THE LIGHT BEGINS TO SHINE ON ADAM.
LEFT alone with his own thoughts, Adam Livesey took up Sarah's Bible,
and began to turn over its leaves. He was a good reader, in spite of
little practice and the fact that money was too scarce to be spent on
books, except those which must be bought for school use.
Still these interested Adam, and he was always ready to hear the
elder children repeat the lessons which had to be learned at home.
But neither he nor they ever thought of opening the one large Bible.
Indeed, it was deemed a sort of parlour ornament, and lay, year in year
out, on a little table under the window. Moreover, it served as a stand
for an inlaid tea-caddy, which had belonged to Adam's mother in her
best days.
The large Bible would have been brought out to-night if Sarah's had not
been left close at hand.
Adam's soul was fairly hungering for spiritual food, and its yearnings
could not be silenced.
The preacher's words, the talk of the young woman, to whom religion
seemed such a real thing that it entered into her daily life and work,
filled the man's thoughts.
Mr. Kennedy might have read his very heart, and answered his
difficulties in his address. Had he not all his life deemed himself "of
no account," even in the eyes of men? And yet, if that preacher had
told the truth, he, poor Adam Livesey, was an object of interest and of
love to man's Maker, the God of heaven and earth.
He was "nobody" to the rich and great of this world, and he never
would be of any consequence. But could it be true that his soul was
as precious in God's sight as that of, say Mr. Drummond, or Mr. John
Rutherford? He might go higher still, and say, as the soul of the Queen
of England? If God had given His only Son for the sake of Adam Livesey,
why, He could give no more or better for the greatest king in the world!
"He must have loved me, or He couldn't ha' done it," thought Adam; and
he found a new joy in the thought, while in his ears seemed to sound
again the words in which he had felt unable to join when at the Mission
Room, "I am so glad that Jesus loves me."
He felt as if he could sing them now, and caught himself whispering
"Even me" with a new sense of happiness. But he wanted to know a great
deal more, and he felt that he could not sleep while all this inner
questioning was going on.
The preacher had said they must begin by repenting. Now, what had he to
repent about? There was marrying Maggie. He had troubled about that.
But dear me! How she had silenced his regrets on that score whilst they
sat in the railway carriage. She didn't own to having eaten rue pie,
not she, indeed, but said that if it were to do again, she, knowing all
that was to follow, would take him to her heart.
Thinking over that little scene, Adam smiled to himself, and seeming
to feel the wife's kisses on his rough face, said softly, "No, no. If
she doesn't rue, I needn't." So repentance on this score was out of the
question.
Then Adam began to think what else there was. He was resolved, if he
made a start on the new road, it should be a fair one, and so he looked
back as far as he could on his past life, with the honest intention of
finding out what he ought to be sorry for.
Not about mother. He had given up much, done his best, stuck to her
alone, and to the last.
Conscience expressed herself satisfied on this point. Not with respect
to his employers! As boy and man no one could say that Adam Livesey had
not given a fair penn'orth of work for every penny of wages.
Again conscience affirmed the assertion.
There were wife and children. Well, he had never abused the one or the
other. He gave them all he could win by steady, honest toil. He never
used hard or cruel words, or struck his innocent little ones, or spent
on drink and self-indulgence even a small portion of the wages he
earned.
"All right, so far," said conscience; and then Adam was a little in
danger of giving up his newborn resolutions and going to bed in a state
of satisfaction with himself hitherto unknown.
He would have done so, if it had not been for the memory of the
preacher's words and that open Bible, which he had been turning over
and over, not knowing where to find what he wanted. Whilst doing so, he
was thinking how much better he was than many of his neighbours. Had he
really anything to repent about?
All at once through his mind flashed the memory of the preacher's
thanksgiving for mercies received, and Adam remembered how many of them
he also enjoyed. Life, health, strength, food, clothing, light and air
to breathe. Home, wife, children, and from what he had heard there were
other blessings without end, that he might have had for the asking, in
the name of Jesus.
He could see a light shining through his ignorance now. He had never
thanked God for anything. He had lived without thinking of Him at all.
But he wanted something out of that Bible, and he could not find the
right thing. He had opened it several times, hap-hazard, and had come
upon long strings of names which were hard to read; upon a description
of Solomon's Temple, which he found it impossible to realize, never
having seen any fine house in his life; then upon a chapter in
Revelation which was more mysterious still. Evidently he wanted a guide
to show him where these passages could be found, that gave such light
and comfort to other people.
Adam was almost giving up in despair, when he noticed that there were
some strings, as he mentally called them. Opening at one place where a
narrow ribbon lay, he observed some of the verses had pencil marks, and
he thought they must be specially nice to be so distinguished. He began
to read, "'Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.'
'Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for
they shall be filled.'"
"That's for me," said Adam; then turning to another pencil mark, "'Seek
ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; and all these things
shall be added unto you.'
"And I've left that to the last. What have I cared about God while He's
been caring about me? I wish I knew how to begin now."
Adam's eye was wandering in search of another pencil mark, and in a
moment his eye rested on the words, "'Ask, and it shall be given you;
seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For
every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth; and to
him that knocketh it shall be opened.'
"That's plain," thought Adam. "I've got to ask. 'Tisn't reason to get
all one wants without speaking a word for it. At Rutherford's we reckon
we're well off if we get a favour for the asking, and we don't forget
to say 'Thank ye' to the foreman or manager. No taking everything as if
one had a right to it, same as I've been doing with God's gifts, never
owning any obligation in the matter.
"Very cheering, too, to read such words as these. They're so straight.
No going round about. No 'ifs' or 'buts' or 'maybe's,' but a plain 'it
shall be given you.'"
Adam followed on and read the three next verses, ending with, "'If ye
then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how
much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that
ask Him?'"
Adam's fatherly tenderness helped him here, and he thought, "Yes, I
would give any of my little 'uns the best bit I have, poor things! I
wish I had more for them. Can it be that God feels like this to me? It
says, He would 'much more' give this Holy Spirit, and He has given His
only Son, and that with Him, He will freely give all the other things
we want. If all this be true, I ought to be ashamed of myself, for it's
plain God only wants to be asked."
It was many a year since Adam Livesey had bent a knee in reverence, or
uttered a word in a spirit of prayer, and from a sense of want.
He did both now, amid a very conflict of varying feelings. Joy at
the discovery of God's love in Christ Jesus, disgust at his own
ingratitude, wonder that he could have been so utterly blind and
indifferent to his Heavenly Father's dealings and gifts, sorrow for so
many lost years—lost, because lived without God—and a longing after
pardon, peace and guidance in the present and the future.
His prayer would have sounded strangely in human ears, but it went up
to God from an honest and true heart, and not in vain. The Father's
promise, given in the words of Jesus, was fulfilled, and the poor
humble solitary man, "of no account" in his own eyes, did not ask or
seek in vain when he poured out his supplications at the throne of
grace.
Earth rejoiced not, knew nothing of the yearning soul or the cry that
went up from it, but "there was joy in the presence of the angels of
God over one sinner that repented."
There would have been joy beneath an earthly roof too, if its master
and his guest could have known what was passing in Adam Livesey's mind.
Mr. Drummond and his friend, the preacher, had been glad to see Adam at
the Mission Room that evening. Indeed, the striker had suggested both
text and sermon, though he did not know it.
The manager having told Mr. Kennedy about his talk with Adam, the
latter had seized on the man's oft-repeated expression, "I'm o' no
account," and used it as has been already told, though not without
praying that the man might be led to the place of meeting, and be
benefited by it.
Mr. Kennedy thought of speaking to Adam, but was prevented by his early
departure, and Mr. Drummond was not sorry for this, and said to his
friend, "Livesey is no ordinary character. He is best left to himself
at first. He is not the man to be excited or carried away by mere
feeling, to make professions or promises on the spur of the moment. But
he will think over what he has heard, and you and I can wait and pray
that the good seed of the word may take deep root in his heart, and
eventually bear fruit to God's glory. I think we shall see him again
to-morrow."
In this, however, Mr. Drummond was mistaken. He kept a careful watch on
all comers and goers, and was convinced that Adam Livesey was not in
the Mission Room on the Tuesday evening.
The manager was greatly disappointed. He thought if that particular
address had not touched a responsive chord in the man's heart, he would
not be likely to come a second time.
If he could have known that it was the very unselfishness of his rugged
friend that kept him at home he would have felt no regret.
The fact was that Adam stayed at home in order that Sarah Evans might
go to the Mission Room. He felt that the girl would like it, especially
as her uncle and aunt would be there, and so hastened home from work to
get tea over, and take charge of the children. Though Sarah insisted
that she would not mind staying in, Adam quoted his usual saying, "Turn
about's the fair thing," and that the girl must take hers. Baby could
be put to bed, and Maggie could manage with him to stand by her. She'd
often done it without anybody, for that matter, but he meant stopping
at home. So it was settled.
When Sarah's back was turned, the little tongues were loosed, and the
children told their father how, the night before, this new housekeeper
had wondered so that they had never been taught to say a prayer. She
had put some simple words into their mouths, and knelt beside them and
asked God's blessing on them all, from baby upwards.
"And, father, she cried when she was knelt down," said Maggie, with an
awe-stricken face, so much was she impressed by the memory of Sarah's
tears.
Truth to say, the young woman was grieved that not one of the little
group of children seemed to dream of kneeling to say "Our Father"
before they went to rest.
She wondered whether, if she strove to teach them, she should be
blamed, but resolved to risk this, and before the children slept, each
had also been taught that short but precious text, "God is love."
When Maggie told her father this, Adam felt as if he had received a
blow. Conscience made it plain to him that here was something left
undone that ought to have been done, another sin to be grieved over,
forsaken, and he trusted, forgiven.
In that humble way which was so touching, he said to his child, "I
doubt I have not done right in letting you go on so long without
learning to say your prayers, Maggie. But now you have begun, you must
go on. I'm glad Sarah has given you a start."
To the amazement of the children, Adam was the one to kneel beside them
that night, though all he found words to say was, "Lord Jesus, bless
the children and their mother and me. Help us to do right, and forgive
us all our sins." Then he repeated "Our Father," bidding the children
say the prayer after him, and that was all.
When they were at rest, he got the large Bible, for Sarah had taken
hers to the meeting with her, and though there were no marks to guide
him, he remembered whereabouts he had found such sweet words of
encouragement. By seeking, he discovered many more, and the lonely hour
was happily and profitably spent.
Only Adam's heart was full of longing that his wife could share his
newborn happiness, the experience which in after days, every child of
God can recall to mind as the first desire of an awakened soul.