The church at Rilldale was in a low spiritual condition. They kept up a form of service on the Sabbath, it is true, but the midweek prayer-meeting had nearly died, only showing signs of life when the state of the weather was favorable. The testimonies borne in the social meetings were stereotyped confessions of unworthiness, and "want-to-do-better" resolutions. If one were to estimate the income of the church-members by the tithes they paid, they would wonder how so many people could manage to live on so small an aggregate income.
The church-members lacked confidence in one another; and yet they loved the faith that marked them as a peculiar people, and would rather have yielded up their lives than sacrifice their hope. The trouble was that they were in a spiritual decline, without knowing the cause.
Under these discouraging circumstances Elder True visited the church, and commenced a series of meetings. As they progressed, he visited from house to house.
The next Sabbath, after the preaching service and the customary social meeting following, without any comment upon the spiritual apathy of the church, the cause of which he was now able to discern, he said: "Dear brethren and sisters, permit me to give you two texts of Scripture upon which to build your experiences the coming week. You can report success at your next Sabbath's social meeting. They are these:—
" 'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord: and that which he hath given will He pay him again.' Prov. 19: 17.
" 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.' Matt. 25: 40."
At the customary midweek meeting the attendance was larger than usual, and the prayers and testimonies were fervent. One sister commenced to recite one of the memory texts, but Elder True said, "Wait, sister, until next Sabbath, when all will have a chance to report." There was, evidently, a wonderful change for the better coming over the church.
At the next Sabbath preaching service hearty "amens" and, "Praise the Lord," were given in response to salient points in the sermon.
At length the appointed and much-looked-for social meeting arrived, and was opened by singing:—
"Anywhere, dear Saviour,
In Thy vineyard wide,
Where Thou bidst me labor,
Lord, there would I abide.
Miracle of saving grace,
That Thou givest me a place
Anywhere, dear Saviour, to work for Thee."
Seal Rocks—near Golden Gate, San Francisco. A large family of seals make these rocks their headquarters. One of them was driven ashore by the breakers in a heavy gale a few days since, and eight men got hold of her with ropes and weighed her. Her weight was 2,000 pounds.
After a fervent prayer by Deacon Jones, Brother Wilson rose and said:—
"I have been, for a long time, on the background, as all of you know. I have not enjoyed religion at all since I moved into this place. But, brethren, you are not to blame. I have been very selfish, living and toiling, dealing closely with every one, for worldly gain only. The text that Elder True gave us last Sabbath set me to thinking; and that brought to my mind another text, and it kept troubling me all the time: 'Ye have robbed Me . . . in tithes and offerings.' I tell you, brethren, the short of it was, I just looked over my business matters, and laid by an honest tithe. And that made me think of other things I ought to do, and I just felt that I was a miserable lost sinner. O brethren, I have been only a hindrance to you, and a shame to the cause of Christ. Forgive me. I feel like giving all for Jesus now. The peace of God is coming into my poor cold heart once more. Pray for me."
Brother Henry—"My experience as to being in a backslidden state has been full as bad as Brother Wilson's, but in a little different way. I have, in a formal way, been paying tithes and offerings, but I have been very exacting and hard in deal, even with worthy, poor people. It gave me many a twinge of conscience, but I thought, 'Business is business,' as the saying is, and quieted my conscience in that way. But those memory texts kept me thinking, especially about lending to the Lord. Well, one of my neighbors got hurt last spring, and hasn't been able to do much work since. He is a pretty likely fellow, but poor. He doesn't seem to manage right, somehow. I never could say anything to him about religion, I felt so sneaking mean about my close figuring with him; and then I knew that his good wife had to go out washing to help support the family of four small children, when I could have helped them just as well as not. Well, they have been getting milk of us by the quart for a good while; but, about a week ago, they broke off, tho I didn't know why till yesterday, when his wife came over and says she: 'Mr. Henry, can you let us have milk for a few weeks and let me pay for it in washing for Mrs. Henry? I don't know how I can pay for it in any other way. I need it on account of the children.' I answered in my usually blunt way, 'No, I ain't going to sell you folks any more milk; but if you'll send Jim over I'll settle up with him, for I think I'm owing him a little.' My wife said, 'John, ain't you ashamed to talk that way?' And then she went and brought a pail of milk, cream and all, and a basket of nice apples for the lady, and said, comforting like, 'Don't mind it; John didn't mean it just that way.' Well, Jim came over in the afternoon, acting mad like. After a little, I asked Jim to go out with me to the barn-yard and see my fine Jersey cows. He didn't act as if he cared to; but he followed me, and looked the cows over, and owned that they were the best he had seen in a good while.
"Laying my hand on the poorest one, I said, 'Jim, you can have her.' But he said, 'I don't see how I can pay for her, Mr. Henry.' I answered, 'You needn't pay for her; take her home with you.' Then I thought of that text again, and I said, 'You can't have that cow; take this one,' laying my hand on as good a cow as I had got. 'I'm not going to lend the Lord the poorest cow in the herd, but the best. Take her. She's yours; and you can have fodder enough to carry her through till spring. I've been mean to you, Jim; but, the Lord helping me, I won't be any more. I didn't mean to hurt your wife's feelings this morning, but I was planning this arrangement, all the time, for a surprise.' You can guess the rest, brethren.
"The Lord has more than paid me already. I wouldn't exchange the sweet peace and joy I feel in my heart for all the cows I've got. I live a considerable ways from here, and I haven't told you the name of the man I gave the cow to, for I didn't want any one to know it. I praise the Lord."
All then sang:—
" 'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just to take Him at His word,
Just to rest upon His promise,
Just to know, 'Thus saith the Lord.'"
After the singing, a man in the back of the room, whom Brother Henry had not noticed, rose and said:—
"I would like to supplement Brother Henry's testimony. I am the man he has spoken of, and I want to say that when I got home with that cow, and told my wife all about it, she just broke down and cried. It was so unexpected. That night we prayed together for the first time in years, and made up our minds to return to the Lord, for we had once been Christians; but we had been used, sometimes, so unfeelingly by professors of religion, that we felt that there was no home for us among them any more. Here I am, brethren, and my wife and children would have come too, but could not walk so far. We want to be one with you, if you will accept us."13
Brother Henry quickly responded: "Why, Brother Judson! I'd no idea you wanted to come, or I'd have sent my team for you, sure. After this you shall all have a chance to ride in the best rig we've got to meeting and Sabbath-school."
At this there was not a dry eye in the house, and they sang:—
"Now here's my heart, and here's my hand,
To meet you in the heavenly land,
Where we shall part no more."
Sister Whipple—"Last Monday, in response to a knock at my door, I opened it, and there stood a tramp. Now I always disliked tramps, and never treated them with much civility. This one asked for something to eat, of course. I said, 'I'll bring you something,' but I did not ask him in. Now I thought: 'I'll let him have some of that soggy pie, and stale bread. I'm glad I didn't throw it out to the fowls, as I had thought to do.' Just then the words, 'Lendeth unto the Lord . . . will pay him again,' came to my mind, and opened a flood of light upon my base conduct. I thought very fast about the long lists of credits that the angels had written of just such mean acts as I was then doing. And then I thought, 'The Lord will pay me all they are worth. O, what kind of a treasure am I laying up in heaven?' It so overpowered me that I could scarcely stand. However, I managed to get to the door, and invite the stranger in to a seat by the fire, for it was cold. I noticed that his shoes had holes in them, and that his coat was thin, and ragged of course. I called my husband aside and said: 'John, here is a clean mended pair of your socks. Give them to him, and, John, let him have that pair of boots of yours. You haven't worn them for months. They may fit him. They are too large for you, you know.' 'Why, 'Manda,' said he, 'what's the matter with you? I thought you hated tramps.' 'O John, do it for my sake, please!'
"In the meantime I had set a bowl of rich, warm bean soup on the table, with as good food of other kinds as I had in the house, and invited the stranger to partake. But he said: 'Lady, I am not fit to sit at such a nice table as that. Please let me wash first, at least.' Washed, and his tangled locks combed, he sat down and ate a hearty dinner. But I saw a tear coursing down his cheek, and I had to turn away to hide my tears."
"He thanked us heartily, and started to go; but John said: 'There is an overcoat of mine that you can have as well as not. It is cold to-day, and you need one.' He thanked us warmly, and asked, 'Why do you treat a miserable tramp so kindly?' I answered, 'For Jesus' sake.' He said: 'You are the first Christian I've seen since my poor wife died. She was a lovely woman; and, O, I was proud of my two children! My mother was a Christian too, and used to pray for her boy. When she was gone, I finally took to drink, and you can guess the rest. My wife died broken-hearted, and my children went to live with friends. I became a wanderer, and learned to hate church-members, for they didn't treat me any better than other folks. To-day I believe I've met a true Christian; and, O, I want to be one myself! Can God forgive so great a sinner?' I said, 'Yes, Jesus came into the world to save sinners.' 'Then,' said he, 'He came to save me, for I am a great sinner. The Lord helping me, I will lead a better life.' We prayed together before he went. And, brethren, I never felt such peace of mind in my life as I have since that day."
Mr. Whipple, who sat by his wife, arose, and said: "My wife has not told you all. When the stranger had gone, I said, 'Manda, I'm going with you. I'm going to be a Christian too.'"
Sister Brady—"One day I heard a knocking at my door, and looked through a crack in a side curtain to see who was there. It was a young woman whom nearly everybody regarded as a fallen character. She continued knocking, however, and at first I thought I wouldn't pay any attention to it; but the text, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock,' kept ringing in my ears, and I thought: 'Is that the way Jesus often knocks at our doors? Is it in the person of some needy one for whom He died? It must be, tho I never understood it so before.' I opened the door, and the poor girl was crying. I invited her in, and, forgetting every feeling but love, I encircled her in my arms, and invited her confidence. She told me all her troubles. I gave her employment, and a mother's love. That text about the knockings then seemed to slip from my mind, and another one came in its place, to be a comfort and a joy ever since. And, O, I want it to stay with me till Jesus comes and speaks it to me with His own dear voice, 'I was a stranger, and ye took Me in!'"
Several other like testimonies were borne, and the meeting was closed by singing the hymn beginning:—
"O happy day! that fixed my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God;
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its ruptures all abroad."
In the evening meeting, and others that followed, the good work went on. Many were converted to God, and a new light and life came to the church at Rilldale.
