ONE WHO CARRIED LAMPS by Emma H. Adams

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 9, 1896

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 22, No. 27.

ONE WHO CARRIED LAMPS.

By Emma H. Adams

BY EMMA H. ADAMS.

“Those who carry lamps will pass them to others.”

“PLEASE tell me,” said Mary Miller, “why so many of the human race wait to be instructed how to do a thing they have never done before. Why do they not at least try to do such things, think how to do them, discover how to do them?”

“I should say,” continued the woman, “that about three-fifths of the people I meet, in my peregrinations as a deaconess, live in a state of mental half-lights. At best their ideas are hazy. Often they seem to slip out of mind when but half formed. ‘How to do’ is a perennial enigma to them. They appear to be waiting always for some shining soul to illuminate their way.”

“Well,” answered the friend addressed, “what a privilege, to furnish light for such as can not see!”

“Yes,” retorted Mary, “that is a privilege. But I am speaking of a class who might see, as I believe, would they but make the necessary effort. I read not long ago of a man who was cured of physical blindness by the sheer force of his will. Could a will of that sort be inserted into a large fraction of those to whom we minister, the board of deaconesses could take a day off twice a year. I should heartily advocate daily hypodermic injections of the efficacious force—until recovery.”

“They call us—in a pretty way—‘light-bearers,’ and we are expected to leave a sort of immaterial lamp, of many-candle power, blazing in every home we visit. A deaconess needs to be connected with an inexhaustible oil well. I confess that when the demand for lamps is brisk, my supply of oil sometimes runs very low. I believe many men and women easily fall into the habit of taking most of their light from other people. It seems easier to them than to get it from the original source.”

“My dear,” interrupted Mary’s friend, “stop a moment. Let me suggest that a lamp unused requires no oil, and, moreover, emits no light. And let me suggest, further, that an exhaustless oil well is exactly what is provided for those who carry lamps ungrudgingly.”

“O, I perceive to what end you are coming!” said Mary. “I am familiar with the scripture you have in mind. It can be true in two ways. ‘Good measure’ of something will indeed be dealt to us. Not unlikely it will be cold ingratitude, ‘pressed down, shaken together, and running over.’ Nay, frequently it is that even after one has done her utmost to shine for those who supinely live in twilight.”

“The sixth chapter of Luke was far from my thought,” replied the friend, “but even if your way of putting the case be true—and I’m convinced it sometimes is—you fare not worse than does our great Exemplar, Christ. He lights freely every man who comes into the world, and the tremendous majority never realize it, nor ever thank him therefor. Instead, they spurn his beneficent light, and surge on in the darkness. In no experience can any member of the body of Christ expect to fare better than the Head.”

“No, this was the thought in my mind: God is able to make all grace abound toward his lamp-bearers, ‘that they, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound unto every good work.’ God himself is the oil well. Slight, indeed, is the danger of one’s lamp flickering to the death point, if she will but allow the great Oil-maker to keep it full. The most productive of oil wells may ‘flow dry,’ but every lamp carried in his service is guaranteed a sufficiency of the invaluable fluid.”

“Well,” answered Mary, “we may talk all day about lamps, oil, and light, but that will not instruct simple Susan Sage how to produce a satisfactory dinner for three hungry children out of material scant in quantity.”

“Nor will it teach Lizzie Lyons how to extinguish a fever without calling a doctor; nor how to correct her wayward son without beating his person inhumanly. Nor will it furnish Grandma Castinet eyes with which to write her only son, in far-off Van Diemen’s Land, and whom she has not seen these fifteen years.”

“Nor will it induct Sylvia Slattern into the fine art of putting her lowly home in good order, and of keeping it so. Nor will it enlighten Theron Thinklittle on the subject of making a little coal last a long time, these bracing days.”

“This, you see, means oil and light for five, and they are but half the number in my district needing illuminators to-day. O, if some of these persons would but remove the charred edge from their own wicks and put a match to them—in other words, would but think for themselves! Lamps and oil at wholesale are what this work demands. In fact, in this service, one should be hung from head to foot with lamps—Rochester burners vastly in the majority.”

Having thus eased mind and heart, Mary stepped into the street and sped toward a gentle home, into which, more than once, she had borne a lamp burning brightly. As she hastened, her thoughts grew convalescent. “It is a kindness in the divine Master,” she said, “to suffer me to be a light-bearer to human beings, living in want or under shadows. Perhaps it is his plan that some mortals shall possess but feeble lamps, in order that his children—those needing such discipline—may contribute the light such persons seek.”

“Into the minds and hearts of his true children the Master puts the lamps of his word and of his Spirit, and then says to them: ‘Ye are the light of the world.’ Arise, and shine amid the darkness. So, scattered throughout the earth are his light-bearers, with their lamps—some of the lamps glowing like the soft stars in the Pleiades, and others flashing like the brilliant orbs in Orion—according as He purposes.”

“Among them one may discern lamps of example, sympathy lamps, mercy lamps, lamps of tenderness, and here and there a conspicuous light-giver with the word ‘ORDER’ inscribed thereon. But the lamps which emit the loveliest rays are a class of little gold vessels, beautifully formed, and labeled OBEDIENCE. From their flames a sweet perfume proceeds—the incense of true worship. These lamps, worn upon the forehead instead of carried in the hand, have the peculiar power to ward off some of the adversary’s most dangerous weapons.”

Thus thinking, before Mary was aware, she stood before the home of Carrie Curtiss; her complaining mood vanished utterly. Rapping lightly upon the door, it was opened by Carrie herself.

“O Miss Mary!” cried the young woman, “I’m most thankful you have come. Step in, please. I’m under dark shadows to-day. My work will not get on. I shall not be able to finish it in time.”

“How much remains to be done?” asked Mary, beginning to remove her gloves, “and when must it be delivered?”

Taking up the garment she was making, Carrie pointed out the unfinished portions, and added: “Then will follow the many finishing touches. I have promised the garment at seven this evening.”

“Well, little friend,” said Mary cheerfully, “I have over an hour at my disposal, and will spend the time here. I am skilled at this sort of work, as you know; but I can get on best if alone. So please put your wraps on at once, and spend the time out-of-doors. But first run into the refreshment parlors on James Street, and get a nice luncheon for yourself. This bit of money will settle the bill. Do not protest. Please go.”

Having thus driven the frail girl out into the delightfully invigorating air, Mary plied her needle to such purpose that, upon Carrie’s return, brightened and refreshed, there remained but the “finishing touches” to be given by her own hand.

Noting instantly the amount of work accomplished in her absence, the young girl said gratefully: “Miss Mary, I should think the sun had come out did I not know the sky is heavily overcast with clouds. It will now be mere play to complete this garment. But for you, I must have failed. Then I could have looked for no more work from Mrs. Chapin. You have made the cloudy day very bright. I thank you.”

“Excuse me, Betty, for not knocking,” pleaded Mary, as she opened the door of a time-worn cottage on the outskirts of town. “I was quite sure you were in bed, and therefore walked in.”

“Come in, Honey,” answered the woman addressed. “You needn’ make no ’pology to Betty Black, for not bein’ ceremonious at that doah. The sunlight doan make no ’pology for walkin’ in. The moon doan stan’ on ceremony ’bout shinin’ in that winder. Both them orbs knows their light is more’n welcome. You doan scatter ’broad quite so much glory’s them high-sailin’ luminaries, but plenty for this small room, an’ for these ole eyes, an’ for some reasons you’re more welcome than light of sun or moon.”

“In some respects, the sunlight ’minds me of Satan. It reveals all your warts an’ scars, an’ wrinkles clear as day, keeps you lookin’ at ’em till you forget you have any pleasin’ flesh. Just so does that adversary. He holds you gazin’, gazin’ at your sins an’ your failin’s, an’ prevents your seein’ the blessed

One who takes away sin, stan’in’ near, sorry you’re in such torment. You’re more like them ’bligin’ stars that doan make mortal imp’fections so plain, but kindly even up one’s ’pearance, an’ doan distress one with her filthy rags o’ character.”

“Betty, I’ve come to see what I can do for you,” said Mary, waiting for an opportunity to speak. “Are you in need of anything?”

“Yes, Honey, in need o’ grace to bear ’thout complainin’ the pain in that hip; in need o’ grace to be willin’ these ole han’s should close up this way, ’stead o’ straightenin’ out, as once they could; in need o’ grace to be willin’ others should do for me the things I’d like to do for myself.”

“But, Honey, ’pears like there’s a world o’ people holdin’ out cups for grace, an’ I doan like to call the Lord’s ’tention to me more’n I can help. ’Spect, tho, he sees my empty cup ’thout my sayin’ a single word.”

“Betty,” answered the visitor, “God, having given us Jesus Christ, with him freely gives us all things, an’ ‘abundance of grace’ included. We need not hesitate to present our cups. God’s throne is a throne of grace. Coming to it boldly, we find grace to help in every time of need.”

“Didn’t I tell you you’re like one of them soft shinin’ stars that shed down just the light that Betty Black can bear? By speakin’ them words you’ve set a little lamp a glowin’ in my dim mind. I see, Honey, the path to the throne’s always open ’cept I put up the bars. Perhaps I’m too timid, knowin’ God is so great. That adversary’s always tantalizin’ me with God’s greatness, and says I’m smaller’n a sparrow.”

“Betty,” replied Miss Miller seriously, “Christ the Lord has opened for us the way to the throne of grace, and no power in the universe, except ourselves, can close it. Now let me inquire if you are in need of food?” Mary was thinking of other calls yet to be made.

“Well, now, Honey, it’s a little curious, I haven’t a cent in the world, but the blessed Lord never lets me go hungry. From some one of his overflowin’ kitchens he sends me ’bundance every day. I lie here helpless, and ’magin’ his own hand packs the baskets, for they always contain everything I want. No, Miss Mary, you brought me light for my mind. That is why he sent you. ’Fore night, ’long will come another angel with nice food.”

Adding a few cheering words, and assuring the invalid she would come again, Mary left the house, and retraced her way toward the center of town, making two brief calls before reaching Main Street. Thence she passed on to an unattractive district, crowded with mills, foundries, and tenements for day laborers. A row of cheap one-story dwellings lined one of the numerous short streets of the neighborhood. Opening the front door of one of them, Mary stepped into the vestibule and knocked lightly at the entrance to the first apartment.

The summons brought to the door a woman of middle age, and evidently very sad. Taking her extended hand, Mary asked in a low tone, “How is he to-day?”

“Failing rapidly,” was the brief answer. The two then stepped to the bedside of a man, very ill of pneumonia, and of whose recovery there was no hope. He lay with eyes closed, and, apparently, was unconscious of their presence.

Mary studied his pallid features for a moment, and then, turning to the wife—his sole watcher and nurse—she was impressed by her wan appearance, and by the great effort she was evidently making to be heroic under her trial. Drawing her aside, Mary opened her reticule, took therefrom a small sum, and placed it in the woman’s unresisting hand, saying:—

“You may be in need of articles for his comfort or for your own. Please prepare yourself quickly, and go out for a long, brisk walk. Spend a half hour at least. I will take your place at the bedside, and do the best I can. If possible, do not think of the scene in this room. Look off at the distant hills, and believe that as are those hills around us, so is the Lord around all his children. Do not object. You need the change.”

Thus kindly did the self-appointed nurse drive Annie Allen out into the light and fresh air.

Alone, then, with the patient, Mary seated herself by the bedside, and waited silently for any movement on his part. Unmistakably, the man was approaching the end of life. For some minutes he gave no intimation that he was aware of the change in attendants. But, finally, opening his eyes, he said feebly, but distinctly:—

“Miss Miller.”

At the instant Mary’s attention was diverted. She was therefore startled upon hearing her name. But rising, she asked gently:—

“What can I do for you?”

“That was a kind service you rendered Annie,” he said. “She needed just that thrusting out into the crisp air, and needed still more the charge to look away to the Almighty One, who built the enduring hills. Soon all her need in this life must be supplied by him.” The man had not strength to say more.

Mary thought a moment, and then said encouragingly:—

“Do not worry about Annie. Through Paul the Spirit tells us: ‘All things are for your sakes.’ ‘All things are yours, . . . and ye are Christ’s.’ Faith will make these statements true. No member of Christ’s body will be suffered to want. ‘My God shall supply all your need,’ is a promise which will be verified absolutely.”

“Miss Miller, can anything sever the Christian from Christ?” asked the man earnestly, as tho the dark doubt were troubling him.

“It must be the Christian’s own act which severs him from his Lord,” replied Mary. “Every true Christian is a part of Christ until he himself destroys the union by unbelief. Of all such Christ declares, ‘They shall never perish, neither shall any man [being] pluck them out of my hand.’ Were it possible to sunder one member from the body of Christ, ‘the Christ of God’ would be incomplete. The total Christ requires both head and body.”

“Those are blessed statements, Miss Miller. I wonder greatly that I never before had that view of my relation to the dear Head,” said the sufferer.

Both persons now lapsed into silence. The invalid closed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking of what he had heard, while Mary, taking a book from the table, read quietly. The half hour and more had passed, when Mrs. Allen came in laden with little purchases, and showing happy results from her walk.

Going directly to the bedside, she stood for a moment scanning the face of her husband attentively, when suddenly her parcels dropped upon the floor, she uttered a low cry of agony, called his name, and laid her head down upon his immobile face. There came no answer. Her husband had entered upon his final sleep.

Midnight had passed when Mary left the bereaved woman in the company of friends, and alone hurried along the deserted streets toward home, feeling inexpressibly weary, and questioning if she had really passed a lighted lamp that day to any of the multitude traveling earth’s shadowed pathways.