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MISS DEBBY'S PRAYER

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Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Dec 8, 1881

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 7, No. 46.

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MISS DEBBY'S PRAYER.

By Kate Sumner

"I should like to know something about my parish," said Mr. St. John, the new minister, at Appleton, coming down into the sitting-room where his boarding-mistress, good Mrs. Smith, had just settled herself, knitting-work in hand.
"Of course I shall try to get acquainted with each one individually, but I would like to know at first if there are any special peculiarities, or anything of that kind to be avoided or looked out for."
"Well, no, not as I know of," replied Mrs. Smith, dropping her knitting, and pushing back her spectacles for a talk. "Not as I know of—excepting Miss Debby Hopkins. You remember her, don't you? She sat in the broad aisle, about half way up. She's the richest person in town, owns the mills and a big farm, and her own sister lives right within stone's-throw, almost, of her, and takes in sewing for a living—has hard work to get along sometimes, too, I guess, if the truth is told. Miss Debby must know it, but not a finger will she lift to help her."
"You see Miss Debby was the eldest, and Maria, that's Mrs. Miller, was the youngest, and the old Squire's pet. Guess Debby always was a little jealous of her, though she was proud of her, too. Fact is, Debby's family pride's her besetting sin—that's been the trouble. She was always down on Miller for some reason or other, though most folks liked him; did her best to break up the match, but the Squire and Maria were completely blind to his faults. He turned out to be a miserable drinking fellow—more'n all that he gambled, and at last forged the Squire's name for considerable. That broke the Squire down completely, and finished Debby."
"He'd disgraced the family, and she vowed she'd never have anything more to do with Maria unless she'd leave him and take her maiden name again. Maria wouldn't do that, but stuck to him through thick and thin, and it was mostly thick, I guess. He had tremors, and I don't know what all. It was a relief when he died. I believe he repented and tried hard to reform before his last sickness. Maria was left without a cent to her name, but with no end of debts. Folks thought Debby would relent then, but she didn't; said Maria had made her bed and must lie in it now, and she has, so far as Debby is concerned."
"But after all, I pity Debby the most; she ain't happy, anybody can see that in her face—and Maria is; for if ever there was a saint on earth, it's Maria Miller. I'd rather be in her place after all. It makes a good deal of talk, for Debby's a church member, too, 'in good and regular standing,' as they put it. Some go so far as to say she's a hypocrite, and they don't care nothing about being Christains if she's a sample."
"Has any one remonstrated with her, tried to soften her heart?"
"Oh, land, yes; but you might as well talk to the stone wall round her orchard."
Mr. St. John sighed. It was his first parish. He was full of earnestness and wanted all to be in harmony that they might work together to best advantage. Presently he went up to his own room, and on his knees sought for wisdom and help in this emergency. Then he put on his hat and sallied forth directly towards "The Poplars," as Miss Debby's house was called.
Miss Debby was expecting him—of course he would visit her among the very first he called upon—and received him in state in her best parlor. They talked for a while of this and that. Finally Mr. St. John said cautiously, "Have you any family?"
"No, sir," was Miss Debby's quick reply.
"Indeed," said Mr. St. John emphatically, "it's very sad to be entirely alone in the world—have you no relatives living?"
Miss Debby calmed a trifle, suddenly deciding within herself that she did not like this new minister at all, he was so very impertinent. And there he sat waiting her answer.
"I have one sister living, but she's dead to me for all that. She brought disgrace to our family, that never had anything to blush for before; she and hers were the cause of my father's death, and I shall never forgive her."
Then Miss Debby, expecting censure or remonstrance at least, drew herself up proudly, ready to fight it. But not one word of remonstrance or rebuke did Mr. St. John utter. Instead, he only said, apparently very irrelevantly, "I suppose, Miss Hopkins, you never make use of the Lord's prayer?"
Miss Debby began to wonder if the new minister was quite right—quite sound in his mind.
"I am in the habit of using it every night at family devotions, sir," she replied very stiffly.
Mr. St. John looked very astonished.
"You omit one clause, do you not?" he asked.
"No, sir, why should I?" replied Miss Debby in a tone expressive of both indignation and curiosity.
"How can you pray your Father in Heaven to forgive you your trespasses as you forgive those who trespass against you—if you feel you can never forgive your sister?"
"The cases are not parallel," said Miss Debby.
"No, I suppose not quite, for our heavenly Father has infinitely more to forgive us than ever we can have to forgive our fellow-men."
And then, thinking he had said enough, Mr. St. John rose, politely made his adieus—and went directly home, to his own room, to prayer, earnest prayer. Perhaps that had something to do with Miss Debby's uncomfortable frame of mind after he left. Do her best, she could not set herself about anything, nor could she forget his question. Indeed, the more she tried to forget, the more persistently it rang in her ears.
He was on his knees praying for her, you remember.
To think her sins were infinitely greater against God than Maria's against her—and yet all these years she had been praying that He would forgive her as she forgave. Poor Miss Debby, she passed a very uncomfortable afternoon, and the evening was worse yet.
It was her custom to meet her servants in the dining-room for devotion every evening, and she always used the Lord's prayer with them.
What should she do! She could never repeat it again, she was sure, unless—but that was out of the question, she told herself impatiently; she had said she would never forgive Maria—and she could, not. She wished Mr. St. John was back where he came from, anywhere but here. But he was here, and had spoken his word to her.
What should she do!
The clock struck eight; then it was quarter past—it struck the half hour; it would soon be nine, and what she was going to do. Things she had not thought of for years were flitting through her mind, one after another—childish ways and sayings of Maria—how she had loved her. Somehow, the old house became all at once unutterably still and lonely, and her life seemed suddenly to have become very forlorn.
But above all thoughts there rang in her ears the words, "And if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive you yours."
It was a dreadful thing to be unforgiven. She was getting along in years, could she go down to the grave with her sins, unpardoned?
It was quarter to nine—Miss Debby dropped on her knees.
Her pastor, alone in his room, was still pleading for her.
But not a word came from Miss Debby's lips, only at last she broke down and sobbed like a child—she had not shed a tear for years. Then she rose, and putting on her mantle, went out into the darkness, and swiftly down the street to the little cottage where Maria had lived since her husband died. She opened the door, and went directly in to her sister's side.
"Maria"—
"Deborah"—
That was all at first, but presently Deborah lifted her head from Maria's shoulder; "Will you, can you forgive me?" she said, "and come home with me to our home?"
The servants at "The Poplars" waited and waited. "Miss Debby had not seemed quite herself at tea time," the housekeeper remarked, but as she always sent word if unable to attend devotions, she thought they had better wait. Half past nine came, and just as they were about to disperse, the door opened, and Miss Deborah appeared, leading her sister Maria by the hand. I doubt if there was one there that knew what Miss Deborah read, or where, that night, they were so astonished, but not one but heard her prayer. Never had she prayed like that before in their presence.
"Oh, Father of sinners," she pleaded, "do thou look in pity on us and forgive us, not as we forgive, but as thou only canst forgive. And do thou come into our hearts and reign there, then shall we cast out all our sin, bitterness, and anger, and be like thee, full of compassion, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy."
Miss Deborah waited for Mr. St. John the next Sunday after church.
"I want to tell you," she said, putting out her hand, "that I hope my heavenly Father will forgive me, as my sister has forgiven me."
Mr. St. John went home very thankful—not surprised, but thankful.
"This is only a beginning," he said, "I expect to see a great work of the Lord here."
Nor was he disappointed.
"There must be something in it," said one to another, "to change Miss Debby Hopkins so completely."—Kate Sumner.