p. 10 | Importance of Secret Prayer

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Dec 3, 1912

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 39, No. 47.

Importance of Secret Prayer

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BUT there come moments in the lives of all when we would speak into the ear of our God alone. We are world-weary and sin-sick. Our best and dearest—those who have known and loved us all our lives—somehow seem to fail us. Our souls are unsatisfied and hungry. Or some overwhelming and overmastering grief grips our heart like a vise. Our eyes are burning and dry with watching for the realization of some hope long deferred, and our heart is like lead in our bosom.

Then we crave solitude—an hour all alone with our God. He can understand. And tho we can scarcely see His blessed face through our tear-dimmed eyes, we can hear His gentle, soothing voice, soft as a mother's tender lullaby, speaking to our heart, tried and tempest-tossed, "Peace; be still."

These experiences come to us often—to some of us daily. Then as we shut ourselves in "alone with Him," we feel in an especial manner the blessedness of secret prayer.

And what a privilege!

My heart burns as I think of it, and my brain almost reels as I attempt to comprehend how the eternal God will pause in the guidance of the vast universe, at any moment, at any time, in any place, to listen to me—a feeble, murmuring, helpless worm—to listen to my sorrows and my petty griefs. I can not come upon Him so suddenly as to surprise Him. He is always ready to listen, and—blessed assurance!—He never grows weary of listening to my humble cries.

The prophet Elijah said that the god of the idolatrous Baal-worshipers was perhaps gone on a journey, and hence could not hear, tho they storm the battlements of their imaginary heaven with cries and shrieks.

But not so our God.

Earthly kings and potentates must be approached only with great ceremony. Their pitiful dignity and grandeur must not be imposed upon. Guards must stand before the massive gateway; soldiers must guard the palace doors.

Even the great Luther excused himself when in the presence of the young emperor, Charles the Fifth, and all his dignitaries, lest he offend court etiquette in some manner.

But the Most High requires no introduction to any of His subjects, however humble. He knows them all. He insists upon no parade or trumpet blare to prepare us to be ushered into His audience-chamber. He is always ready. His great heart feels the first faint throb of our own, and He takes loving cognizance of all our tears. The poorest of us may come as unannounced and unheralded as the richest prince. Like David we may say with deepest gratitude, "I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me."

Then there are dark days of bereavement and affliction. The longing to see once again the loved forms that have gone from us, becomes unutterable. The eyes have spent their tears, and the eyelids are hot and dry. A sense of utter loneliness steals over us, until we cry out in anguish of soul. The last sad scene of parting is reviewed again and again. There is the same familiar rocker; there on the center-table lies the well-marked Bible.

Then we try to think of the resurrection morning. There is comfort in that—only it seems so far away! But we drop upon our knees, and pour out all our grief and sorrow in the sympathizing ear of Him who wept at the grave of Lazarus, and we are comforted. "A little talk with Jesus" is the one panacea in hours like this.

But all our days are not spent in grief, thank God. There are more days of sun than of shadow—more hours of gladness than of grief. Shall we forget to thank Him?

Some great and unexpected joy comes to us. O, how our hearts swell with gratitude! We are sure that we shall never complain or murmur again. Then because we are so happy, we hurry out to find some friend, so that he may share our joy with us. We confide to him our newly found happiness; but we are astonished at the cold and averted looks and unsympathizing words and manner, and we do not care to finish our recital. We are grieved and sad, and half the joy is gone already.

And this was the friend whose sympathy was so sincere when we were in trouble. But he has evidently not learned to "rejoice with them that do rejoice," because this part of the injunction is very much harder to practise than that which commands us to "weep with them that weep." Can it be possible that there is a tinge of envy in the bosom of this our friend? Let us hope not; he simply can not understand.

We turn away a little sadly, and walk home, while the words of the wise man ring in our ears, about a stranger not intermeddling with our joy.

And then we remember, with a sense of shame, that we have actually forgotten to pour out our offering of thanks to the One who is never a stranger. He has been so good to us! In joy or in sorrow He is always the same. He knows—yes, and He loves to see His children happy. I believe He always grants our every desire, just as far as He can without injury to us—or to some other.

But did you know that it is quite possible to have the path of life made too smooth for us—for our best good?

"Too smooth?"—Yes.

Do you remember that large, hollow, tube-like affair on the top of our mighty engines which do duty on all our railroads? Do you know what that hollow cylinder contains?—Nothing but dry, hot sand. But that sand is very useful. Why?

Sometimes the track is too smooth, and the massive wheels slide, and turn over and over, without going forward or drawing a pound. But when the dry sand is showered on the track, the monstrous wheels respond at once—they take hold, and the work is done.

Well, I think it is quite as necessary, sometimes, for the great Engineer to sand our track. We are not making any progress. The wheels go around in vain. Everything is altogether too smooth. We are not drawing a pound. There is dust on the lid of our Bible, and on the floor of our closet.

Then of a sudden, there comes a change. Our business is not so prosperous. Some mischievous tongue has been wagging, and we are aggrieved, and our vanity is wounded. We meet with loss on every hand. Perhaps we are stricken with sudden sickness. The grim messenger calls at our door. Ah, how earnestly, how sincerely, we pray! The sand is being used, and how quickly it is effective!

O, it is better to ask God to walk with us, however rough the way, than to ask Him to smooth the difficulties all out of our path.

O, how thankful I am that He forgives and loves us freely, in spite of mistakes and selfishness and folly! Shall we not thank Him hourly for His mercies?

We need not always kneel. He accepts our gratitude before we speak the words. But O, the privilege, the unspeakable blessedness, of communion with our God, where no eye but His can see us, and when no heart but His can understand!

Ah, prayer—secret prayer—it is the life of the soul!