GOD'S PARABLES by Llewellyn A. Morrison

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · May 25, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 21.

GOD'S PARABLES.

By Llewellyn A. Morrison

BY LLEWELLYN A. MORRISON.

Every human life is a parable, and, if we could but interpret the essential truths illustrated, would be revealed as fraught with eternal verities. The common, simple, every-day happenings, too, are not only parts of this great whole, but are each, possibly, in themselves as full of heavenly imagery as that story of “the sower and the seed” told by the Lord as He sat in a fishing-boat by the shore of Gennesareth.

One of the most precious promise chapters in the Old Testament is the forty-first of Isaiah; the sixteenth verse is at the core of the consolations and expresses the vitalizing faith—force of the song:—

“I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”

Comforting, however, as it is in the King James Version, one of the readings of the American Revisers multiplies and manifolds the comforts. Listen to it:—

“I, the Lord Jehovah, will hold thy right hand and keep saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”

That I will “keep saying” is so full of sweetness and encouragement and comes so tenderly to my own heart that I can not help narrating a “parable” illustrating the verse, that memory culls from the treasure-trove of childhood recollections.

My father’s home was in the wild woods of the township of Dummer, in Peterborough County, where I was born. It was a plain log cabin, situated in a stumpy clearing, with thick bush all around. Similar clearings by other settlers had been begun on other lots; but it was many years before these primitive openings were extended so as to meet. Then every settler was in a sense shut in and alone. At the beginning blazed paths through the woods connected one home with another; then a little later rough roads were laid out, following the level, around hills and across the swamps at the narrowest places, without reference to the concession lines, road allowance. These roads were but rough trails at first, with stones, roots, ruts, and mud-holes over their whole length. The compact growth of large trees shut out the light to quite an extent along these roads in the daytime; they were practically impassable at night.

Very little visiting was done between the neighbors. There was no leisure for visiting because of the burden of hard work laid upon every one, even the children. Now and again calls had to be made on account of some urgent need, and it was an event with us little folks if we were permitted to go along. How we scampered ahead along the foot-paths or over the short cuts, barefooted, through the woods! How happy we were at the thought of meeting other children! Then if you could have seen us when we reached that other house, how bashful and shy we were until told to “run and play.”

I remember such an occasion, when I went with my mother to Mrs. McConnell’s, during the forenoon of an early autumn day, when, to my unspeakable delight—and after sundry warnings to be a good boy—I was permitted to remain all day, so that father would come for me in the evening. There were two boys in that home: Robert, six months older than I, and Willie, about a year younger. I fancy it was the first time we boys had a whole day’s play together. It would be interesting to the little folks were I to tell of the games we played, for they were all our own, as we had no one to teach us. One thing we did, which fixes the time of the year, was to gather a lot of beech-nuts, which Mrs. McConnell boiled for us. It must have been late in the afternoon when we gathered the nuts, for, while we were busy in the house about them, and apparently before we were aware of it, a terrific rain and thunder-storm came on. I was immediately in trouble because of the storm, fearing that father would not come for me; and I could not get home alone. I remember Mrs. McConnell’s assuring me that she would take care of me and

our bunk was large enough for two extra boys, but I still felt uneasy, for I knew that I was “mother’s boy,” and she would feel badly if I were away.

Night came down, dense and gloomy, which an occasional flash of chain lightning relieved for an instant only to intensify the blackness. The wind blew and the rain poured in torrents, so that not even the great blazing logs on the old-fashioned hearth could dispel the shadows which were on us little folks.

Then I can distinctly remember my father coming out of the night with a great full-cloth ulster overcoat on, reaching down to his feet, and the water dripping from it as he shook himself and it before the fire. In one hand he had a round hickory stick about six feet long, sharpened at one end, which served the purpose of an “alpenstock,” and in the other hand a cedar bark torch which he threw on the fire, saying, “A torch is useless such a night as this.” Cedar bark torches were the lanterns of those days. After he had chatted a while he put on the roomy overcoat again. It was supposed to have been made waterproof by boiling the cloth in alum water, previous to making, and was undoubtedly very nearly so. I thought it strange as he put it on that he did not put his left hand into the sleeve but kept it inside the coat. Then he said to me:—

“Stand up here beside me, my boy. Catch hold of my belt with one hand and take hold of my left hand with your other hand.”

Then he buttoned up the coat, his arm forming a sort of arch to keep the coat out from me so that I could walk and yet be sheltered from the storm, and away we went into the boisterous night. The novelty of the thing made it start off pleasantly; but pretty soon one of my bare feet came whack against a stone, and my father seemed to know it, for he said: “Go carefully, and lift your feet. Hang on tight.”

As we plodded through the awful darkness. How deep the ruts were, and how very slippery the road! For a while I said, “Father, can you see?” “Sometimes, but I know the way,” and then I thought it was nice that father always knew. I could feel his hand gripping mine and almost lifting me over the rough places, as he kept saying to me: “Don’t be afraid. Hang on to my belt. Lean hard to me. We will be home presently. Mother is watching, and has a light in the window for us.”

And the lightning flashed, the thunder roared and echoed through the woods, and the rain poured down. We made slow progress, and I dare say an hour was consumed going a mile; up and down, backward and forward, in and out, and many a time, had it not been for father’s faithfulness, my hold of him and his hold of me, I would have gone down or given up, but I could do neither. Father was taking me home, and, although the way was rough, the footing uncertain, the tempest beating and the child quite unequal to it all, yet he had me in his holding. I could not see, but he knew, and so I stumbled along. That was faith, but I did not know it. Father and home were the terminals of hope, far away yet. The way became smoother, and then I knew we were in the clearing.

Suddenly there came an awful thunder crash and downpour. Father quickly lifted me to his arms, at the same moment calling, “Here we are, mother.” The door and the coat came open together, and I was in mother’s arms and at home. The cheerful fire on the hearth gave light and heat. The pain and fear were gone and forgotten. Only the father’s sheltering care was remembered. Mother was a refuge for every ill.

“Some day, with song and service done, No one shall say me nay— I’ll find the path and follow on To be with her for aye.”

Toronto, Can.