FINDING ONE’S CALLING.
DURING the days which preceded that social gathering, Ruth found her
mind often busy with the wonders of the verse which had been quoted at
prayer-meeting. She recognized it as from the chapter which she had
read in the morning, and she re-read it, filled with a new sense of its
meaning. She sought after and earnestly desired to realize peace with
God. How wonderful would it be to be able to say, “And not only so, but
we glory in tribulation!” Poor Ruth believed that she understood the
meaning of that word, “tribulation.” Would it be possible for her ever
to “glory” in it? As she read those verses and thought about them, she
seemed to hear again the peculiar ring of triumph that there was in
Susan’s voice, as she repeated the words, “_She_ feels it.” Ruth said
to herself, “I believe she knows more about these things than I do; I
wonder how she came to get the thought in the first place? I read the
verse and didn’t take it in. Perhaps she has taken in other things,
about which I know nothing, and which would help me?”
Thinking these thoughts, dwelling on them, they culminated in a sudden
resolution, which led her to tap at the door of Susan’s room. She was
cordially invited to enter. Susan was engaged in dusting the row of
books, in dull and somewhat shabby binding, that ornamented the pretty
table under the gaslight.
“Have a seat,” she said; “I can’t think how the dust gets at my books
so often; I put them in order this morning. They are my good old
friends, and I like to take special care of them, but they are fading.”
She fingered the bindings with loving hands, and Ruth, curious to see
what they were, drew near enough to read some of the titles, “Cruden’s
Concordance,” “A Bible Text-Book,” “Barnes Notes on the Gospels,” and
“Bushnell’s Moral Uses of Dark Things.” The others were old and, some
of them, obsolete school text-books.
“I haven’t many,” Susan said, in a tender tone, “but they are very
useful. They have been my best friends for so long that I think I
should be a real mourner over the loss of one of them.”
The new dark-green dress lay on the bed, and some soft, rare laces, a
gift to Susan that day from her father, lay beside it. Ruth glanced
that way, “Have you tried on the dress since it was finished?”
“No, I thought it would be time enough in the morning, and I had a
little reading that I was anxious to do this evening.”
“What are you reading? something that you like?”
“Yes, very much,” Susan said, with a rare smile lighting her pale face;
“I only began it the other night. I didn’t know it was so rich. It is
the first chapter of Colossians, but I only read to the fifth verse.”
Ruth looked her amazement. “Why, you must have been interrupted very
constantly.”
Susan shook her head. “No, on the contrary, I spent very nearly an
hour over those four verses; the longer I studied on them the more
remarkable they became, and I found myself held.”
“Is the meaning so very obscure?”
“Not at all; the meaning is there on the surface; the only thing is,
there is so much, and it leads one’s thoughts in so many different
ways. Do you remember the second verse?”
“I don’t remember it at all; very likely I never read it.”
“Well, the second verse is addressed, ‘To the saints and faithful
brethren in Christ, which are at Colosse.’ That sentence arrested my
thoughts completely. Suppose I had been living at Colosse in those
days, could I have claimed that letter to the _saints_? I stopped over
the word and wondered over it, and queried just what it meant, and it
meant so much that I should really have gotten no farther than that
sentence if I had not deliberately left it and gone on to the ‘Grace
be unto you and peace.’ I found my heart craving peace: I think I was
somewhat like the child who claims the reward, or reaches out after
it, without waiting to be sure whether he has met the conditions.”
“But I don’t understand you very well. What about saints? they were
holy men, were they not, set apart for special work at that special
time? How _could_ their experience touch yours?”
“I don’t think so. I think they were just men and women who loved the
Lord Jesus Christ, and were called by his name, just as you and I are.”
“But _we_ are not saints; at least I am not.”
“But you are called to be?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“_Don’t_ you? Think of that verse of Paul’s, ‘Unto the Church of God,
which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus,
_called to be saints_.’ Now, you know _we_ are sanctified in Christ
Jesus, so are we not called to be saints?”
“I don’t know what ‘sanctified’ means very well; and, besides, I can’t
help thinking that the letter was written to the Church at Corinth. _I_
don’t live in Corinth; how do I know that the address fits me? If I
should find a letter addressed to the people who live on Twenty-third
Street, wouldn’t I be likely to say, ‘Well, I have nothing to do with
that; I live on Fifth Avenue?’”
“Ah! but suppose the very next sentence read, ‘And to all that love the
Lord Jesus Christ,’ wouldn’t you claim the letter?”
“Yes,” said Ruth, with a flash of joy in her face, “I think I could.”
“Well, don’t you know the next words are, ‘With all that in every place
call upon the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours.’”
“I never thought of it,” said Ruth. Then, after a little, “Did you find
out what a saint was?”
“Why I found some characteristics of them, and tried to see if they
answered my description. Have you ever looked the matter up?”
“No,” said Ruth, “I did not so much as know that I was expected to be a
saint; tell me what you found.”
“Why,” said Susan, drawing her chair and opening her Bible, “see here,
I found a promise, ‘He will keep the feet of his saints.’ It made me
all the more eager to learn as to my claim. Was I his saint? would he
keep me? In that same verse there is a contrast, ‘He will keep the
feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness.’ Now,
if there are only two classes of people, saints and the wicked, which
am I? In God’s sight who are the wicked? I looked for a description
of them and found this statement: ‘The Lord preserveth all them that
love him, but all the wicked will he destroy.’ Now, I _know_ I love
the Lord, and I know that he will not destroy me, for I have in my
heart the assurance of his promise. If that is so, _I_ must be one of
his saints. Then I found the promise, ‘He shall give his angels charge
over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.’ Keep who? And looking back
a little I found, ‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most
High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.’ But he promises
to keep only those who are _his saints_. Then I found the promise,
‘He maketh intercession for the _saints_.’ Now, I said, if there is
no one interceding between a just God and me, what will become of me?
But I found the inspired statement of St. Paul, ‘Wherefore he is
able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing
he ever liveth to make intercession for _them_.’ That puts me at once
among those for whom he intercedes, and his special work in heaven
is to make intercession for the saints. By this time I was ready to
claim the name, and you may know I was anxious to find what it meant.
I went to the dictionary; the first definition I found was, ‘A person
sanctified.’ That startled me. Could it be that I was sanctified? Why,
I feel so sinful, and so weak, and so small! Well, I said, What does
‘sanctified’ mean? and I found that it was defined as set apart to a
holy or religious use. It recalled to my mind the statement of Paul.
‘But ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the
name of the Lord Jesus.’ A great deal ought to be expected of us, after
that.”
Ruth drew a long sigh. “I don’t know anything about it, I believe,”
she said, sadly; “I never read the Bible in that way. Half the time it
doesn’t seem to have anything in it really for me.”
“Don’t you think that some of our trouble is in being content with
simply _reading_, not _studying_ the Bible? I thought the other night
that if I had spent an hour on geometry, and then begun to understand
it somewhat, I should feel as though I were repaid. But sometimes I
read a Bible verse over two or three times, and then, because its
meaning is obscure, I feel half discouraged. I was speaking of it to—to
father last evening, and he said he thought the trouble was largely in
that direction.” Susan had not yet gotten so that she could speak the
unfamiliar name without hesitation. As for Ruth, her brow clouded; it
did not seem to her that she could ever share that name with anyone.
But she was interested—and deeply so—in the train of thought which had
been started.
“What next?” she asked, curious to see whither Susan’s thoughts had led
her. “You said you read no farther than the fourth verse. What stopped
you there? I don’t see much in it;” and she leaned forward and re-read
the verse from Susan’s open Bible.
“Oh, why _don’t_ you? ‘Since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus,
and of the love which ye have to all the saints.’ That verse stopped
me longer than any other, especially the sentence: ‘Since we heard of
your faith in Christ Jesus’—it is such a common form of expression. I
thought of it last evening while listening to the talk in the parlor.
‘I heard that the Wheelers were going abroad,’ some one said; and
another, ‘I heard that Dr. Thomas was soon to bring a wife home.’ Two
of the young ladies talked in low tones, and nearly all I could catch
was the expression: ‘I heard he was,’ or ‘she was,’ or ‘they were.’ It
was evident that a great deal had been heard about a great many people.
I said over the verse: ‘We heard of your faith in Christ Jesus.’ Who
hears of such things? How many people have such marked and abiding
faith in Christ Jesus, that when we talk of them we say, ‘I heard that
Miss So and So had the most implicit faith in the power of Christ to
keep her.’ Now wouldn’t that be a strange thing to say?”
“I should think it would,” said Ruth, amazed at this train of thought.
“After all, I suppose many people have the _faith_; only it is not the
custom in society to talk about such things.”
“I don’t,” answered Susan, positively. “Of course many people have
it in a degree; but not to such an extent that it arouses interest,
and excites remark. I think it is the custom in society to talk about
that which interests people—which has been suggested to their minds
by passing events. I have heard that it is a very common thing in
localities where Mr. Moody has been holding meetings, to discuss his
remarkable faith and love. Don’t you suppose, if my Christian life
were so marked a force that all who came in contact with me, felt its
influence, it would be natural to speak of it, when my friends chanced
to mention my name?”
“I suppose so,” Ruth said, slowly. “At least I don’t see why it should
not be; and, indeed, it is very common for people to talk about the
change in Flossy Shipley.”
Susan’s voice was very earnest. “I wish I could bear such testimony as
that. I believe it would be right to be ambitious in that direction;
to live so that when people spoke of me at all, the most marked thing
they could say about me would be, not, how I dressed, or appeared,
or talked, but how strong my faith in the Lord Jesus was, and how it
colored all my words and acts. Wouldn’t that be a grand ambition?”
“And of the love which ye have to all the saints,” Ruth repeated, half
aloud, half to herself; her eye had caught the words again. Suddenly
she started, and the blood flowed in ready waves into her cheeks. She
had caught a new and personal meaning to the words—“love to _all_ the
saints.” Suppose this usurper of home and name, who sat near her—this
objectionable sister—suppose _she_ were one of the saints!—and I verily
believe she is, Ruth said to her beating heart—then, would it be
possible so to live, that people would ever say, “She loves that sister
of hers, because she recognizes in her one of the Lord’s own saints?”
Nothing looked less probable than this! She could not bring her heart
to feel that she could _ever_ love her. A sort of kindly interest, she
might grow to feel, an endurance that would become passive, and, in a
sense, tolerable, but could she ever help paling, or flushing, when she
heard this new voice say “father,” and realized that she had a right to
the name, even as she herself had? She had been the only Miss Erskine
so long; and she had been so proud of the old aristocratic name,
and she had felt so deeply the blot upon its honor, that it seemed
to her she could never come to look with anything like _love_ upon
one connected with the bitterness. Yet, it did flash over her, with a
strange new sense of power, that Susan Erskine held nearer relation to
her than even these human ties. If _she_ was indeed a daughter of the
Most High, if the Lord Jesus Christ was her Elder Brother, then was
this girl her sister, a daughter of royal blood, and perhaps—she almost
believed it—holding high position up there, where souls are looked at,
instead of bodies.
A dozen times, during the evening which followed this conversation,
did the words of this Bible verse, and the thoughts connected there
with, flash over Ruth. It was the evening of the social gathering. Now,
that Susan had called her attention to it, she was astonished over the
number of times that those words: “I heard,” were on people’s lips.
They had heard of contemplated journeys, and changes in business, and
changes in name, and reverses, and good fortunes, and contemplated
arrangements for amusement, or entertainment, or instruction;
_everything_ they had heard about their friends or their acquaintances.
Yet, no one said, during the whole evening—so far as she knew—that they
had heard anything very marked about the religious life of anyone.
In fact, religious life was one of the things that was not talked of
at all; so Ruth thought. If she had stood near Judge Burnham and her
sister, at one time, she would have heard him saying:
“He is a man of mark in town; one prominent on every good occasion;
noted for his philanthropy and generosity, and is one of the few men
whom everybody seems to trust, without ever having their confidence
jarred. I have heard it said, that his word would be taken in any
business transaction as quickly as his bond would be.”
“Is he a Christian man?” Susan had asked; and a half-amused,
half-puzzled look had shadowed Judge Burnham’s face, as he answered:
“As to that, I really don’t know. I have never heard that he made
any professions in that direction, though it is possible that he may
be connected with some church. Why, Miss Erskine, do you think it
impossible for a man to be honest and honorable and philanthropic,
unless he has made some profession of it in a church?”
Then Susan had looked at the questioner steadily and thoughtfully a
moment before she answered: “I was not thinking of possible morality;
I was simply wondering whether the man who was building so fair and
strong a house had looked to it, that it was founded upon a rock, or
whether he really were so strangely improvident as to build upon the
sand. You know _I_ think, that, ‘other foundation can no man lay than
that which is laid, Jesus Christ being the chief corner-stone.’”
So there was some religious conversation at the Erskines’ party, and it
sent Judge Burnham home thinking. And now, though the fruits of that
evening’s gathering will go on growing and ripening and being gathered
in, from human lives, so far as we personally are concerned, we are
done with that party.