Stepping Heavenward Part 10

"In reading the Bible I advise you to choose detached pa.s.sages, or even one verse a day, rather whole chapters. Study every word, ponder and pray over it till you have got out of it all the truth it contains.

"As to the other devotional reading, it is better to settle down on a few favorite authors, and read their works over and over and over until you have digested their thoughts and made them your own.

"It has been said 'that a fixed, inflexible will is a great a.s.sistance in a holy life.'

"You can will to choose for your a.s.sociates those who are most devout and holy.

"You can will to read books that will stimulate you in your Christian life, rather than those that merely amuse.

"You can will to use every means of grace appointed by G.o.d.

"You can' will to spend much time in prayer, without regard to your frame at the moment.

"You can will to prefer a religion of principle to one of mere feeling; in other, words, to obey the will of G.o.d when no comfortable glow of emotion accompanies your obedience.

"You cannot will to possess the spirit of Christ; that must come as His gift; but you can choose to study His life, and to imitate it.

This will infallibly lead to such self-denying work as visiting the poor, nursing the sick, giving of your time and money to the needy, and the like.

"If the thought of such self-denial is repugnant to you, remember that it is enough for the disciple to be as his Lord. And let me a.s.sure you that as you penetrate the labyrinth of life in pursuit of Christian duty, you will often be surprised and charmed by meeting your Master Himself amid its windings and turnings, and receive His soul-inspiring smile. Or, I should rather say, you will always meet Him wherever you go."

I have read this letter again and again. It has taken such hold of me that I can think of nothing else. The idea of seeking holiness had never so much as crossed my mind. And even now it seems like presumption for such a one as I to utter so sacred a word. And I shrink from committing myself to such a pursuit, lest after a time I should fall back into the old routine. And I have an undefined, wicked dread of being singular, as well as a certain terror of self-denial and loss of all liberty. But no choice seems left to me.

Now that my duty has been clearly pointed out to me, I do not stand where I did before. And I feel, mingled with my indolence and love of ease and pleasure, some drawings towards a higher and better life.

There is one thing I can do, and that is to pray that Jesus would do for me what He did for the blind man-put His hands yet again upon my eyes and make me to see clearly. And I will.

MARCH, 30.-Yes, I have prayed, and He has heard me. I see that I have no right to live for myself, and that I must live for. Him. I have given myself to Him as I never did before, and have entered, as it were, a new world. I was very happy when I began to believe in His love for me, and that He had redeemed me. But this new happiness is deeper; it involves something higher than getting to heaven at last, which has, hitherto, been my great aim.

March 31.-The more I pray, and the more I read the Bible, the more I feel my ignorance. And the more earnestly I desire holiness, the more utterly unholy I see myself to be. But I have pledged myself to the Lord, and I must pay my vows, cost what in may.

I have begun to read Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying." A month ago I should have found it a tedious, dry book. But I am reading it with a sort of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasure. Mother, observing what I was doing, advised me to read it straight through, but to mingle a pa.s.sage now and then with chapters from other books.

She suggested my beginning on Baxter's "Saints' Rest," and of that I have read every word. I shall read it over, as Dr. Cabot advised, till I have fully caught its spirit. Even this one reading has taken away my lingering fear of death, and made heaven awfully attractive.

I never mean to read worldly books again, and my music and drawing I have given up forever.

Chapter 7

VII.

Mother asked me last evening to sing and play to her. I was embarra.s.sed to know how to excuse myself without telling her my real reason for declining. But somehow she got it out of me.

"One need not be fanatical in order to be religious," she said.

"Is it fanatical to give up all for G.o.d?" I asked.

"What is it to give up all?" she asked, in reply.

"Why, to deny one's self every gratification and indulgence in order to mortify one's natural inclinations, and to live entirely for Him."

"G.o.d is then a hard Master, who allows his children no liberty," she replied. "Now let us see where this theory will lead you. In. the first place you must shut your eyes to all the beautiful things He has made. You must shut your eyes to all the harmonies He has ordained. You must shut your heart against all sweet human affections. You have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such bondage--"

We are told to keep under the body," I interrupted.

"Oh, mother, don't hinder me! You know my love for music is. a pa.s.sion and that it is my snare and temptation. And how can I spend my whole time in reading the Bible and praying, if I go on with my drawing? It may do for other people to serve both G.o.d and Mammon, but not for me. I must belong wholly to the world or wholly to Christ."

Mother said no more, and I went on with my reading. But somehow my book seemed to have lost its flavor. Besides, it was time to retire for my evening devotions which I never put off now till the last thing at night, as I used to do. When I came down, Mother was lying on the sofa, by which I knew she was not well. I felt troubled that I had refused to sing to her. Think of the money she had spent on that part of my education! I went to her and kissed her with a pang of terror. What if she were going to be very sick, and to die?

"It is nothing, darling," she said, "nothing at all. I am tired, and felt a little faint."

I looked at her anxiously, and the bare thought that she might die and leave me alone was so terrible that I could hardly help crying out. And I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if G.o.d took her from me, I could not, should not say: Thy will be done.

But she was better after taking a few drops of lavender, and what color she has came back to her dear sweet face.

APRIL 12.-Dr. Cabot's letter has lost all its power over me. A stone has more feeling than I. I don't love to pray. I am sick and tired of this dreadful struggle after holiness; good books are all alike, flat and meaningless. But I must have something to absorb and carry me away, and I have come back to my music and my drawing with new zest.

Mother was right in warning me against giving them up. Maria Kelley is teaching me to paint in oil-colors, and says I have a natural gift for it.

APRIL 13.Mother asked me to go to church with her last evening, and I said I did not want to go. She looked surprised and troubled.

"Are you not well, dear?" she asked.

"I don't know. Yes. I suppose I am. But I could not be still at church five minutes. I am nervous that I feel as if I should fly."

"I see how it is," she said; "you have forgotten that body of yours, of which I reminded you, and have been trying to live as if you were all soul and spirit. You have been straining every nerve to acquire perfection, whereas this is G.o.d's gift, and one that He is willing to give you, fully and freely."

"I have done seeking for that or anything else that is good," I said, despondently. "And so I have gone back to my music and everything else."

"'Here is just the rock upon which you split," she returned. "You speak of going back to your music as if that implied going away from G.o.d. You rush from one extreme to another. The only true way to live in this world, const.i.tuted just as we are, is to make all our employments subserve the one great end and aim of existence, namely, to glorify G.o.d and to enjoy Him forever. But in order to do this we must be wise task-masters, and not require of ourselves what we cannot possibly perform. Recreation we must have. Otherwise the strings of our soul, wound up to an unnatural tension, will break."

"Oh, I do wish," I cried, "that G.o.d had given us plain rules, about which we could make no mistake!"

"I think His rules are plain," she replied. "And some liberty of action He must leave us, or we should become mere machines. I think that those who love Him, and wait upon Him day by day, learn His will almost imperceptibly, and need not go astray.

"But, mother, music and drawing are sharp-edged tools in such hands as mine. I cannot be moderate in my use of them. And the more I delight in them, the less I delight in G.o.d."

"Yes, this is human nature. But G.o.d's divine nature will supplant it, if we only consent to let Him work in us of His own good pleasure."

New York, April 16.-After all, mother has come off conqueror, and here I am at Aunty's. After our quiet, plain little home, in our quiet little town, this seems like a new world. The house is large, but is as full as it can hold. Aunty has six children her own, and has adopted two. She says she ways meant to imitate the old woman who lived in a shoe. She reminds me of mother, and yet she is very different; full of fun and energy; flying about the house as on wings, with a kind, bright word for everybody. All her household affairs go on like clock-work; the children are always nicely dressed; n.o.body ever seems out of humor; n.o.body is ever sick. Aunty is the central object round which every body revolves; you can't forget her a moment, she is always doing something for you, and then her unflagging good humor and cheerfulness keep you good-humored and cheerful. I don't wonder Uncle Alfred loves her so.

I hope I shall have just such a home. I mean this is the sort of home I should like if I ever married, which I never mean to do. I should like to be just such a bright, loving wife as Aunty is; to have my husband lean on me as Uncle leans on her; to have just as many children, and to train them as wisely and kindly us she does hers.

Then, I should feel that I had not been born in vain, but had a high and sacred mission on earth. But as it is, I must just pick up what sc.r.a.ps of usefulness I can, and let the rest go.

APRIL 18.-Aunty says I sit writing and reading and thinking too much, and wants me to go out more. I tell her I don't feel strong enough to go out much. She says that is all nonsense, and drags me out. I get tired, and hungry, and sleep like a baby a month old. I see now mother's wisdom and kindness in making me leave home when I did. I had veered about from point to point till I was nearly ill. Now Aunty keeps me well by making me go out, and dear Dr. Cabot's precious letter can work a true and not a morbid work in my soul. I am very happy. I have delightful talks with Aunty, who sets me right at this point and at that; and it is beautiful to watch her home-life and to see with what sweet unconsciousness she carries her religion into every detail. I am sure it must do me good to be here; and yet, if I am growing better how slowly, how slowly, it is! Somebody has said that 'our course heavenward is like the plan of the zealous pilgrims of old, who for every three steps forward, took one backward."

APRIL 30.-Aunty's baby, my dear father's namesake, and hitherto the merriest little fellow I ever saw, was taken sick last night, very suddenly. She sent for the doctor at once, who would not say positively what was the matter, but this morning p.r.o.nounced it scarlet fever. The three youngest have all come down with it to-day.

If they were my children, I should be in a perfect worry and flurry.

Indeed, I am as it is. But Aunty is as bright and cheerful as ever.

She flies from one to another, and .keeps up their spirits with her own gayety. I am mortified to find that at such a time as this I can think of myself, and that I find it irksome to be shut up in sick-rooms, instead of walking, driving, visiting, and the like. But, as Dr. Cabot says, I can now choose to imitate my Master, who spent His whole life in doing good, and I do hope, too, to be of some little use to Aunty, after her kindness to me.

MAY 1.- The doctor says the children are doing as well as, could be expected. He made a short visit this .morning, as it is Sunday. If I had ever seen him before I should say I had some unpleasant a.s.sociation with him. I wonder Aunty employs such a great clumsy man.