Home by G. B. THOMPSON

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 24, 1916

Home

By G. B. THOMPSON

G. B. THOMPSON

It was Talmage who said, “If you want to gather up all tender memories, all lights and shadows of the heart, all banquetings and reunions, all filial, fraternal, paternal, conjugal affections, and had only just four letters with which to spell out that height and depth and breadth and magnitude and eternity of meaning, you would write it all out with these four capital letters: H-O-M-E.”

It is said that “home” is the sweetest word in the English language. God made homes. He gave to man a home in Eden, before sin entered the world to sear the face of creation. The strongest bulwark of society today is the home; it should be a little heaven of love on earth, in which to live and prepare for the final home which awaits the faithful. The memory of a Christian home lingers with the traveler, and throws around him a saving power.

“Will you go back with me a few years, dear reader, in the history of the past, and traverse in imagination the gay streets and gilded saloons of Paris,

that once bright center of the world's follies and pleasures? Passing through its splendid thoroughfares is one (an Englishman) who has left his home and native land to view the splendors and enjoy the pleasures of a foreign country. He has beheld with delight its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand yet graceful proportions of its buildings, and has yielded to the spell of the sweetest music. Yet, in the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was rejoicing most over the privileges he possessed, temptations assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most bewitching garbs. He drank wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draft brought madness. Reason was overwhelmed, and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.”

“The cool night air lifted the damp locks from his heated brow, and swept with soothing touch over his flushed cheeks. Walking on, calmer, but no less determined, strains of music from a distance met his ear. Following in the direction the sound indicated, he at length distinguished the words and air. The song was well remembered. It was ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Clear and sweet the voice of some English singer rose and fell on the air, in the soft cadences of that beloved melody.

“Motionless, the wanderer listened till the last note floated away and he could hear nothing but the ceaseless murmur of a great city. Then he turned slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of song.

“The demon that dwells in the wine had fled; and reason once more asserted her right to control. As the soft strains of ‘Sweet Home’ had floated to his ear, memory brought up before him his own ‘sweet home.’ He saw his gentle mother, and heard her speak, while honest pride beamed from her eye, of her son, in whose nobleness and honor she could always trust; and his heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their presence. Well he knew their pride in his integrity, and the tide of remorse swept over his spirit as he felt what their sorrow would be could they have seen him an hour before. Subdued and repentant, he retraced his steps, and with the vow never to taste of the terrible draft that could so excite him to madness was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further degradation. The influence of home had protected him, though the sea rolled between.”

The blight of sin is seen even in what should be homes. The enemy has done his best to darken that which should be of all places a place of joy, happiness, and light. Think of the homes where ignorance and discontent reign supreme, where there is no real love, no recognition of God. These places are not homes, but merely places of abode.

There are homes, palaces of the rich, adorned with all that wealth can supply. Exquisite paintings and magnificent works of art may adorn the walls, yet there may be no real love. The members of the household may be cold, jealous, and suspicious. Strife may reign, and though counted among the fashionable, known as the élite, they are not happy. They worship at the shrine of mammon. Their thoughts are not of God and the hereafter. Their chief end is to eat and drink. Such a home is but a cheerless sepulcher, an empty hollow hut at best.

The real home is the home where God is honored; where piety holds sway; where love is enthroned; where morning and evening the family are gathered around the altar of prayer, and after song and reading from the Scriptures of truth, all bow, and in prayer commit themselves to God, and plead for his protection. Such homes are the foundation of national stability and greatness. The home government is of far greater importance than the form of national government; for when the home goes down, the nation is doomed.

Home should be cheerful. Some homes, for fear some carpet or tapestry will be faded, have rooms with curtains drawn and darkened, to be opened only on special occasions. Let these musty dungeons be opened and used. Don’t wait for a funeral or a wedding. Make the children feel at home. No room is too fine for any member of the family, for he is worth far more than the room. No chair is too costly for any member of the family to occupy, for he is worth more than any chair. No house is too elegant to shelter a human head, for a man is worth more than any house. Love, not elegance and furniture, makes a home. A meal eaten off the head of a barrel where love reigns is far better than from a table of mahogany where hate and contention sit to croak.

“Home’s not merely four square walls, Though with pictures hung and gilded: Home is where affection calls, Filled with shrines the heart hath builded. Home! go watch the faithful dove, Sailing ’neath the heaven above us; Home is where there’s one to love. Home is where there’s one to love us.”

“Home’s not merely roof and room, It needs something to endear it; Home is where the heart can bloom, Where there’s some kind lip to cheer it. What is home with none to meet, None to welcome, none to greet us? Home is sweet, and only sweet, When there’s one we love to meet us.”

How many homes, even among professed Christians, are marred and often ruined by family jars, by fretfulness, irritability, unkind, sarcastic, sharp, cutting, snappy words and cross, surly glances. What a pity! A religion that is not lived in the home is of no value. And any religion that does not give us the victory over these miserable traits of character is a vain religion. Many will have to gain victories in their homes, or be lost. God expects love in the home. Gentle, Christian courtesy must be exhibited. Kindness must rule. Kind, gentle words and loving smiles cost nothing. Let kind words be spoken in the morning. They will lighten the cares of life all the day, and brighten the household. Let the last words at eventide be kind and loving. It may be before the sun rises, the span of life of a loved one may be finished; then it will be too late to recall the unkind, cutting words, and ask forgiveness. While the darkness of sin may hover over the homes of Egypt, let the light of love, joy, and all the blessing of the gospel brighten daily the homes of God’s remnant people.