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Mary Reed

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 19, 1914

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 91, No. 49.

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Mary Reed

By Lora Clement

Missionary Biography—No. 3

Mary Reed

LORA CLEMENT
Among the foothills of the snow-clad Himalayas in northern India, far removed from the blighting heat and ceaseless turmoil of the plains, nestles a cozy little bungalow. Near by cluster the buildings of one of the largest leper asylums in the world, while away in the distance tower high mountain peaks, and below stretches a beautiful valley. This secluded “retreat” is the home of Mary Reed. “Set apart” by her Lord and Master for a special work, she cheerfully ministers to the forsaken sufferers intrusted to her care, though doubtless sometimes her eyes turn westward with wistful longing, “where thousands of miles away lies the land of her birth, whose shores her feet shall never tread again.”
Miss Reed was born near Lowell, Ohio. She grew to womanhood in a Christian home, the beloved eldest daughter of consecrated parents. At the age of sixteen she was converted, and, realizing that she had been “saved to serve,” eagerly grasped every opportunity to tell from the fullness of her own experience the wonderful story of redeeming love. She spent some years as a public-school teacher, and it was while engaged in this work that her interest was first aroused in foreign missions. As the days passed, this interest deepened. She had caught a glimpse of the needs of her suffering sisters in India; the Macedonian cry came to her as a personal appeal, and, obedient to the heavenly vision, she unhesitatingly answered, “Here am I, Lord, send me.”
Sailing for her chosen field in 1884, under the auspices of the Woman’s Foreign Mission Society of the Methodist Church, she was put in charge of the zenana work at Cawnpore. Miss Reed labored untiringly for her Master. A visiting friend once asked, “Do you never rest?” “I seldom have time, for the King’s business requires haste,” came the quiet answer.
After five years of this exhausting labor the missionary returned to America, seeking renewed strength for further service. It was during this period of rest that she came to realize that God had chosen her for a special work. For some time she had been troubled with a stinging pain in the forefinger of her right hand, and a curious spot had also appeared on her right cheek. One day a voice seemed to whisper to her, “You have leprosy; you must go back to India and devote the rest of your life to work among the lepers.” From that moment she never doubted the true nature of her disease. Reluctantly physicians admitted that her diagnosis seemed correct. HowMiss Reed contracted the leprosy will probably always remain a mystery, but with implicit confidence in the justice of her Father’s plans for his children, she accepted her heavy cross with childlike trust, saying:—
“No chance has brought this ill to me, ’Tis God’s sweet will, so let it be; He seeth what I cannot see. There is a need-be for each pain, And he will make it one day plain That earthly loss is heavenly gain.”
As soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, she bade farewell, for the last time, to home and loved ones, keeping her sad secret from all save one sister. “If you will let me go without a special good-by, as though I were returning tomorrow, it will be so much easier for me,” she said. And so, upheld by a strength not her own, she went out from the happy circle as if some day she might return, and bravely hastened toward the land of her exile to become a member of one of the saddest of all sad families of suffering humanity.
Miss Reed crossed to England in the same steamer that carried the Epworth League delegates to the Old World in 1891. She journeyed across the Continent in company with a friend, who thus describes the days they spent together:— “I wondered instinctively at the ivory pallor of that sweet face and at the cruel spot that disfigured it, so different from anything I had ever seen. I wondered, too, as the days went by, why the forefinger, always covered with a white cot, refused to yield to healing remedies. . . . As I came to know her better, I found that her heart craved companionship. Under the smiling English skies of Canterbury we walked up to St. Martin’s, the little church whose memories go back at least thirteen hundred years. Near the chancel the guide pointed to an opening in the thick wall, and said, ‘That is the lepers’ squint.’ The poor sufferers, creeping to the sanctuary in olden times, might only listen from without to the words of life. If I had known then what I knew afterward, my heart would have bled for the woman at my side. Calmly she stood there, with a steady light in her eyes, not a muscle of her face betraying her heart’s secret. In the grand old cathedral we paused before the stone staircase leading to Thomas à Becket’s shrine, and gazed long at the hollows worn by the kneeling, praying pilgrims. She was making that journey, so full of pleasure to the rest of the company, literally on her knees, sustained and comforted by the power of prayer alone.
“Here and there we held sweet hours of communion, and I, who had been accustomed to see missionaries seeking America, when in a feeble condition, could not refrain from asking if it was right for her to return to India at an unfavorable season, before her health was established. From quivering lips came the brave reply, ‘My Father knows the way I go, and I am sure it is the right way.’
“It was in Paris that she sang to me the hymns she loved so well, those song prayers that must have ascended like incense to the ears of the All-father. It was in Paris that she said, one evening, ‘If I thought it were right, and you would promise never to speak of it until you heard it some other way, I should tell you my story.’ On memory’s wall there will hang while time lasts for me, a picture of that scene. A wax taper burned dimly on the table beside her open Bible, that Book of all books from whose pages she received daily consolation; and while without, Paris was turning night to day with light, music, and wine, within, Mary Reed’s gentle voice, faltering only at her mother’s name and coming sorrow, told the secret of her affliction. As my heart caught the first glimpse of her meaning, I covered my eyes to shut out the swiftly rising vision of her future, even to the bitter end, and cried, ‘O, not that! do not tell me that has come to you!’ And when in calmer moments I urged that all Christians be asked to unite in prayer for her recovery, her only response was, ‘I have not yet received any assurance of healing; perhaps I can serve my Father better thus.’”
“The last evening we spent together I heard her sing:— “‘Straight to my home above I calmly travel on; And sing, in life or death, My Lord, thy will be done.’
“On the shores of the Lake of Lucerne hand clasped hand for the last time on earth, and, with eyes blinded by gathering tears, our farewell was whispered, ‘God be with you till we meet again.’”
Arrived in India, Miss Reed journeyed at once to Chandag Heights, where, within the radius of a few miles, she found her life work among the lepers of northern India. Through her efforts these unfortunates have been clothed, fed, and sheltered, while the influence of her Christian teaching and consecrated life has brought many of the hopeless, helpless sufferers from the darkness of heathenism into the light of the gospel of Christ. The asylum grounds under her direct charge cover more than sixty acres; the inmates enjoy church and school privileges. Through the aid of native Bible teachers and evangelists Miss Reed supervises quite an extensive work among the villages scattered through neighboring valleys. In all her labors she has been blessed with a measure of strength which all agree is divinely bestowed. And she is happy in service, content to spend and be spent for God, since it is only “until the day break and the shadows flee away.”
Truly the ways of our all-wise Father are past finding out. Often we cannot comprehend the justice of his dealings, but in the glad hereafter every faithful cross-bearer will become a crown-wearer. Complete consecration to God means service somewhere; perhaps not in the field of our choice, but somewhere. Can you answer the call of duty as cheerfully, as sincerely, as did Mary Reed? Are you willing to say, “Anywhere, any time, anything, for the Son of God and the sons of men”? That is the measure of consecration for which our Master asks, and whether he leads us by the still waters or through the dark valley of the shadow, we may rest in the assurance that—
“God’s plans like lilies pure and white unfold, We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart; Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And, if by patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet with sandals loose shall rest, Where we shall clearly know and understand, Then we will say, ‘God knew the best.’”