Say's Light by Kate Sumner Gates

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 26, 1882

Say's Light.

By Kate Sumner Gates

Miss Winthrop was in the habit of giving her class a verse each Sunday for the week's motto. This week it was, "Let your light so shine that men may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." "Will you try this week, girls, to let your light shine?—will you, Say?" she asked, turning to Say Willis.

"I'd like to, but I—don't believe I've got any light; it does not make any difference to anybody what I do,—no one notices what I do."

"You do not know surely about that," responded Miss Winthrop. "You do not know certainly about that, and it does not concern you; your part is to keep your light burning brightly—whether any one looks or not; and if you do your part the rest will be taken care of. Will you try?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Say. But she did not seem very hopeful about it. She could not believe any one would pay any attention to her little light.

On Monday morning it was the first thing she thought of, and she wondered how she should find opportunity to keep her promise. Oh dear, how she hated Monday! Bridget was always cross, mamma tired, and the children invariably did something a little more trying than common. To-day it was worse than usual, for it was rainy, and Bridget was cross because the clothes could not go out, mamma had one of her headaches, baby fretted incessantly because of his teeth, and Tommy was home from school with earache.

It was rather of a discouraging outlook to Say, when she came down. Papa was worrying lest breakfast would not be ready for him so he could take the early train into the city, Bridget would not hurry, mamma with baby in her arms, crying, was wearily trying to hasten matters a little, while Dick and Tommy were already engaged in hot dispute. Say's heart sunk, she was sorely tempted to give up at the outset, an impatient word was on her lips, when her verse and promise came to mind.

" 'Let your light so shine.' Oh dear, this isn't worth speaking of, only chance for a little twinkle; but then if I never have a chance to show a bright blaze, I must be sure and use all these little opportunities. I can look pleasant if I have got a pug-nose and more freckles than you can count," she thought to herself.

And then in a twinkling things seemed to change. Nettie appeared from somewhere, and took baby from mamma, up into the nursery. Mamma herself was sent into the dining-room. Dick was helping set the table, fairly glowing with pride, because Say had whispered in his ear that Mr. Earle told her, last night, he was the best scholar in his class.

Tommy's mind was diverted from all unpleasant thoughts for the time being, by the promise of maple syrup, which was his special weakness, for breakfast. As for Bridget, there was a light streak in the north-west that Say pointed out to her, the sight of which scattered her frowns like magic; perhaps, after all, she could get her clothes out. It was not much, after all, but every one felt better.

"Now, mamma," said Say, after breakfast, "you just go up stairs and lie down. I'll take care of baby and see to things." Mamma hesitated, and tried to remonstrate, but her head did ache so badly, and Say seemed so willing and cheery.

It was a pretty long, tiresome morning, but Say kept repeating her verse over to herself—to keep her courage up, she said.

After dinner, when baby, worn out, dropped asleep, and Tommy, having found a book of travels, had curled himself up in papa's big chair in the dining-room, Say settled herself comfortably on the lounge in her room, book in hand. She had just congratulated herself on the long pleasant afternoon before her, when the bell rang, and there stood Miss Mercy Stone, work-bag in hand, evidently prepared to come in and sit awhile.

"Mamma is sick with a severe headache," said Say promptly.

Miss Mercy was just a little bit of a bore, for she made such long calls, and talked all the time about her aches and pains, which were innumerable, and a little worse than any one else's. Say was tired, you know; besides, she was just in the middle of a very exciting chapter of her book. "Mamma is sick," she said, without opening the door very wide or inviting her guest to come in.

Miss Mercy's face fell, and Say's quick eyes did not fail to observe it.

"Oh dear! I suppose it would be a real comfort to her to come in and talk awhile. She's a Christian, so of course it won't be letting my light shine; but I guess—He would do it in my place." That was what flashed through Say's mind, all in an instant; then she said; "Mamma is sick, but won't you come in and sit with me awhile?"

Miss Mercy's face brightened. It was very quiet down to her little house. All alone—she was the last one left of her family.

"Thank you; I don't know but I will."

Say drew the big rocker up in the cosiest corner by the grate for her, and listened sympathetically while Miss Mercy told about her neuralgia, her rheumatism, "dyspepsy," and all. It was half-past five—almost tea time—before she went.

"Well," thought Say, as she disposed of baby for the night, "I can do as I please this evening, any way, I must finish that book, for I promised to send it back to-morrow."

But she stopped on her way upstairs.

"Going out, Dick?" she asked, as he came through the hall, hat in hand.

"Yes, there's no special fun staying home."

Say stood irresolute. There was the book, and here was Dick. Very likely he was going down street, and would fall in with some of the boys papa did not like him to associate with. Papa was a little troubled about Dick of late.

She might, but—she didn't want to; but oughtn't she?

"Stay home with me, Dick, and we will make candy."

"And play checkers?" asked Dick, turning back irresolute.

Checkers was Dick's favorite game, and also Say's particular aversion.

"Yes, and play checkers, too," she answered promptly.

"Say has been such a help and comfort," said mamma in her room that night to papa. "I do not know what I should do without her; her light shines every hour of the day."

"I had a right pleasant call," said Miss Mercy, talking to herself, for want of a better companion, as she sat by her lonely fireside that night. "I had a right pleasant call; it isn't every young girl that would be so polite to a tiresome old woman like me."

"She's a trump," said Dick to himself in his room. "I'll bet a cooky she had something she wanted to do herself. She's got the genuine article any way; anything like that will do a fellow more good than a dozen sermons."

"I did want," wrote Say in her journal, "to keep my promise to Miss Winthrop, and let my light shine so bright and clear that it would help everybody that came near me; but I had only such little opportunities, that, even if any one had noticed, they would have seen but a mere little twinkle; nothing that could glorify Him, or help any one"—which was all Say knew about it.—Kate Sumner Gates.