Untitled article by S. A. Lockwood

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Third-day, July 16, 1867

THE PRAYING BANKRUPT.

By S. A. Lockwood

[Bro. Smith: The following article interested me much when I first read it, as I am a firm believer in the power of prayer; and thinking it may be acceptable to your readers, I copy it from the Reflector for the Review. S. A. Lockwood.]

Some twenty-five years since, in a New England town of some maritime importance, there resided a deacon who was engaged in lucrative business. Although of prudent habits, his benevolence led him to endorse largely for one who had won confidence as a Christian brother, but afterwards proved to be a designing knave. This issued in the good deacon’s failure, when, with scrupulous integrity, everything that could be claimed by his creditors was given up. A winter of great severity and of general business depressions followed. His wife and young children looked to him for a subsistence which he knew not how to furnish, as his most diligent efforts for employment were unsuccessful. A debt incurred with no prospect of payment, was, in his estimation, a sin; and he sadly saw the little stock of provision they possessed rapidly diminishing, with no way to obtain more. He was a man of prayer, as well as action, and carried the case to Him who feedeth the ravens. Yet long, weary weeks passed, and no success came. At length the morning dawned when the last stick of wood was on the fire, and little Hatty told her father that the candles were all gone; “and how,” asked she, “shall we take care of dear mother to-night?”

The question went to the father’s heart with dagger-like poignancy. The vision of his suffering wife gasping her life away in the last fearful stages of consumption, her comfortless sick room unwarmed, unlighted, and the thick darkness which he knew would enshroud her mind when made aware of the extent of their destitution, would have driven him to distraction, were it not that he yet had hope in One mighty to save. He fled to his closet, and there, in an agony of prayer, besought the Lord for help; and forgetting all other wants, plead and plead again for the two articles now specially needed, specifying them with reiterated earnestness. He arose from his knees in full assurance of faith, and with heavenly tranquillity, and went forth expecting deliverance, looking for it, however, in but one way: through his own earnings. But after a fruitless day of seeking employment, gloomily he returned home. He entered his gate, and was startled to see before him a generous pile of wood. Little Johnny opened the door, clapping his hands, exclaiming, “O Father, we’ve got some wood and some candles!” “Where did you get them? Are you sure they were not left here by mistake?” “O no, father?” interrupted Hatty, “they were not left by mistake. A man knocked at the door with his whip, and when I opened it, asked if you lived here. I told him you did. Then he said, ‘Here are some candles, and a load of wood for him.’ I asked him if you sent them, and he said, ‘I rather guess your father don’t know anything about it.’ Who did send them then? said I. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I mustn’t tell, but you may say to your father, they are a present.’” But to what instrumentality they were indebted for the relief, was a mystery. And what particularly interested Dea. P., was the character of the anonymous presents; and the very things so much needed and no others should be sent, and he was sure he had mentioned his want of them to no human ear. He questioned the children anew. They described the man who knocked at the door, the horse and truck he drove. A new thought struck him. “Why,” said he, “that team belongs to my old enemy, Graff. Can it be possible he is the donor? If so, surely the finger of God has touched his heart.” Dea. P. was, however, so convinced that he was their benefactor, that he resolved on an immediate call to that gentleman. But who was Mr. Graff?

Some years before, the sacredness of the Sabbath was openly violated by a brisk trade in fish. The hundreds of boatmen, sailors and their friends engaged in the desecration, were so potent in influence that nobody thought of risking interference. Dea. P., though a man of place, was also a man of moral courage. He determined to put a stop to the iniquity. His friends warned him that his life would be endangered; but at first alone, and afterward with a brother deacon, he would take a walk along the wharves on a Sabbath morning to ascertain who broke the laws by traffic on that day. Men swore at him like fiends, fired his dwelling at several different times, and at last “bound themselves with an oath” to kill him. Yet they feared his presence, and at his approach stores would be deserted of customers, and closed with celerity. This species of Sabbath breaking was at length broken up, after various hair-breadth escapes on the part of Dea. P. and his compatriot, the authorities being shamed into action by their fearless zeal.

The brutal drunkenness of the sailors, and the degradation and suffering of their families, with which Dea. P. was in this enterprise brought into contact, opened his eye to the evil of the liquor traffic; and turning his Sabbath reform to the legal authorities, he became known as a temperance advocate. This also brought him enemies, sometimes changing friends into foes. Distiller Graff was among the latter, from a warm friend becoming bitterly alienated. In vain did the grieved deacon strive to conciliate by explanation and personal kindness. Even the trifling civility of a bow was rudely unnoticed by Mr. Graff. Dea. P. entered the distillery of his old friend. For the first time for years its proprietor looked up with a nod of recognition. It was evident something unusual had softened his heart. “I have called,” said the deacon, “to ask if you can tell me who sent some wood and candles to my house to-day?” “Yes sir, I sent them.” “You are very kind; but pray tell me how you came to do so.” “But first let me inquire if you really needed them?” “O I cannot express to you how much!” “Well, then, I suppose I must explain,” said Mr. Graff.

“It is all very singular, and sometimes seems very foolish. This morning, about 10 o’clock, as I was busy at my work, suddenly a voice seemed to say to me, ‘Send some wood to Dea. P., he is in want.’ I was astonished. I tried to banish the thought, and went to work more earnestly. I could not believe you needed it. And I could not send it to you of all others. But the voice—it seemed within me—said again with painful distinctness, ‘Send some wood to Dea. P., he is in want!’ I scouted the idea as weak and silly; a mere phantasy of the brain; but it was of no use; I had to succumb; the more I ridiculed and fought it, the more vivid and irresistible was the impression, until to purchase peace, and in some awe, I bade John load his team with wood and leave it at your door. For a moment I was at rest; but only for a moment. The imperative whisper came, ‘Send some candles!’ Said I to myself, this is too absurd, I will not gratify this whim; but again I was so beset with the mandate, and so distressed and baffled in repelling it, that as a cheap way to get out of torment, I handed John a package of candles also.

“This has been in my mind ever since. Sometimes I have thought it almost a freak of insanity, and then, again, such was the strange character of the impression, so unexpected, so solemn and powerful, and such the singular peace following compliance with its dictates, that I almost believe it to be supernatural.”

“It is, indeed, the doings of ‘Him who is wonderful in working,’” replied Dea. P. “It was about 10 o’clock; I well remember, that I plead with God for the very articles you sent me in an agony of wrestling I never knew before. It was then, too, that my soul was filled with the conviction that my prayer was heard, and a relief would come.”

Since hearing a venerated relative relate this incident in his own life, we have often wondered how the skeptic can dispose of such occurrences. While it would be presumptuous for the believer to expect to live by prayer alone, to be fed without his own co-operation, as was Elijah, yet are there not events happening all along the history of the church, in the experience of individual members, to be accounted for only on the ground of a special Providence, regardful of the emergencies of the believing, suffering people of God? Surely, “Light is sown for the righteous,” and to them “the deepest dark reveals the starriest hope.”