PATIENCE IN THE HOME by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 13, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 28.

PATIENCE IN THE HOME.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

Do you ever pray for patience? “O God, make me a patient mother;” “Make me a patient father;” “Lord, help me to be patient with my pupils.”

“O yes,” you say; “I often pray for patience, that is one of the Christian graces, and one of the hardest to attain unto.”

Did you ever pray for tribulation? “A strange thing to pray for,—I get enough of that without asking for any more,” you reply. Well, I think that is the way with most of us. But we forget that it is “tribulation” that “worketh patience.”

“But trouble is the very thing that makes me impatient.” Does it? Then you are failing to gain the experience, and the blessing for which that trouble was sent. How can we be patient if we are never tried—if we never have occasion to be impatient? If everything moves along smoothly all day; if husband's wages have been raised, and baby has not been fretful; if Mary has secured a good position; if the bread and the pudding were a success, and John praised our skill at dinner, of course we were not at all tired at night, and were so sweet-tempered and smiling, that every one remarked about it. But some way, we did not feel that we deserved a bit of credit.

Do you remember about Job? He was called the most patient man who ever lived. Why? Because he never had any trouble?—No; he endured the most fearful calamities one after the other of any man of which we have any record,—and he endured them patiently.

“What is the use in our trying to keep up any longer?” asked his wife. “The Almighty has forsaken us. Our children are taken from us; my mother heart is wrung; our property is destroyed, and now you are smitten with these horrible boils. Come, let us curse God and die.”

The faithful man rises up in holy indignation from his bed of ashes. “What! shall we curse Him who gave us all these blessings that we have enjoyed, lo these many years? Suppose they are taken from us! Who gave them? Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil also? Tho He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Fearman, “I am sure I could be patient under affliction. Last summer we buried our only child, and in the autumn my husband lost his property. It was hard to endure, but God gave grace. But, I tell you, when the neighbors began to look down on us because we had lost so much money that we could not afford the accustomed luxuries; when Mrs. B. refused to recognize me at church, and I saw Susie Rich actually sneer as I went past,—then I must confess, I lost my patience. I tell you it's hard to be laughed at.”

Well, I know it is; I think I know by experience; if I do not, Job did. “Job? I had not thought of such a thing in connection with that grand old hero,” you say.

Ah, his sublimity of character shone forth in its greatest beauty in the midst of the contempt and scorn of—not the rich and mighty who were his one-time companions, but he was actually spit upon by those who were the recipients of his bounty in the days of his prosperity. They hastened—not to do him honor—but to show him the grossest disrespect which it is possible to manifest,—to spit in the face of the sick and wretched man as he lay groveling in misery upon the ground.

“Take, my brethren, the prophets, . . . for an example of suffering affliction, and of patience.”

But the grace of patience comprises more than this. It is a far-reaching and all-embracing virtue. We can not always be sure that a man is patient because he is able to endure ill treatment from his neighbors,—not always. Wait until you see him at home,—or rather until he thinks you do not see him. Wait until his wife crosses his track, or the children try his temper by their childish pranks. Some men are proverbially kind, and even generous and thoughtful toward every one but their wives. I know a dear little woman who would be very happy if her husband would be one-half as careful of her feelings as he is of his neighbor's.

Neither can you tell for certain whether a woman has acquired the beautiful grace of patience because her name is on the church book, or because she is first and foremost in the Dorcas Society. These are good indications certainly, but if you want to be sure about it, watch her in her home life.

Ah, it is the conduct at home that counts. Who among us are willing to be watched from morning until night at home, while we are about the duties of the day; while we are sweeping and dusting and washing and ironing and tending baby and waiting upon a peevish invalid? How do we speak to the careless, slipshod servant girl? Were the tones of our voice modulated with kindness and patience this morning, when we asked her how it happened that the potatoes were always undone, the milk allowed to sour, and the bread to burn? Are we sure no impatient word escapes our lips when we get so weary? when our tired feet ache with climbing up and down the cellar stairs, and our arms and shoulders become almost numb with weariness in bearing burdens that seem too heavy for us,—burdens that must be borne by somebody. Are we quite willing that all our impatient words and tones should be faithfully noted? Willing or unwilling, the watch is set. We are a spectacle to men and to angels.

But how are we going to endure so many things, even if they are small, and endure them patiently? Indeed the little trials seem sometimes most heavy to bear.

This morning I hurried across the road on an errand, to the home of my neighbor, a beautiful Christian woman. I was almost too tired to undertake even so trifling an errand, and, as I went, I said in my heart: “I do not seem fitted for these things; these petty duties weary me so! breakfast, dinner, supper,—a monotonous round of duties, an endless chain in which every link is the same,”—and I wondered if any one else ever felt just as I had. “I am so tired this morning,” I said to her; “now it seems to me that you never have these feelings,—a kind of hungering after something different and better. You seem so calm and sweet and patient. O, my dear, tell me your secret.”

“Ah, I must confess to having the very same trouble,” she said, with a suggestion of tears in her expressive eyes. “Only this morning when some extra work came, I tell you, my dear, I felt sort of overwhelmed. It is not so every day, but sometimes.”

Ah, so we are all alike. “He fashioneth their hearts alike.” “There hath no temptation taken you, but such as is common to man.”

I tell you there is nothing which will so effectively keep weary, overworked, struggling humanity from impatience, as perfect trust and submission to Him who apportions all our cares. Some one has said that the divine recipe for curing impatience, is found in I Thess. 5:16-18. “Rejoice evermore; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks.” “Evermore” does not mean part of the time, when everything goes well. We must cultivate a happy disposition. God knows it is so hard to do this sometimes, and He is anxious to help us bear these burdens which, unless we allow Him to do so, will crush out our spiritual life as surely as our temporal. Then shall we not begin to put a double guard upon ourselves, lest we frown when we ought to smile, and lest a spirit of impatience come over us? I tell you, if we are impatient before the children, they become infected by the same spirit. It is surprising to see how the little faces reflect the smiles or the frowns.

“But when I am half sick,” you protest. O, it is so hard to keep patient where one is just about half sick. If one is sick in bed,—real sick,—the case is different.

I have a dear friend who has not walked across the house in years. She is not without actual pain a moment, yet the smile upon her lips is a constant benediction; and the amount of real unselfish Christian help work she does is enough to shame many another whose privileges are much greater. Constantly on the outlook for opportunities to do others good, an impatient word never escapes her.

Now then; shall we not settle comfortably down to the belief that He who has created us knows just the number of trials we need to develop the beautiful virtue of patience within us? and shall we not be happy and content in knowing that He will not forget us nor leave us to battle alone, but that He will “perfect that which concerneth me?”