p. 10 | THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE by Mary Martin

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 6, 1876

THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE.

By Mary Martin

How many times are we led in a way that we know not of. Our Teacher assigns us one lesson to-day, another to-morrow, and so on through the journey of life, with unerring wisdom choosing for us, where we, with only human wisdom, should be very liable to make sad mistakes. The child at school who without hesitation recited his tables in addition yesterday will find to-day’s lesson in subtraction, while he who counted marbles, made paper balls, and multiplied six by four to make twenty, will not recite in division to-day. If our lessons are often repeated, we need not be at a loss for the reason.

The day was fair, and the wind favorable—all things promised well for a pleasant trip and safe return. Ten o’clock, and all is well. How thoroughly we understand navigation. Clouds arise, the breeze freshens, and waves run high. Our self-gratulation is lost sight of, as we cling to a floating plank, all probabilities indicating that the night will find us resting on coral beds instead of the downy ones in the home nest we left this morning.

If temptations never came, or if we never yielded to them, we should consider ourselves very strong. Perhaps we are trusting in ourselves rather than God, and our fall is to teach us, not that we have need to despair, but that “of yourselves ye can do nothing.”

Last evening the curtain was raised, and we saw unlimited confidence and trust basely betrayed. How we shuddered! Perhaps some grieved and wept, but how many said in their hearts, “I thank thee that I am not as other men are.” It was best that we should be undeceived; but was our character perfected by the exposure? This morning some trifling circumstance occurs that rends the veil, revealing our own hearts. Well may we sicken and grow faint, but our Father saw that this was even far more necessary than the lesson of last evening, and his hand proffers the cup of cleansing, even the blood of his dear Son. Do we judge ourselves unworthy of such a gift, and sink in despair, or accept and feel the work of healing wrought from day to day?

No wise parent would seek to perfect his child’s knowledge of Greek, Hebrew, music, or painting, while mathematics, history, and geography were lost sight of; neither does our Teacher educate us in one branch to the exclusion of all others. He knows that we must die before we can live. “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.” We feel a hand laid upon us, guiding here, restraining there—our fairest hopes are blasted—our dearest plans thwarted. The ominous rumble is followed by the earthquake that rends the ground beneath our feet. A deafening crash paralyzes our every nerve. Not only has everything desirable been engulfed, but life itself is gone.

“The Man of Calvary” has, in his death, the crowning act of his inimitable life, left a lesson for each student in the school of Christ. The years of his earthly ministry were filled with words and deeds of disinterested benevolence, compared with which the best human efforts seem insignificant; but his spilled blood was the fountain designed to purify the world. “He poured out his soul unto death,” and gave his life “an offering for sin” for us. “Christ the Consolation,” sweet words realized unto us when we fall beneath the chastening rod—to die. Then the Father’s hand again quickens the life-current and the death struggle is succeeded by a subdued and holy joy. A new era has dawned, and we adopt the language of the apostle Paul: “I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.”

Now we “see through a glass darkly.” We cannot measure the mind of the Infinite, or understand at a glance all his plans and purposes. The good results which might be secured are often worse than lost through perversion. We grieve over the pain, sinking beneath the blow, when we should seek out the cause, and be profited by it.

We have a delicate plant which we wish to train to a trellis. A decaying branch lies at its root. Before we are aware, all its tendrils are twining around the branch, while not one clings to the trellis. We know that decay and death linger in the damp mold where it lies, and so unclasp its clinging hands and place it where, by climbing up, it will grow in health and beauty. We may not be able to do this without severing some of the tendrils, but the hope of a rich after growth solaces our momentary regret. Thus God often deals with us poor mortals. Oh! how reluctant we are to release our grasp. We choose the damp earth-mold rather than the clear dry atmosphere of heaven. Our Father sees the discipline we need, and in his providence lets circumstances come which will separate us from that which is comparatively worthless, positively harmful, or not of the highest value, thus teaching us to look up to Him. When the tendrils are broken, shall we not recognize the hand that never smites but for our good, kiss the falling rod, and climb up where Heaven’s purer light can fall upon us?

Our words are weak and inexpressive, utterly failing to convey our better thoughts; our minds are narrow, we see only the bitterness of the chastisement, while the great designs of the Infinite, because not wholly unfolded, lie so far out of sight that we pass them by. The angel with the cup of blessing may be very near, while our blinding tears transmute its white-robed radiance into a dark and vengeful cloud.

The waves take the child’s tiny craft far out beyond the reach of hand or hope of recovery. He throws himself in agony on the white sand, but fails to see the pearl which the receding wave deposited, though it lies beneath his hand. “Men are but children of a larger growth.” God often removes a lesser blessing, bestowing a greater when we have learned submission; and the reason why we sit in darkness without either is not because his hand is shortened or he unwilling to bestow.

Paul might have said, “I put the saints in prison and lent my influence to condemn them to death, I have been so great a sinner it is useless for me to seek God’s face and favor.” But no. Truly repentant for the past, he bravely meets the issues of the present, and leaves a record that has been a light to all succeeding ages. The psalmist might have sunk in the deep mire of the “Slough of Despond;” but from the depths of its deadening darkness he reached forth his hand to the Omnipotent, and his songs of victory may revive our last latent hope.

The loved and loving John was no doubt grieved by the treachery of professed friends, and it was indeed a dark Providence when his emperor banished him to lonely Patmos. But from the mountain grottoes on this rock-bound coast comes a voice telling of closer communion with God than he had ever enjoyed in days made bright by outward prosperity.

We look with him from beneath the cool branches of the “tree of life” across the “sea of glass” to the pearly gateway of entrance. We do not see the steep acclivity we just ascended, the ragged rocks that obstructed the way, or the thorns that grew spontaneously in all the narrow path. “But we see Jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor,” and feel in our hearts that life’s bitter discipline taught us to sing in notes of triumphal melody, “Great and marvelous are thy works, . . . just and true are thy ways, thou King of saints.”

MARY MARTIN.