J. S. JAMES by J. S. JAMES

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 4, 1915

J. S. JAMES

By J. S. JAMES

Furlough Reflections—No. 1

J. S. JAMES

[Written as the boat was plowing the waters of the Bay of Biscay, July 2, 1914.]

BEING well on our way the second time to the country of our adoption, after a period of furlough, I find time for writing down a few reflections which have come to me as I have mingled with home folks, friends, and fellow workers in my native country.

Furlough experiences do not come often, but they bring a unique experience to those who share them, and leave behind a multitude of indelible impressions to be cherished among the sweet and good things that come in life. To the tired and worn toiler on the mission field, the furlough season is like an oasis in the desert, with its living, cooling springs to revive the spirit and quench the burning thirst of the desert traveler. He looks forward to it with joy; but when once it is reached, he reflects that he must tarry but a moment; for beyond lies the wide expanse of barren waste which must be traversed before the journey is completed and the time of final rest has come.

My first reflection carries me back to the time when, eight years ago, we were voyaging over these same waters in response to a call to labor in India. We believed then that the Lord's approval rested on our going, which subsequent years have proved, and we gave ourselves fully to the call. The years that have followed, with all the varied and trying experiences associated with a pioneer work, have afforded us no cause for regret.

It was the great Master Missionary who said, “Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my sake, and the gospel's, but he shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecution; and in the world to come eternal life.” Mark 10: 29, 30.

We have experienced something of the reality of these words. Eight years ago we said farewell to native land, a host of relatives, and parents whose heads were already white with the snows of many winters. Like him who stands at the head of the family of faith, we went into a land that we knew not of, to witness for God's truth amid heathen surroundings. But God has been very merciful to us, and to our every sacrifice his blessing has been measured double. We left our native land, with its hallowed associations. The one of our adoption has claimed a larger place in our affections. We separated from home and kindred. In their stead other homes were supplied, and a kinship with a foreign race, not reckoned by blood, but stronger than death. We denied ourselves the luxuries and comforts of a Western civilization for the hardships and privations of a benighted country. In their place we have been given the joy which eclipses every sacrifice we have made, the joy of seeing souls born into the kingdom of God.

It would be impossible to chronicle the feelings that came over me last year as our ship passed out of the harbor of Colombo, Ceylon, on our way to America, and the shore lines of the island became invisible. There was nothing of a home-going in it. To the contrary, it seemed that we were leaving home. It required days before we could become accustomed to the idea that we were “on furlough,” and should enjoy the benefits of a period of rest. We then became conscious of a feeling that remained with us throughout our entire furlough, which was torture in itself, and became intensified until we set sail again from New York on our way back, — that of being a wanderer from home, not particularly needed in the place where we were going, and a possible chance that we might not be able to get away again. Strange to say, this same feeling seems to get hold of most “furloughed” missionaries who have tasted the joys of labor in a heathen land. There is something divinely singular about it, and one is led to inquire whether the Saviour himself did not reveal traces of his deep sorrow at leaving his people, in speaking those comforting words on the eve of his crucifixion as recorded in chapters 14 to 17 of John's Gospel.

Our visit among relatives and friends who seven years before had bidden us Godspeed on our journey, revived many tender memories. There were a number of vacant chairs in the family circle. Mrs. James's mother had died two years previous. In my family I had lost father and mother, two brothers, an uncle, and several more distant relatives. I had the opportunity to visit the grave of only one — my mother. As I stood with full heart beside that sacred dust, my mind was taken back over a lifetime of changes. I could hear her voice and see her anxious, tear-stained face, as in those early days of my youthful folly and careless indifferences, she so often pleaded with God for my conversion. I could see held out before me her hands, well wrinkled, with nails worn and fingers bent by unceasing toil in my behalf. A multitude of instances passed before me of her self-sacrifice and self-denial that I might have the advantages of a Christian education and be used of God in spreading this message. But more distinctly than all did I recall the unselfish benediction of a mother's love which she gave me on the eve of my departure for India eight years ago, and the joy and comfort which were hers during her remaining years, that her lifelong prayers had been answered, and God could honor her son with such a call. An hour by this grave, wrapped in these and other sacred reflections, was worth all that a furlough could afford.

That which impressed us most at this juncture of our furlough was the rapidity with which changes come in a few short years. We returned to find our homes decimated of loved ones; the co-workers and associates in former labors scattered to the ends of the earth, and the present working force largely made up of those who, a few years before, we knew as boys and girls in school; the boundaries of the work extending to regions before unknown; and a rank and file of new faces who, in recent years, had come to know the message for this time. With all this and more, is it strange that we should feel like sojourners in the land of our birth?