MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Tacoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jun 15, 1911

MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Godliness With Contentment — No. 2

MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE

“On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of life is blooming, There is rest for you.”

I have heard some very good music, by masters of song,—music from those whom the world calls great. I have heard singing which almost lifted me from my seat, and made me quite forget that I was still an earth-dweller,—still amid the cares and sorrows and perplexities of a world of sin. But never have I heard music which affected me just as did the singing of the song quoted above, which I heard the other day on the street.

I was hurrying home, perhaps a little more depressed in spirit than usual, and, withal, perhaps a little more forgetful of the “exceeding and eternal weight of glory” which is the certain inheritance of the faithful, when suddenly the words rang out:—

“There is rest for the weary, There is rest for you.”

The voice was shrill and uncertain, lacking every quality which seems essential to good music; still there was something so reassuring and victorious in it, and in the good, old-fashioned words of the hymn, that I turned my head quickly. There was a poor old street-cleaner, shabby and feeble, trundling his cart before him. He looked tired and neglected, but still the words rang out:—

“There is rest for the weary, There is rest for you.”

I am not at all sure that I kept back the tears, even though upon the busy street; for I was profoundly touched.

Then I thought how many there are, even of those who not only profess to believe, but who really do believe, that the “sweet fields of Eden” are very near, who go mournfully along the way, discontented and miserable.

Brother, sister, friend, be of good cheer. Hath not the Master himself said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you”?

What! should we go whimpering and mourning along the path which leads to the glory-lit mansions that we know our Lord is surely preparing for us? Besides this, we must not forget that he has placed us just where we are, and where he evidently wants us to be. Do we forget that he has said, “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord”?

“But,” you protest, “I am far from ‘good.’ Does the Lord still direct my path?”

Surely he does. “It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.” This includes us all.

Well, then, what are we repining and sighing about? But we are all of us likely to think that our trials and sorrows are not like those of other people. We are like the old woman who always insisted that she felt her sorrows much more keenly than other people felt theirs. But “there hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man.”

“Ah, but,” some one says, “it’s easier to preach than to practise, and I guess the best of us worry sometimes,—though perhaps these moralizers never have anything to trouble them, or they wouldn’t be preaching and writing so glibly about the sin of worry and discontent.”

Ah, my friend, how little we know of each other! One day as I was struggling under very deep and perplexing trial, unable to see any light ahead, and not knowing which way to turn, this thought suddenly came to me: “If only we could fully realize the truth that always there is an angel by our side, that he never leaves us alone, how much care and worry it would spare us!”

Well, he is there,—there can be no doubt about it,—the angel who has been with us ever since, weak and helpless, we were laid by loving hands in our mother’s arms. The angel who heard our first infant wailing has never left our side—never. He knows us better than we know ourselves. He is perfectly acquainted with us. He has been with us through all the hard places, and held us up by his invisible but mighty hand many, many times. He knows the trouble which presses so sorely upon heart and brain, even this very hour; and when we have been sufficiently tried,—when the dross has all been burned out of our character, when we have become perfectly pliable and submissive,—then the word will go forth from the great Master Builder, “It is enough!” Then the tangles which have so perplexed us will straighten out, and the dark places will become light and the rough places smooth.

It is only because we are so slow in learning our lessons that we continue to be tried. Did you ever notice that when we fail to learn one lesson of patience, it will be repeated—almost the same way, lesson—again and again? This is because of the loving-kindness of our God.

I once heard of a great singer, who had a very ambitious pupil. To this pupil, the master assigned a lesson.

After a few weeks’ study, the student presented himself before his teacher, and asked for another lesson. The master said nothing, but assigned him the same music. Again he returned, and again received the same. At last he protested, but in vain. “Can you not trust me to do the very best by you, my son?” Again he accepted the same lesson until at last he asked for no other, and patiently labored to perform it perfectly. At last there came a day when the thoroughly trained singer stood before his master. He had at length perfected his task.

“Will you kindly give me a new lesson now, sire?”

“You need none; you have finished. My son, you are now the first singer of Italy—and the world!”

O let us learn the lessons of contentment and patience! They are well worth learning. They give beauty and symmetry—aye, they give sublimity—to the character which they are allowed to mold, and help to fit us for the “many mansions” where we shall forget these things which vex us now so sorely; for the “exceeding weight” of glory will be ours.

Lansing, Mich.