ONE fine, spring morning, such as Minnesotians rejoice in, services had
just commenced in our little sanctuary, when two strangers entered. One
of them I soon recognized as Mr. L., whose son Judson had perished from
cold on the prairie. Himself and friend,—a most exemplary Christian, as
I afterward found,—having no preaching in their settlement, had walked
eleven miles to attend our meeting. As they were returning at night, I
accompanied them a short distance for religious conversation.
Their presence had a wider significance than I had supposed. Mr. L.
said that the funeral services of his boy Judson had awakened a general
wish for preaching; and hearing that I was not engaged, the settlers at
L— were anxious that I should locate with them.
"We want the gospel," he said, with Western frankness, "and we don't
mean to 'steal' it either!" Then followed considerations tending to
show that the speaker, and those he represented, were in earnest.
Visits to L— convinced me that it was a promising field of effort, and
I did not feel at liberty to "decline the call," though previously I
had scarcely determined whether to remain West or not. Accepting the
generous hospitality of Mr. L., I became an inmate of his household,
until the arrival of my family from the east. The shadow of their
great sorrow still rested on them, stimulating in me desire for their
spiritual good.
One member of the family, especially, excited interest. They called her
aunt Flora. She was over sixty, stout and robust; her plain, almost
repulsive countenance, wearing ever a sullen, imbittered expression.
A more hopeless, forbidding face one rarely sees. She had also this
peculiarity. She uniformly absented herself from our devotions, and if
in the room when the hour of prayer arrived, would immediately leave
till the exercises were over. I supposed, for a time, that some labor
called her away, and wondered that domestic arrangements were not such
as to permit her to remain.
"I do not get acquainted with aunt Flora," I said to Mrs. L. one day.
"No, I suppose not," she answered.
"Is she a professor of religion?"
"No, indeed she 'hates' religion," was the intense reply. "I do not
think she has read a word in the Bible or attended church since she was
a child. You have noticed she is never present at family prayers?"
"Yes; I thought perhaps some duty made her absence necessary."
"Oh, no, she will not stay. No one can induce her to; it has been often
tried, but in vain."
"What a pity! And she looks so unhappy. We must pray and labor for her;
perhaps God will soften her heart, and lead her to peace."
"You would not speak thus," was the decided rejoinder, "if you know
aunt Flora's history. I have no hope that she will ever be a different
woman. She has for years been the bitterest enemy to the Bible and to
Christians that I ever saw."
"But," I interposed, "how often were the vilest outcasts brought in
under the Saviour's ministry!—the lowest, most abandoned, as well as
the fiercest opposers. How the grace of Christ was magnified when he
saved Zaccheus and Mary Magdalene; and met Saul of Tarsus, and made him
a 'chosen vessel.'"
"Well, you can try," she replied; "but you will be disappointed. If you
knew aunt Flora as I do, you would not attempt it."
Before I was half through the first line, most of the audience were
singing; many, I doubt not, with a tearful memory of other days. The
effect can not be described. Many a hallowed association was called
up at that moment, to thrill the hearts of wanderers from earlier
influences.
But what an hour was that when, after many struggles, the church was
formed! The rain and the "bad going" did not keep the faithful few
away. A venerated servant of Christ, living a "mile and a half off"
on the prairie, seeking relief from the painful disease that had
interrupted a useful pastorate, was punctually present, and, grasping
my hand, said, "I did not know how I should get here; and when I came
to the stream, and found there was no way to cross, I did not know for
a moment, but I must turn back; it was hard to do it, however, and I
just 'waded through,' and here I am!"
Then later came the longed-for blessing. The rain of the Spirit
descended, and in many a household was heard the inquiry, "What shall I
do?" and the rejoicing of new-born souls.
Mr. and Mrs. L. were both members of our little church, and the family
altar was no longer neglected. Aunt Flora, however, remained outside of
the widening circles of salvation; she continued to absent herself from
family devotions. But at length there was a change, imperceptible at
first to most. Her voice was losing its harshness, her manner becoming
more genial, and, though taciturn still, various little offices of
kindness attested her growing interest. The "two" who, by agreement,
were laying her case day and night before the Hearer of prayer took
courage.
I embraced an opportunity to say to Mrs. L., "Do yourself and
husband discharge your duty toward aunt Flora? Do you pray for and
labor with her? If I mistake not, the Holy Spirit is leading her to
thoughtfulness—to God."
"You do not 'know' aunt Flora," she replied, with a look of surprise.
"She will never change; I can not expect it!"
Oh, how prone God's people are to limit his grace.
On Sabbath days Mr. L., in his large-hearted way, loaded his long wagon
with neighbors, and, in his zeal to get people to meeting, sometimes
sent the ox-cart too. All the family, save aunt Flora, went. One Sunday
morning, as we were setting out, she stood in the doorway, holding
a babe left in her charge for the day. There was a tender, pensive
expression on her face, and I said: "Good morning, aunt Flora. It makes
us feel sad to leave you behind. God can bless you at home, however."
I had never ventured much on the subject so unpleasant to her, but the
parting remark was well received. I detected symptoms of deep emotion
as she turned away, and I said to Mrs. L., "It would not surprise me
to learn that aunt Flora reads the Bible after we are gone." Still the
same incredulity.
About sundown, a few weeks after this, a messenger called at our
house—for we were then housekeeping, some two miles from Mr.
L.'s,—stating that aunt Flora had been taken suddenly ill, and wished
myself and wife to visit her immediately. We were speedily by her
bedside; but what a happy place was that! Suffering intense physical
anguish, her face was radiant with heavenly light, and, with shouts of
joy, she was triumphing in the love of a faithful and almighty Saviour.
"O Jesus! Jesus! How lovely, how glorious! I am his, and he is mine!"
she exclaimed.
"How is this?" I cried, seizing her hand. "Do you, indeed, love the
Saviour?"
"Oh, yes," she replied; "he called after me; he sought me, and found
me; and I will praise him forever."
"This is, indeed, joyful news. But when did this change take place?"
"It was the Sabbath morning when you all left me to go to meeting.
After I entered the room, something seemed to tell me that I was soon
to die, and that I must prepare for it. I did not know what to do, but
took up the Bible, thinking perhaps God would show me the way. While
reading the chapter to which I opened, it seemed as if a great light
shone on the words, and I saw how kind and loving Jesus was; how he
loved sinners like me, and how he would receive me if I would only
come. I came to him; and, glory to his name! he did receive me, and I
am so happy! Help me praise him, all of you!"
"What chapter was it, aunt Flora, that was so blessed to you?"
"I do not know," she replied. "It was in the New Testament. It was
about the woman that broke the alabaster box of precious ointment on
the Saviour's feet, and wiped them with the hair of her head. And
after I am gone," she added, "I want you to preach my funeral sermon
from that chapter. I do not know where it is, I have read the Bible so
little; but you can find it."
"We hope that you will get well, and live to do much good yet."
"No, no; my time has come, I am sure of it; and I am going home. I'm
going to Jesus."
Mr. and Mrs. L. stood by in joyful surprise at her change. In earnest
words she exhorted them to faithfulness and diligence; then calling in
members of the household still unrenewed, warned and entreated them to
seek the Saviour; their tearful promises witnessing to the power of her
appeals.
One thing perplexed me. During the fortnight that intervened till she
"fell asleep," she would quote passages of Scripture from the Old and
New Testaments with surprising accuracy, copiousness, and pertinency,
expressing herself almost wholly in the language of inspiration.
I said to her, "How is it that you can thus quote from the Bible, when,
for many years, you have not read or heard it read?" The answer should
thrill the heart of every Christian parent and Sabbath school teacher.
"Oh," said she, with a happy smile, "those are passages that I heard my
father read at family prayers when I was a little child!"
"Let those who sow in sadness wait
Till the fair harvest come;
They shall confess their sheaves are great,
And shout the blessings home."
"How I love you!" she exclaimed, on one occasion; "you are my spiritual
father; and you (turning to my wife) are my spiritual mother! But,
oh! how much more I love Jesus. Now I long to be with him." And thus
aunt Flora passed away,—smiling, shouting, triumphing,—a "more than
conqueror!"
At sunset, one day, I had strolled down to the quiet nook, by the
shaded lakelet selected as Mr. L.'s family burial ground. It was on his
land, and in sight from the windows, as if they could not trust their
treasures further off. Judson, an infant son, and aunt Flora, lay there
side by side, under those three grassy mounds.
I thought of that first, sad visit to the stricken family; of the
singular way it was brought about, through the suggestions of my
infidel friend; of the death on the prairie, and how this event, to
which the mother was so long unreconciled, led to my removal to L.; of
the subsequent labor and blessing.
Returning to the house, conversation turned to that very theme.
I reminded them of the remark at the funeral, that if they would
cease looking at secondary causes, they would find that the Lord
had gracious designs in his dealings with them. "Now," said I, "see
what has resulted! you have the gospel here, a Sabbath school, a
Christian church, a revival, and in your own circle, 'the blessing that
maketh rich;' you are both in the church; the family altar, over the
desolation of which your son mourned, is restored, and aunt Flora is in
heaven. Is it not true that—
"'God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform'?"
"Yes," replied Mr. L., "it was hard losing our boy. But it has brought
great blessings to us. God has done right," adding, in a husky voice,—
"'Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.'"