LOOKING FOR AN EASY YOKE.
WEARY days now in store for Ruth Erskine—far more weary and dispiriting
than she had imagined were possible to endure. It was such a strange
experience to stand at the window and watch passers-by, hurrying out
of the neighborhood of the plague-spotted house; crossing the street
at most inconvenient points, to avoid a nearer contact. It was so
strange to have day after day pass, and never hear the sound of the
door-bell—never see the face of a caller—never receive an invitation.
In short, it was a sudden shutting out of the world in which she had
always lived, and a shutting down into one narrow circle, which
repeated itself almost exactly every twenty-four hours. She and Susan
must needs be companions now, whether they would or not. They must sit
down together three times a day, at table, and go through the forms
of eating—not so repulsive a proceeding, by the way, as it had seemed
to Ruth it must of necessity be, with no one to serve. Susan had
reduced the matter to a system, and produced, as if by magic, the most
appetizing dishes, served in faultless style; and, when the strangeness
of sitting opposite each other, and having no one to look at or talk
to but themselves, began to wear away, they found it a not unpleasant
break in the day’s monotony to talk together while they waited on each
other.
Then there was the sick man’s food to prepare, and Susan exhausted
her skill, and Ruth contributed of her taste, in graceful adornings.
Judge Erskine still adhered to his resolution not to allow his daughter
to visit him; so all that could be done for his comfort must be
second-handed, but this little was a great relief to heart and brain.
Then there was Judge Burnham, a source of continual comfort. He seemed
to be the only one, of all the large circle of friends, who failed to
shun the stricken house. He was entirely free from fear, and came and
went at all hours, and on all possible errands—market-man, post-man,
errand-man in general, and unfailing friend. Not a day passed in which
he did not make half a dozen calls, and every evening found him an
inmate of the quiet parlor, with a new book, or poem, or, perhaps, only
a fresh bouquet of sweet-smelling blossoms, for the sisters. Apparently
his tokens of friendship and care were bestowed jointly on _the
sisters_—he not choosing between them by a hair-breadth.
Still despite all the alleviating circumstances, the way was weary,
and the time hung with increased heaviness on their hands—long hours
of daylight, in which there seemed to be nothing to settle to, and in
which there was as effectually nowhere to go, as if they were held in
by bolts and bars.
“If we were, either of us, fond of fancy work, I believe it would be
some relief,” Ruth said, wearily, one afternoon, as she closed her
book, after pronouncing it hopelessly dull. “Flossy Shipley could spend
days in making cunning little worsted dogs, with curly tails, and, if
there really were nothing else that she felt she ought to do, I believe
she could be quite happy in that!”
Susan laughed.
“One of us ought to have developed that talent, perhaps,” she said,
brightly. “I don’t know why you didn’t. As for myself, I never had the
time, and, if I had, the materials would have been beyond my purse. But
I like pretty things. I have really often wished that I knew how to
make some. You don’t know how to teach me, I suppose?”
“No, indeed; and, if I did, I’m afraid I shouldn’t do it. Nothing ever
seemed more utterly insipid to me, though, of course, I never planned
any such life as we are having now.”
“Look here,” Susan said, turning suddenly toward her sister, and
dropping the paper which she had been reading. “I have a pleasant
thought. We are almost tired of all sorts of books; but there is one
Book which never wears out. What if this time of absolute and enforced
leisure should have been given us in which to get better acquainted
with what it says? What if you and I should begin to study the Bible
together?”
Ruth looked gloomy.
“I don’t know much about the Bible,” she said; “and I don’t know how to
study it. I read a chapter every day, and, of course, I get some help
out of it; but I see so much that I don’t understand, and—well, to be
frank, so much that it seems to me strange should have been put into
the book at all, when necessarily a great deal that we would like to
know was left out, that it worries and disappoints me.”
She half expected to shock Susan, and looked toward her with determined
eyes, ready to sustain her position, in case an argument was produced.
But Susan only answered, with a quiet—
“I know; I used to feel very much in the same way, until I had a light
given me to go by, which shone upon some of the verses that had been so
dark before.”
There was no lighting up of Ruth’s face.
“I know what you mean,” she said, gravely “You mean that the Bible
was a new book to you after you were converted. I have heard a great
many people say that, but it doesn’t help me as much as you might
suppose it would. Of course it made a new book for _me_, because the
Bible was never anything to me at all, until I was converted. I have
passed years without looking into it; indeed, I may say I _never_ read
it. When I was a school-girl, I used to find extracts from it in my
parsing-book, and some of them seemed to me very lofty sentiments, and
several of them I committed to memory, because of the beauty of their
construction; but that was the extent of my acquaintance with the
book. One of the first things I noticed a Christian say, after I was
converted, was about the Bible—what a wonderful book it was to him, and
how, every time he read a verse, it opened a new idea. I thought it
would be that way with me; but it hasn’t been. I love the Bible; that
is, I love certain things which I find in it; but it doesn’t seem to me
as I thought it would. I can’t say that I love to study it; or, rather,
perhaps I might say I don’t know how to study it. I can memorize
verses, of course, and I do, somewhat, when I find one that pleases
me; but—well, I never told anyone about it, but it has disappointed me
a little.”
_Now_ she had shocked Susan; anyway, she felt sure of it. She had
lived long enough, even now, with this plain, quiet sister, to have
discovered that the Bible was a great fountain of help to her. She
would not be able to understand why it was not the same to Ruth.
Neither did Ruth understand it; and, though perhaps she did not realize
even this, it was an undertone of longing to get at the secret of
the difference between them which prompted her words. But Susan only
smiled, in a quiet, unsurprised way, and said:
“I understand you perfectly; I have been over the same ground.”
“But you are not there, now?”
“Oh, no, I am not.”
“And you learned to love the Bible by studying it?”
“Well, that was the means, of course; but my real help was the
revelation which God gave me of himself through the Spirit.”
No face could look blanker and gloomier than Ruth’s. She was silent
for a few minutes, then she commenced again, her voice having taken on
a certain dogged resoluteness of tone as one who thought, “I _will_ say
it.”
“I don’t know why I am talking in this way to you; it is not natural
for me to be communicative to any person; but I may as well tell you
that my religion has been a disappointment to me. It is not what I
thought it was. I expected to live such a different life from any
that I had lived before. I expected to be earnest, and successful,
and happy; and it seems to me that no way was ever more beset with
difficulties than mine has been. When I really wanted to do right,
and tried, I was apparently as powerless as though I didn’t care. I
expected to be unselfish, and I am just as selfish, so far as I can
see, as I ever was. I struggle with the feeling, and pray over it, but
it is there just the same. If for one half hour I succeed in overcoming
it, I find it present with me the next hour in stronger force than
before. It is all a disappointment. I knew the Christian life was a
warfare, but someway I expected more to it than there is; I expected
peace out of it, and I haven’t got it. I have had my seasons of
thinking the whole thing a delusion, so far as I was concerned; but I
can not believe that, because in some respects I feel a decided change.
I believe I belong to Christ; but I do so shrink from the struggles
and trials and disappointments of this world! I feel just as though I
wanted to shirk them all. Sometimes I think if He _only would_ take me
to heaven, where I could rest, I would be _so_ grateful and happy.”
The hardness had gone out of her face now, and the tears were dropping
silently on her closed book.
“Poor girl!” said Susan, tenderly. “Poor, tired heart. Don’t you think
that the Lord Jesus can rest you anywhere except by the way of the
grave? That is such a mistake, and I made it for so long that I know
all about it. Don’t you hear his voice calling to you to come and rest
in him this minute?”
“I don’t understand you. I _am_ resting in him. That is, I feel sure at
times. I feel sure now that he has prepared a place in heaven for me,
and will take me there as he says. But I am so tired of the road; I
want to drop out from it now and be at rest.”
“Haven’t you found his yoke easy and his burden light, then?”
“No, I haven’t. I know it is my own fault; but that doesn’t alter the
fact or relieve the weariness.”
“Then do you believe that he made a mistake when he said the yoke was
easy?”
Ruth arrested her tears to look up in wonder.
“Of course not,” she said, quickly. “I know it is owing to myself, but
I don’t know how to remedy it. There are those who find the statement
meets their experience, I don’t doubt, but it seems not to be for me.”
“But, if that is so, don’t you think he ought to have said, ‘Some of
you will find the burden light, but others of you will have to struggle
and flounder in the dark?’ You know he hasn’t qualified it at all. He
said, ‘Come unto me and I will give you rest; take my yoke upon you,
for it is light.’ And he said it to all who are ‘heavy laden.’”
“Well,” said Ruth, after a thoughtful pause, “I suppose that means his
promise to save the soul eternally. I believe he has done that for me.”
“But is that all he is able or willing to do? If he can save the soul
eternally can not he give it peace and rest here?”
“Why, of course he could, if it were his will; but I don’t know that he
has ever promised to do so.”
“Don’t you? Do you suppose he who hates sin has made us so that we can
not keep from constantly grieving him by falling into sin, and has
promised us no help from the burden until we get to heaven? I don’t
think that would be entire salvation.”
“What _do_ you mean?” Ruth asked, turning a full, wondering gaze on
her sister. “You surely don’t believe that people are perfect in this
world?”
“Pass that thought, just now, will you? Let me illustrate what I mean.
I found my besetting sin to be to yield to constant fits of ill-temper.
It took almost nothing to rouse me, and the more I struggled and tossed
about in my effort to _grow_ better the worse it seemed to me I became.
If I was to depend on progressive goodness, as I supposed, when was I
to begin to grow _toward_ a better state; and when I succeeded should
I not really have accomplished my own rescue from sin? It troubled and
tormented me, and I did not gain until I discovered that there were
certain promises which, with conditions, meant me. For instance, there
was one person who, when I came in contact with her, invariably made
me angry. For months I never held a conversation with her that I did
not say words which seemed to me afterward to be very sinful, and which
angered her. This after I had prayed and struggled for self-control.
One day I came across the promise, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee.’
Sufficient for what? I asked, and I stopped before the words as if they
had just been revealed. I found it to be unlimited as to quantity or
time. It did not say, ‘After you have done the best you can—struggled
for years and gained a little—then my grace shall be sufficient.’
It did not say, ‘My grace is sufficient for the great and trying
experiences of this life, but not for the little every-day annoyances
and trials which tempt you—you must look out for yourself.’ It was
just an unlimited promise—‘My grace is sufficient—not for my saints,
for those who have been faithful and successful, but for _thee_.’
Having made that discovery, and felt my need, I assure you I was not
long in claiming my rights. Now, I want to ask you what that promise
means?”
“‘My grace is sufficient for thee,’” Ruth repeated, slowly,
thoughtfully. Then she paused, while Susan waited for the answer, which
came presently, low-toned and wondering.
“I’m sure I don’t know. I read the verse only yesterday, but it didn’t
occur to me that it had any reference to _me_. I don’t know what I
thought about it.”
“But what does it seem to you that it says? Christ meant something by
it, of course. What was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said again, thoughtfully. “That is, why it _can’t_
mean what it appears to, for then there would be nothing left to
struggle about.”
“Well, has Christ ever told you to struggle? On the contrary, hasn’t he
told you to rest?”
“It seems to me,” said Ruth, after revolving that thought, or some
other, in silence for several minutes—“it seems to me that one who
thought as you do about these things would be claiming perfection; and
if there is one doctrine above another that I despise it is just that.
I know one woman who is always talking about it, and claiming that she
hasn’t sinned in so many months, and all that nonsense; and really she
is the most disagreeable woman I ever met in my life.”
“Look here,” said Susan. “Do you rely on the Lord Jesus for salvation?
That is, do you believe you are a sinner, and could do nothing for
yourself, and he just had to come and do it for you, and present your
claim to Heaven through himself?”
“Why, of course there is no other way. I _know_ that I am a sinner; and
I know it is wonderful in him to have been willing to save me; but he
has.”
“Well, now, aren’t you afraid to claim that, for fear people will think
that you saved yourself?”
“I don’t understand,” Ruth said, gravely.
“Don’t you? Why, you fear to claim Christ’s promise to you—that his
grace is _now_ sufficient for every demand that you choose to make on
it—for fear people will think you consider yourself perfect. Why should
they not, just as readily, think that because you relied on Christ for
final salvation therefore you relied on yourself?”
“That is a foolish contradiction.”
“Yes; isn’t the other?”
“I never heard anybody talk as you do,” was Ruth’s answer.
“I haven’t a different Bible from yours,” Susan said, smiling. “You
admit to me that the promise about which we are talking is in yours,
and you read it yesterday. What I wonder is, what you think it means.”