A Dream by Julia M. Moore

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Aug 5, 1915

A Dream

By Julia M. Moore

JULIA M. MOORE

THE home missionary meeting of the Belleville church had opened with prayer and song. The secretary read the minutes, and the report telling of work done by the members during the previous month. “Brethren and sisters,” said the leader, “let us thank the Lord, who has put it into the hearts of our members to work, and has blessed their labors.” As the meeting proceeded, plans were laid for more and better work; magazines and papers were ordered, and much interest was manifested. All felt encouraged, and their zeal was renewed.

“Now,” said the leader, “I am going to ask for our reports today in a new way. Our secretary will call the roll, and each member will respond, giving a verbal report of work done, and telling of any especially interesting experiences. We shall begin with Brother A.”

Brother A then rose and briefly related an incident of a conversation on the train with a traveling man, to whom he had sold a copy of “The World's Crisis;” he had also taken the man's address to send him some papers.

“Sister B, it is your turn,” said the secretary.

“My report this week,” said Sister B, “is twenty-five papers sold, ten hours of Christian Help work done, and five subscriptions taken for the Signs of the Times.”

“Very good,” said the leader.

So the roll call continued, each one responding with some experience of special interest.

While all this went on, the members by their zeal and enthusiasm provoking one another to good works, one little woman sat back, quiet and timid. She heard the different reports, and thought, while grief filled her heart and tears slipped from her eyes, “What have I done for the blessed message? I have sold no papers, I have given no Bible readings, I have not had time to visit prisoners, or the sick. Alas, my blessed Lord, I must come to thee with empty hands,” and a silent sob rose from her heart.

Then her little three-year-old daughter reached up a soft hand to pat the mother's cheek, and whispered, “I love my muvver.”

Then were mine eyes opened, and new understanding was given me. Two heavenly visitors did I behold in the midst of that meeting, listening to all that was said, noting all that was done. And when they saw this woman with troubled heart, they stood beside her, and one said, “These tears are recorded in the books in heaven, each one shining like a jewel of light.”

“Yes,” said the other; “and her deeds, though not recorded on the books of this society, are known to her Heavenly Father. She has not spent her time on herself, but has given her strength for the salvation of souls; and though she knows it not now, yet shall stars shine in her crown.”

Then the other shining one spoke again, “Did she not teach her children all through the week, so that their Sabbath school lesson became to them a living picture of real, living people, and its truths became fixed in their minds? And does she not make their home so happy that never can they lose its holy influence?”

“Aye, brother,” came the answer, “these her children shall be her stars, and they shall stand beside her in that day when the Master shall say, ‘Where is thy flock, thy beautiful flock?’ Then, as she shall answer, ‘Here, Lord, are all; not one is lost,’ she will know, by the look of his face of infinite love and by the voice of his infinite mercy, that while she was faithful in her home, she was working in the harvest field of souls, and gathering rich sheaves for the Master.”

While these two heavenly watchers talked at her side, a sweet feeling of peace stole into the mother's heart, and a voice sang in her soul,— “I'm sure my Heavenly Father knows The balm I need to soothe my woes.”

And the heavenly watchers smiled their benediction.

Chicago, Ill.