THE FAMILY OF ASRU.
"God's in his heaven, all's right with the world."
On the evening upon which the Battle of the Ditch was fought, the wife
of Asru, and his daughter, Sherah, now almost grown to womanhood, were
returning from performing Tawaf at the temple. They had prayed for the
success of the Koreish expedition; they had drank of the well of Ismael,
Zem-Zem, and had poured its water on their heads. Now they were
hastening home to offer prayers to their household gods in the same
cause, for, during Asru's apostasy to the Moslem ranks, his wife, a
woman of the Koreish, and her family had never swerved from their
hostility to Mohammed and all connected with him. For their obstinacy in
this, they had been cruelly abused by Asru, who, with the superiority
which most men in the East assume over women, ruled as a tyrant in his
house.
It was with unspeakable satisfaction that Sherah and her mother found
that Asru had at last broken all connection with the prophet, but a
change had come into his manner which was to them most unaccountable.
Instead of cruelty now was kindness; instead of stormy petulance, now
was patience; and yet, Asru had not mentioned the cause of his new life.
A sort of backwardness on the subject, a desire to know more of it
before communicating with others, strove with him against the dictates
of his conscience, and he had as yet been dumb. He had not concealed his
connection with the little band of Jewish Christians. In spite of the
jeers of his friends among the Koreish, he had attended their meetings
regularly. That had been the extent of his active Christian work; yet
his life had been preaching while his lips were still.
Sherah and her mother talked of him as they walked.
"Mother, however it be, father was never kind until he went to the
Jewish meetings."
"True. Yet many of these same Jews are wicked, thieves, low robbers, not
fit for such as Asru to mingle with," said the mother haughtily.
"Yet not the Jews who attend the church," returned the girl, quickly. "I
know them. Most of them are poor, but not thieves; they seem quiet,
industrious people. Then, Amzi attends there now, you know, and Yusuf,
who, when the plague was raging, spent weeks in attending the sick. Did
he not come to father and sit with him night after night, when,
mother--I shame to say it--both you and I fled!"
The mother walked in silence for a moment.
"There must be some strange power that urges a man to do such acts," she
said, musingly. "It would be easier far to go out to battle, urged on
by the enthusiasm of conquest, and cheered by the music and clash of
timbrels to deeds of bravery. It takes a different spirit to enter the
houses of filthy disease, to court death in reeking lazar-houses, to sit
for weeks watching hideous faces and listening to the ravings of madmen
through the long, hot nights of the plague-season."
"Mother, I am convinced that their religion prompts them to do it. What
else can it be?"
"What is their religion?"
"I know not; yet we may know for the going, perhaps. See, the lights
gleam in their little hall. They hold meeting to-night. Let us go."
"What! And let the proud tribe of the Koreish, the guardians of the
Caaba, see a woman of the Koreish enter there?"
"We can go in long cloaks, mother, and it is well-nigh dark. Come, will
you not?"
The pleading voice was so earnest that the mother consented. Yet, that
the influence of the gods in the result of the battle might not be lost,
they first entered their own house, prostrated themselves before the
gods, and besought their aid in the Koreish cause. Then, donning long
outer cloaks, and veiling their faces closely, the two slipped out of a
back way and stealthily hastened towards the Jewish church.
It was late when they arrived. Neither Yusuf nor Amzi was present to
raise the hearts of their hearers with words of simple and earnest
piety, no voice of Manasseh was there to lead in the songs of praise,
but an old man with snowy hair and a saint-like face was standing behind
a table, a volume of the Scriptures before him, and the voices of the
congregation, some twenty in number, arose in the old, yet ever new
words:
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my
soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort
me."
The Koreish woman listened. She could not understand all this. Yet it
was beautiful,--"green pastures," "still waters." Could it be that these
people knew of an Elysian spot, unknown to Meccans--that their God led
them to such favored retreats? She could restrain her impatience no
longer.
"Where are the green pastures and still waters?" she cried, impetuously,
"that I too may go to them!"
The old man smiled with serene kindness. "Daughter," he said, "the green
pastures and still waters are the pleasant places of the soul. Hast thou
never known what it was to have doubts and fears, restlessness and
dissatisfaction in the present, uncertainty for the future, a feeling
that there is little in life, and a great gulf in death?"
"I have felt so almost every day," she replied, passionately.
"Hast thou not found comfort in thy gods?" he asked, gently.
"Alas, I fear to say that I have not!" she exclaimed.
"And why fearest thou thus?" he said.
"Ah, knowest thou not that the gods are gods of vengeance?" she replied
in an awed whisper.
"I know naught of your gods," he returned. "Our God is a God of love. He
gives us the certainty of his presence ever with us in this life, his
companionship in death, and the privilege of looking upon his face and
being 'forever with the Lord' in the world to come."
"And are you not afraid of death?" she asked. "To me it seems a dreadful
thing. It makes me shudder to think that I too must one day suffer the
struggle for breath, and then lie still and cold."
"To those who love the Lord 'to die is gain,'" he said. "Have we not
sung 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil, for Thou art with me'? Surely one who believes that,
and knows that he is going to be always with the Lord, always able to
look on his face, need not fear death."
"It is a beautiful thought," the woman said, bowing her head on her
hands.
"Yet not more beautiful than the thought that the Holy Spirit is ever
with us; that Jesus himself is our brother, and understands all our
little troubles; that he has promised to help us in overcoming all evil.
'For every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth, and
to him that knocketh it shall be opened.' 'If a son shall ask bread of
any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? If he ask a fish,
will he for a fish give him a serpent? Or if he shall ask an egg, will
he offer him a scorpion? If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good
gifts to your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give
the Holy Spirit to them that ask him.' Daughter, these are the very
words of Jesus. Do they not show you the way to the still waters and
green pastures? Do you not see that the love of our God acts upon the
heart as gentle showers upon the barren land, causing it to rejoice and
bring forth fruit worthy of being presented to our Lord and Master? 'He
hath loved us with an everlasting love.' He loves us ever, therefore in
our returning this love to him doth the 'peace of God that passeth all
understanding' lay hold upon our hearts."
"But ye are Jews!" she said. "Such promises are not for the Koreish."
"Such promises are for all," was the confident reply. "Jesus said
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
None so sinful that Jesus cannot wash out the stain; none are excluded
from his mercy. Daughter, believe, receive. Let the love of God enter
thine heart, and repent best by doing thine evil deeds no more. Only
come to Jesus himself. Only have faith in him."
The Koreish woman hid her face in her hands again, and answered nothing.
The old man turned to the Scriptures and read the story of Jesus and the
woman of Samaria, raising his voice in triumphant fervor as he reached
the words: "Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall
never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a
well of water springing up into everlasting life."
Then he turned to the words spoken by Jesus to his disciples just before
his betrayal, and read: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto
you. Let not your heart be troubled," and, "Abide in me, and I in you.
As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself except it abide in the vine,
no more can ye except ye abide in me. I am the vine, ye are the
branches; he that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth
much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing."
The woman listened. With the quick appreciation of the Arab for metaphor
and simile, she grasped the meaning of the words, and a new, wonderful
train of thought came into her mind as she sat with bowed head while
simple, pleading, heart-offered prayer was sent up to the Throne of
Grace, and the parting hymn was sung.
Then the little band gathered around her, speaking words of cheer, and
the aged leader dismissed her with a gentle, "Come again, daughter."
As Sherah and her mother walked home, the last remnant of the fearful
storm that had visited Medina passed over Mecca. They saw the ragged
clouds borne wildly over the northern hills; they saw the stunted aloes
bending low beneath the sweep of the wind. Yet to them there was a
grandeur in it, for there was still upon them the influence of the
Divine presence, and they thought of Him who "walketh upon the wings of
the wind."
And as they went on, bowing their heads before its spent fury, Asru,
Amzi, and Yusuf, far to the northward, struggled on with the fugitive
army, wondering at the continued triumph of the false prophet, yet
serene in the confidence that in the Divine Hands all was well, and that
in the far-distant end, however blurred to human vision, all must work
for good to those who love God, even though the reason of his working,
the seeming mystery of the fortunes of the great conflict, might not be
unravelled until in the bright hereafter, when all things will at last
be made plain.