He came into the world without a welcome.
I venture to say, and I thank God for it, that there is hardly one of
my readers of whom that can be said. No matter into what home you were
born, there was a welcome awaiting you on the part of one at least. It
may be that no one else was particularly glad, that every one else
looked upon you as one too many; but your mother at least met you with
a sweet kiss which plainly said, thank God for this gift. Here,
however, there was not even that; this child was received with
misgivings and fears, and awoke no joy in the mother's breast. She
called his name Jabez, which means sorrowful, because she had borne him
in sorrow.
Of course, we do not know what lies behind that, but it was something
of a heart-burning or heart-breaking kind; either the father was dead,
or the home was in a state of terrible poverty and distress, or the
child was a child of shame; you can only guess, and all your queries
will probably be wide of the mark. But the mother looked mournfully
upon him, and wished he had not come, and could not believe that a life
which commenced so untowardly would ever be anything better than a
burden to her, and a misfortune and misery to himself. She expressed
her fears and forebodings in the name which she gave him--Jabez, the
child of sorrow.
And while she was gloomily predicting his future with the black colours
of her despondency, God was writing the child's story in golden lines
which would have set her heart leaping for joy could she have read
them. This despised one was to win for himself a noble name, and build
up the house in honour, and become his mother's pride, and make her
young again in hope and gladness.
What fools we are when we set ourselves to forecast the future of our
children! They rarely develop on the lines we draw for them; the most
promising of them sometimes flatter us in the bud and blossom, and mock
us in the fruit. Where we hope most there comes most heartache, our
favourites are made our burdens, our pride is humbled by a harvest of
sorrow. And where we have bestowed most tenderness we get most
ingratitude--the child of many gifts, the joy of the household, the
flower of the flock, turns out the nightmare of our lives, the one
unhappy failure which costs us endless tears.
And perhaps it is partly our own fault, because we have pampered,
flattered, and indulged them too much. Ah! and just as often the
reverse is true--the child whom in our hearts we called Jabez; the
slow, dull child so hard to teach, so unresponsive, or perhaps so
wilful and obstinate that we never thought or spoke of him save with
secret fears and misgivings--the child who was always to be a burden
and a cross to us, develops by-and-by in beautiful and unexpected ways,
grows into moral strength and religious grace, becomes honourable in
the sight of all men, and saves our old age from going down with sorrow
to the grave. The golden harvest of our lives grows not where we look
for it, but often in the neglected places where God bids it grow.
Where our pride built its palace of content we find emptiness and
shame, and that which we almost cursed God for sending us becomes our
crown of rejoicing. She called his name Jabez, my sorrow, and lo! he
became her very consolation, most honourable of all.