p. 10 | CHEERFULNESS IN THE HOME by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Mountain View, California · Oct 19, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 41.

CHEERFULNESS IN THE HOME.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

(“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”)

I REALLY wonder how it would seem for all those ministers who carry long faces and whose constant expression is one of dejection and gloom, if they were obliged to preach a sermon at least once every month from the above text. I think it would do them good and their hearers as well.

But I sometimes doubt if those long-faced people know that there is such a text as this in the Bible. They can tell us where the Ten Commandments are,—O yes,—and can give chapter and verse for all the threatenings in the Book. But they are apt to forget the blessed promises. Now if this text were not to be found in the Book of inspiration, it would be apt to get considerable criticism. As it is, this blessed proverb, than which there is not a truer or a sweeter in the whole Book, is left severely alone. I wonder who ever heard a sermon preached from it. Did you? I wonder who ever had it framed and hung up in their room, as a beautiful motto to live by,—yes, and to die by, if it be God’s will.

“O, but you are sacreligious. How can you talk of a merry heart on a sick-bed, or a bed of pain, or a couch of death? You might talk of being calm, or resigned, or even cheerful; but ‘merry’! who could be merry when one is suffering?”—This is the time to be merry, for we are then in need of medicine; because, you see, a merry heart—so says Inspiration,—will do you as much good as all the medicine of the apothecary.

I never remember of reading of but one instance when the Apostle Paul ever sang. I don’t know whether he was ordinarily much of a singer or not. But he could sing behind prison bars as sweetly and as loudly as any one,—he, and Silas, too. And they must have been exceedingly uncomfortable, for they were lying on their bruised backs on the bare, hard floor of that dungeon at Philippi, with their feet in the stocks!

“But suppose we are sick unto death!” Well, suppose we are. Is that any time to hang our harps on the willows?

Suppose Death speaks to us. Shall we not make him a brave—nay, a cheerful—answer in the name of Him who holds the keys of death and hell?

“Are you ready to come with me,” says Death. “If not, get ready quickly. I am come for your soul. I shall lay my hand upon you, and an icy chill will pierce your heart. I shall breathe my chill breath upon you, and I shall clasp you in my arms and bear you away; Ah, when I do this, who shall redeem you out of my hand?”

Then let us make answer: “In the name of Him who has said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ we do not fear you. Our King has entered your dark domain. We will smile triumphantly even in the midst of the valley of the shadow. Death can only claim the victory for a brief moment, but yet in our flesh shall we see God. We meet and defy the grim terror, with a countenance that shines like the sun. Aye, the worm may feed upon our body, and the chill prison-house claim us for a little moment—but only for a moment. Glory to the Lord! No place, no time, for despondency. Nothing but a merry heart; nothing but a continual feast.”

“Well,” says one, “I think I might be able to triumph over adversity, and, I trust, even over death, in the name of the Lord; but how am I to meet the little trials of home life, with a cheerful face and a merry heart? Now Mrs. Happyface is the most philosophical woman I ever met. The other day the baby spilled a whole bottle of black ink all over his pretty new white dress. I declare, Mrs. Happyface laughed—actually laughed till the tears came. But I happened to know that she had worked hard to finish that frock for baby in time for the picnic. Of course after that, neither baby nor his mother went.”

Ah, my friend; you call Mrs. Happyface a philosophical woman. Let me assure you it was something better than philosophy which gave her grace to smile in the face of a real trial like that.

“What! do you call such little things trials?”—Surely; and some of them the hardest which we must learn to meet and conquer.

“Well,” says Mrs. Worry, “I find those very things exceedingly wearing to my temper—or, rather, my nerves;—I prefer the latter word. The other day Johnnie spilled his plate of soup in his lap; and, before I had time to think twice, I had slapped the poor child; so that, together with the burn and the correction, he must have suffered considerably.”

“But,” says Brother Poorman, “I find no trouble in being cheerful under such circumstances as these; why, my little Jack does a deal of mischief, but, really, neither wife nor I would think of scolding the little fellow; but I’ll tell you what troubles me. Neighbor Richman is able to provide every luxury for his family. His wife rides out every day, and has servants galore; but my wife is much more delicate in health, and, besides, she is educated and refined, much more so than Mrs. Richman. But I can not afford the luxury of a carriage or servants; and I tell you, to-day when I saw my poor wife trudging off over the dusty road to bring me my dinner in the field, just as Mrs. Richman’s carriage rolled along,—well, I admit I felt anything but cheerful. I didn’t even feel amiable. I felt very cross.”

And still, my brother, I think you can pray yourself into a cheerful frame of mind, in spite of your poverty. Why, you are surely no poorer than the Master, who became poor for your sake. I tell you,—and I mean myself as well—I care not what the provocation may be, it is always best to cultivate a cheerful disposition.

But, if we must be gloomy and morose, if our brow must wear a frown, let us learn to cheer up at home, in the bosom of our own family. Let our countenance resemble a thunder cloud anywhere but at home!

But O, for the sacred precincts of home, let us reserve our sweetest smile and our best behavior,—ALWAYS.