A DROP OF RAIN by Elizabeth D'Armond

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 1, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 47.

A DROP OF RAIN.

By Elizabeth D'Armond

BY ELIZABETH D'ARMOND.

DID you ever think how heavy a drop of rain might be? A shower is nothing when some festive entertainment is in progress, but on prayer meeting night and Sunday each watery globule seems to weigh a ton. Such anxious glances are cast at the lowering sky, so many of the inmates of your house consulted over and over again as to whether they suppose it is really going to rain. Of course if it were clear it would be a matter of duty to attend the services, but it is sprinkling, and there might be pneumonia in that wet grass, or a bad attack of rheumatism lurking on those damp walks, or some of those dreadful consumptive comma bacilli prancing around in the air; so you resign yourself to fate and remain at home. The pastor delivers his sermon to rows upon rows of empty benches in the front and a small collection of people, like raisins in a baker's cake, in the background. Of course he feels blue, and a little tinge of the indigo creeps into the address, in spite of his determination to the contrary.

Before the discourse is ended, a stray waif of a sunbeam glides through the side window and smiles lovingly upon the few brave souls who have actually dared to venture out, but it lingers longest upon the head of that poor old wrinkled-faced woman sitting in the corner. Her dress has two neat darns in front, and her bonnet is so old fashioned that it might have descended to her from some primeval ancestress, dating back as far as the flood, but such a satisfied look beams from those mild blue eyes—she has found something to take home with her, heavenly manna that will nourish her soul for a week; rainy days are never marked as "at home" days in her calendar.

The minister feels discouraged, not because you were absent, but on account of the number of yous who made it their particular business not to be present. Perhaps when the Lord sends you an invitation to join the services up above, you will look out of the window and say, "I pray thee have me excused for this time; I must wait for a pleasant day." And the recording angel will write against your name, "Weighed in the balance and found wanting."—N. Y. Observer.