p. 778 | SUFFERING AND TRIUMPHING

Pacific Press Publishing Company · OAKLAND, CAL., KANSAS CITY, NEW YORK · Nov 28, 1900

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 26, No. 48.

SUFFERING AND TRIUMPHING

By Mrs. Florence Booth Miller

A Story for Girls

"I AM praying, blessed Saviour, To be more and more like Thee; I am praying that Thy Spirit Like a dove may rest on me."

"How long have you been praying for this sweet gift, Maggie, dear?" asked Aunt Lizzie.

"You mistake, auntie," said Maggie. "I was not praying—only singing."

"But what were you singing, dear?"

Maggie's face flushed as she replied, "O, I never pay any attention to the words of a hymn; they do not mean anything to me!"

"But, Maggie," persisted Aunt Lizzie, "such a prayer as you were singing should mean something to you."

"Well," said Maggie half angrily, "I should like to know what would be the use of my paying any attention to such words, or praying either. My life is a failure; my hopes are blasted; I have nothing I really desire; and I would like to see another girl who has as hard a time as I. I did make out to graduate from the high school, and now I wonder I ever did that."

Aunt Lizzie, closing her sightless eyes, said sweetly, "I fear you are too rebellious; you are not trusting, are you?"

"Aunt Lizzie, you don't know what it is to be deprived of everything as I am. All your life has been so even; nothing ever seems to trouble you."

Lizzie Leslie sighed half unconsciously as she replied, "Maggie, to-morrow I will tell you something that only one person in the world besides myself has ever known; and I pray that it may be a help to you."

Maggie Leslie was a very impulsive girl of twenty. Until within the past two years, she had been reared in a luxurious city home, with no thought of anything but a gay life among her young associates. But in Mr. Leslie's case, as in many others, riches had taken wings, and he had been obliged to move to a small farm—all that had been saved from his once handsome property. Mrs. Leslie's health gave way just before the financial difficulty, and upon Maggie fell the trial of housekeeping and caring for the invalid mother. Had she possessed a Christian spirit, her homely duties might have been a source of real happiness to her; but her disappointment seemed, greater than she could bear, and she was continually thinking and talking of her trials. She had received no religious training, and since leaving her old home, could see nothing to hope for.

Aunt Lizzie was her father's only sister. But little was ever said concerning her younger life, only that her blindness had come upon her while she was in college as a result of too close application to her books. But her lovely life and beautiful Christian spirit were admired by all her acquaintances. A few days previous to her conversation with Maggie, she had come to make a short visit; and, noticing Maggie's fretfulness and almost ungovernable temper, she had resolved at the first opportunity to speak with her on the subject, and her opportunity had just come.

The following afternoon, when the noonday work was finished, and the invalid mother made comfortable, Maggie and Aunt Lizzie walked to the shady grove near by. Sitting in its refreshing coolness, Aunt Lizzie asked, "Maggie, dear, have you ever heard much said concerning my younger life?"

"No, auntie, nothing in particular, only that you became blind while in college, but that you were always so resigned that people marveled. To me it seems that your life has been so free from the trials that so many have—even if you are blind."

"Maggie, I am going to tell you to-day the story of my life, and a secret that has been hidden for more than thirty years,—my heart story,—for I feel that it may benefit you. While very young, I became greatly interested in a people who sat in darkness, and I longed to go to them and tell them that a Light had sprung up. As I grew older, and took the vows of God upon me, I saw that I had no time to play with shadows, or enter into the vain and careless pleasures of the world. So I decided to prepare myself for missionary work, and, knowing that a physician would have entrance into many homes where no one else could, I decided to take a medical course first. I had already graduated from our academy, and my indulgent parents willingly sent me away to a distant city to enter the medical department of a university. At this time I was about twenty-two years of age. God only knows how my whole being was stirred as I thought of my future work. I was engaged to a young physician who also expected to go to the same missionary field, and my hopes seemed the brightest.

"While I was in the medical school, your Uncle Ray attended the law department in the same university, and we kept house together. I was doing my third year's work, and was to graduate in a few months. It was Ray's second year. During a part of the first year he had been very studious; but near its close he had fallen into the company of some who were very dissipated. The next year he was less inclined to study, and more given to spending his time with wild associates, and I saw with a breaking heart that he was drifting away. When I gently remonstrated with him, he would grow very angry, and I would tremble to witness his violent outbursts of temper. One night he returned from a wine supper at a very late hour, and, being somewhat under the influence of liquor, he grew very angry at a remark I made, and seizing a heavy inkstand, he threw it at my head, it striking me squarely in the eyes. I fell to the floor in a faint; and when I recovered consciousness for a few minutes, Ray was bathing my head, and alone with me, being too frightened to call any one. Thoroughly sobered, he said excitedly, 'Lizzie, dear, I was afraid I had killed you,' and then in an agony of remorse he continued: 'Do you feel better? Can you, will you forgive me? And, O Lizzie, if you won't tell of this, I will never get so angry again!' I tried to speak, but after a vain attempt, I sank into unconsciousness. After some time, so I was told afterward, I again became conscious of my surroundings, and saw I was in my bed, and a physician and some frightened women were doing what they could for me. Violent pains began in my head; delirium came on, and for days I was in a very critical condition. In my delirium I would constantly moan, 'No, I won't tell; no, I won't tell!'

"During my illness, Ray did not write to our parents, knowing that he was the cause of my suffering, and hoping each day that I would be better. But the optic nerve, which is the nerve of special sensibility of the eye, had been injured by the blow, and in a short time total blindness was the result. Maggie, only our Father knows my terrible grief and disappointment when I found that the sweet dream of my life-work was ended; but during the night hours, alone with my God, I could gain a victory which would enable me to be calm the next day. "Ray was almost beside himself with grief, and finally I said, 'Ray, if you will solemnly promise me to reform, I will keep back the real cause of this great affliction.' He promised; and when we returned to our home, no

one knew of my deep heart anguish, and they have always thought my blindness was the result of overstudy. Especially was my heart bereft when he young man who was in a few months to call me his wife wrote me that 'under the painful circumstances,' of course he would expect to be released from his promise to me. But at last I could grasp the precious words, 'My grace is sufficient for thee,' with a new meaning, and my life has been a life reconciled to God's divine will, and almost continually I hear these beautiful words ringing in my ears:— "'A little while for patient vigil keeping, To face the storm and wrestle with the strong; A little while to sow the seed with weeping, Then bind the sheaves and sing the harvest song.' "And, Maggie, dear, your Aunt Lizzie is waiting to sing the harvest song. You are so young, my child, I want you to learn the true life, that you may be prepared to wrestle with the strong."

Maggie's tears were falling fast as she said: "O Aunt Lizzie, I see myself a selfish, disagreeable girl! To think how brave you have been through your great afflictions, when I've thought my little petty trials were so large! I have neglected mama, too."

"Then," said Aunt Lizzie, in her sweet, persuasive way, "Maggie, in the language of the hymn you sang yesterday, will you pray to be more like Him? And will you take up the little duties of home life and be a home-maker indeed? If you will, I shall be repaid for giving you the story of my life."

The girl said: "I will think about praying; sometime I may. But I will try to control my temper. But, Aunt Lizzie, Uncle Ray is a minister; you said he was in a law school."

"Yes, he was; but after he saw how patiently I could bear my trouble, he said: 'Lizzie, my dear sister, I am the cause of all your blasted hopes. My past life is such a reproach to me, I can not pass it by; and tell me, if you can, the source of all your comfort.' The result of the many quiet seasons we afterward had together, was Ray's conversion. One day he said to me, 'Lizzie, I must enter the ministry, and tell of the mighty One who can comfort when there is no comfort, and who can give songs in the darkest night.' So he became the noble man you know to-day; and, Maggie, perhaps my life would not so fully have reflected the Master's but for my physical blindness. Ray can not do enough for me, and many times with broken voice he says, 'O Lizzie, where would I be to-day but for your precious influence?'"

It was growing late when Aunt Lizzie and Maggie returned to the house. Aunt Lizzie remained but a few days; but she had sowed the seed which in a few years was to bring an abundant harvest. No one could fail to see that Maggie was a different girl. There were times when she would be very hasty; but gradually she learned to look to One "strong to defend, mighty to save;" and after several months of public testimony for the Master, people would say, "Maggie is growing to be like her Aunt Lizzie."

Five years later we again meet Maggie Leslie. We find her in a large church, which is filled to its utmost capacity with friends who desire to hear Dr. Maggie Leslie give her parting words before sailing to a people who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to tell them that a Light has sprung up. During the years

that have intervened, Maggie has completed a medical course. She was able to do this through the kindness of Uncle Ray, who assisted her when she told him she would like to take up Aunt Lizzie's chosen work, had her blindness not come to her.

To-night, as she stands before the people, she tells them of her deep love for those benighted souls for whom Christ died, and in closing she says: "It is through the influence of my noble Aunt Lizzie, who pointed me to the Lamb of God, that I am before you to-night. Aunt Lizzie's work is done; but she 'being dead yet speaketh,' and I desire to work 'while it is day; the night cometh, when no man can work.'"

We will leave Maggie as she starts on her errand of love. In the case of Lizzie Leslie, whose sweet Christian influence sent a minister and a missionary into the world's great harvest-field, we have seen how full even a blighted life may be. And shall we not watch for our larger opportunities, and grasp them as they come to us?

"The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean Will leave a track behind forevermore; The lightest wave of influence set in motion Extends and widens to the eternal shore."

MRS. FLORENCE BOOTH MILLER. Sidney, N. Y.