“Why,—because they don’t expect.”
“It may be,” I said. “But it won’t do for us to choose for ourselves in
such things after all, Cherry.”
“O no,” and Cherry smiled. “If you were to choose now, perhaps you
wouldn’t have Maimie to live with us at all. But that isn’t our
choosing. So I am quite sure we may ask to be helped,—and don’t you
think we may really expect an answer? Because of that ‘all your need’?”
“Some would say we do not need so many things as we fancy we do,” I
said.
“I dare say we don’t,” Cherry replied thoughtfully.
“Perhaps St. Paul meant that when he said,—,’Having food and raiment,
let us be therewith content.’”
“You have a good memory for texts,” I said. And then we both went back
to our work and were silent.
But I thought over Cherry’s words a good deal.
For it seems a wonderful thing, with that promise lying in the Bible,
how few make use of it. “My God shall supply all your need.” Why, of
course that means bodily as well as spiritual need. Of course it does.
One kind of need, leaving out other kinds, does not mean “all.”
And there the promise lies; and even God’s own children do not use it.
Just as one might have a signed cheque lying in one’s desk, and might
never take it to the Bank to be cashed. What good would the cheque be
to one, in such a case?
Such promises as this are plainly spoken to those who serve God. True,
God gives rain both to the just and unjust; He is kind even to the
unthankful and to the evil. Still, while inviting all men to come and
learn to be His servants, He does not promise “whatsoever” they ask, or
the supply of “all their need,” until they do come.
But of those who have come, of those who do really seek to be “faithful
servants” of Christ, how very few understand the power and beauty of
this promise, “My God shall supply all your need.”
I know it never struck me before, as it did that evening, with the help
of my child’s simple trust. Something else came into my mind, as I
thought, and that was—
“Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.”
Was not Maimie a care? Then why not cast her upon the strong Arm of my
God, Who was so willing to bear?
I resolved that I would try, and would not be so burdened.