p. 10 | HER CRUSE OF OIL by Davis Dayton

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Dec 5, 1895

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 21, No. 48.

HER CRUSE OF OIL.

By Davis Dayton

BY DAVIS DAYTON.

My bitter cup to sweetness turn’d When I had full submission learn’d.

Mrs. Russell had been out to prayer meeting. It was Sabbath evening, and of late she had not often enjoyed this service; ill health and household duties had detained her at home. And now she threw aside her hat and wrap and sat down to meditate. A brother had spoken of the “widow’s cruse of oil” and how it was increased by the using thereof. And he commented thus: “We all have our cruse of oil,—abilities and opportunities that may be increased by the using of them. Nothing doubting, pour out the oil, and there will be enough to fill all the vessels at our command.” “What is my cruse?” asked our friend. “My talents are all used up right here at home. Our children are so young and so numerous, and we are so straitened in means, that I have no golden opportunities. The oil in my vessel is so far spent that it can not be increased.” And this truly highly favored servant of the Lord went into her prettily furnished room, and from thence to her comfortable bed, without one thought of gratitude to Him who had given it all.

She fell asleep with the feeling that injury had been done her, and awoke in no better frame of mind. The gift of sleep, of watchful care, the comfortable home, the husband and children, and the ability to minister to these dear ones, were all counted as nothing so long as every circumstance was not moulded to suit her. There were daily annoyances, little everyday trials that must be removed ere she could be contented or appear so. And she went about the house with a gloomy countenance, a forbidding mien, and an unbridled tongue. “Circumstances are all against me,” she would exclaim. “If circumstances were different, I should be pleasant.” Ah, friend, if you wait for circumstances to be favorable to duty, you will wait forever! The Lord calls you to duty just where you are and just as you are situated.

There were five children in the Russell household, naturally a bright, merry crew; but the mother, who should ever have been the guiding star of these children, was by her fretting and harshness continually doing them damage. Harold, the eldest, the one boy, was growing morose and silent and tyrannical with his sisters, and the younger ones were learning to quarrel, principally because their mother’s spirit was contagious.

Arthur Russell, the husband and father of this flock, genial and pleasant in disposition and home-loving in nature, was now learning to like evenings spent at the club or other resort. Home was not pleasant when its presiding genius was ever out of tune. He was also growing less considerate of her to whom his sacred vows were plighted. To sum up all, when our friend began to cultivate a cross, grumbling spirit, she had little to grumble over; but thankfulness increases our hoard of blessings, while murmuring and discontent fast diminish them.

We will give you a glimpse of this family as upon a bright October morning they sit at the breakfast table. Mr. Russell, a pleasant-faced, fine-featured man, sits opposite his companion, whose countenance is at present full of frowns. Her complexion is good, her features passable, but that true adornment, a smile, is wanting; therefore her face is unattractive. She is silently sipping her coffee, pausing now and anon to chide one of the children. These children—what a beautiful group! From fifteen-year-old Harold down to three-year-old Mabel we might almost say there is no blemish. Was not here wealth for any woman,—a good husband and this band of fine-looking children, and this in a comfortable home?

Our friend is indisposed this morning, and ever makes indisposition a plea for ill-nature; and, as if this were not enough, she has discovered that Harold has injured his new suit. Therefore this Christian woman, with her casket of precious jewels before her eyes, comforts and luxuries all about her, and the golden sun kissing the bright heads around her and flooding the room with light, glorious light, sits in morose silence at her well-spread breakfast table, thus darkening the room despite Sol’s efforts to cheer her.

The two younger children prattled over their food, but the mother’s gloomy mien affected all the other members of this group, bidding them feel that they were guilty or accounted thus.

The father at length, addressing his boy, said, “Well, my hopeful, can you take charge in my absence?” The words were purposely cheerily spoken, that they might serve to break the reigning oppressiveness. Before the boy could frame an answer, the mother, in a surprised, injured tone, cried:— “Arthur, your absence? are you going off on another pleasure trip when you know how I dislike them?” “Why, Emma, dear, you know I told you yesterday that Youngs and myself were going out on a quail hunt and would be absent until to-morrow evening.”

“You told me no such thing. I am positive you did not, Arthur.” “O, yes, I did, my dear! I would not go without consulting you, no, indeed.” “You never told me a word of the matter,” retorted Mrs. Russell sharply, “you did not think it worth while to tell me. You do not speak to me so often but that I can recollect what you do say. You have words of cheer and kindness for every one but your wife,” and here tears of self-pity coursed slowly down this misguided woman’s cheeks. Mr. Russell in distress exclaimed: “My dear one, how can you speak thus? You know I do not want to neglect you.” “Neglect me? you never take me out anywhere. In all of our sixteen years of married life you never planned a trip for me. I can stay at home and be nurse to your children while you go off on pleasure; other women can go, other wives have husbands to think for them, but I am simply a drudge, a nurse and servant, kept at cheapest rates. You never tell me anything you can keep from me, except something to trouble me, and you never do anything to please or even comfort me,” and Mrs. Russell’s tone was suited to her words.

Without a word Mr. Russell sprang from his chair, snatched his hat, and hurried from the room, and an hour after, without a farewell to his wife, went away on the train.

In consequence both were unhappy, he because he had not relented, she because her inward monitor accused her of unreasonableness. And yet when they again met, Mrs. Russell mingled reproaches with her greeting—his was all the blame, hers all the suffering.

The cruse of oil was often before her mind; “I can do nothing that counts,” she would fretfully say, “shut in almost like a criminal; ill health and children are the chains that bind me. I can not increase my usefulness,” and these thoughts would make the poor woman more dissatisfied than before.

When with wintry breath December came, another infant opened its eyes in the home; and just here the mother found great cause of complaint. “There was anything needed more than a baby in that house; and then another girl—a boy might have been welcomed, but they had more girls than their share prior to this arrival.”

Was there no thankful cord struck in that mother’s heart? Did she feel no gratitude to Him who had guided her past danger and placed the gift of a well-formed infant in her arms? It seemed not, and when her husband strove to comfort her, he was reproached because he knew nothing of a mother’s cares, and therefore could not give sympathy. The new baby was not to be looked upon as a gift, but as a trial. Each new event was a matter of fault-finding, and this to the husband was an impetus in a downward stream. It defeated its own aims, added to his growing indifference. How could he have the same solicitude for his companion as if she were gentle and lovely?

Alas, she wasted the oil in her cruse!

The new baby proved to be a fretful child, and, with the added care and labor, the mother seemed to have scarce a pleasant word left for her dear ones.

And the husband and father found home a dark, unattractive place, and the club room bright and pleasant. The wife fretted and censured and daily widened the breach between them.

Mr. Russell was not a strong man where temptation was concerned, and in seeking outside of home for pleasure he fell into that alluring vice, gambling, in a small way, ’tis true, but dangerous, because his fondness for it rapidly increased. The wife could

have held him to her with the strong chain of love, but in her blindness she drove him far from her. If he spent an evening at home, the time was occupied in hearing detailed accounts of his companion’s grievances—her trials with the children and servant, her deprivations, her poor health, and her unsympathizing husband. This was her daily theme, her evening plaint. And Russell fled the sound which so grated upon his ear. Though well meaning, he was not a Christian man, therefore in the more danger.

Matters rapidly grew worse, the wife more rebellious and fault-finding, and the husband more engrossed with his vice. And Harold, the truly promising lad, was being led into bad company because not well guarded.

A crisis came here, and all unexpectedly. It had been ascertained that somewhere in the vicinity a gang of counterfeiters were at work at their unlawful business, and the detectives were on their track.

Mr. Russell had heard of this but had given it but little heed; it didn’t seem to concern him. At length, however, it was brought to his mind with keenness not to be forgotten. One evening it happened that as he and two of his friends were engaged in a game of win and lose, two strange men entered their rather private resort, making all apologies for so doing. “They were visitors in town, liked a game of cards, and had heard it could there be enjoyed.”

They were cordially welcomed, staked large sums, lost, and yet seemed ever anxious to play again. Upon this evening of all others, Arthur Russell was the winning party. No one seemed so fortunate as himself; and he was induced to drink more freely than his wont.

In the midst of the absorbing excitement of the game, the officers of the law came upon them and arrested the whole party, as being in connection with the counterfeiters.

Russell was confounded; he was forced to spend the night with a set of ruffians, thieves, drunkards, and the like, and matters did not improve with morning light, for, when searched, in his overcoat pocket was found a great roll of counterfeit bills, and a small stamp recognized as a tool of the vile trade.

The bills were the gains of the previous evening, but the stamp, he could give no account of that. He had never before seen it. It was vain to protest his innocence, evidence was strong against him, and, while his companions were set at liberty, he and the two strangers were lodged in jail. As soon as possible the poor man despatched a messenger to his wife, who in great trepidation hastened to his side.

As soon as she understood matters, she sought for a friend to stand her husband’s surety, and, being successful in her quest, he was allowed to accompany her home.

And now what did Mrs. Russell do—storm and rave as over small matters she was wont? Did she in bitterness complain of her hard lot and her wicked husband? Did she feel that the Lord had been unjust in thus dealing with her?—No; in distress and contrition she went to the Lord, and to him she told how she had driven her husband from home to spend his evenings where he could find a place more genial. She wept and lamented, ’tis true, but it was over her own sinfulness, her own rebelliousness. She asked her husband’s pardon, and tearfully promised to try to do better, and by the heavy stroke at length learned that her cruse of oil was submission, that by her want of submission she had greatly wasted the oil at her command. And when by grace she determined to be submissive to circumstances as they were, they changed as if by magic. The dear boy Harold was brought back to home influences; and the husband and father sought the Lord now that his chastisements were upon him.

And when the all-important trial came, friends were raised up to help Mr. Russell, and he was acquitted—proven innocent. And when the overjoyed and grateful wife could unobserved do so, she, with her head upon her husband’s shoulder and her voice choking with emotion, said: “O my dear husband, help me to thank the Lord that he has been merciful to me in spite of my vile ingratitude! With my husband and my children about me I will henceforth strive to do good at home. If the Lord shuts me in from outside work, I still have my field of labor right here in the sweetest of all places, my home. I will henceforth pray that I may be filled with a spirit of thankfulness. I wonder that the Lord has spared my children to me: I have never been thankful for such precious gifts, but termed them ‘trials.’ They were placed in my arms by my heavenly Father, and I have forgotten to be grateful—grumbled over my God-given wealth. May Heaven pardon me.”

Our friend strove to put down the fault-finding spirit as a base enemy, and cultivated a spirit of thankfulness and cheerful submission—thankfulness in prosperity and submission in trial.—N. Y. Observer.