“God Leads Me Like a Tired Child.”
“I have been very happy and peaceful since I came home: foot, and hand, and thought have been busy, but away down in the depths of my being, aside from all this, my soul has sat calm and still alone with God. God leads me like a tired child. Don’t think I am losing my wits, getting out of myself, but it seems as if he told me so plainly just what to do, and just what not to do, in all my little daily ways. It is real to me, I follow it.” I opened again the letter laid by among my treasures and read those sweet words in witness of God’s fatherly love and care for one of his young, trustful disciples. This is not fiction; not a picture set up above our heads as old saints with their holy faces look down upon us; or a leaf from those Christian biographies whose heroes, reckoned most favored of divine manifestation, seem to stand apart from our common-place every-day lives. It is the simple testimony of one who walks as we do in a little sphere, tells us we do in a round of little duties, struggles as we do in matters of little purpose, with none to witness the tear for failure, and none to record the song of success. Most lives are made up of very small things, too little to be observed outside the immediate circle of doing. But there is often as much real heroism, as much true martyrdom in a life of trifles as in those great experiences which write a page of history, or paint a glory round the likeness of a saint. And God leads us, his little unknown ones, just as much as the saintly worthies we look up to and dare not try to reach. It is refreshing when at our own level—one whose little joys have brought sunshine to our heart, and whose little burdens we have helped to bear—one with whom we have prayed and taken counsel concerning the relations of our little life to God, utters in heart confidence and peace, “God leads me like a tired child.” We are so glad when one of all who grope and yearn, restless and unsatisfied, can say, “My soul has sat calm and still.” And when in our little perplexities—not always little to us, since they test the very nerve and fibre of our being—we find that we cannot direct our steps, and cry out for help, it is so sweet to hear another, walking in the same paths, declare, “It seems as if He told me so plainly just what to do, and what not to do in all my little daily ways.” We know there is no voice addressing the outward ear, no infallibility of human judgment coming of religious trust, but when in our heart’s need, we cast all upon our Saviour, we may go forth from the closet with a most sweet assurance of being led aright. The peace, the assurance is away down—below reason, or distrust, or fear—in the depths of our being. We are often like tired children, and would, oh, so gladly, be led by the hand. Mothers who take up the little ones with soothing words and healing kisses, are as tired and weak as they. God offers such his strength to lean upon, his bosom for sympathy, his communion for rest. For young men and maidens unlearned in self-knowledge, and unskilled in self-guidance, there is a Saviour’s proffered hand. And to the weary toilers, more in number and degree than we can name, working often through unrequited tears and pains, there is help in the unseen Friend stronger than the right arm, surer than the practiced eye. Some one tells me: “But this help you speak of, this guidance is so intangible—if I could only see the good—if I could realize by any sense a strong and loving presence: if I could ever believe when I speak that I shall receive an answer.” Ah, friend, you are not near enough; Christ has no promises for those who do not reach out and take His hand. Those who have felt its clasp are certain of its power. We have risen in the morning unfit in mind or body for the duties of the day: our Father knows the weakness, and we tell Him of our need, we ask for His sake strength and skill, and feel to say, Thy will be done in me to-day. At night we look back upon what we have endured or accomplished, or the unexpected aid we have received with wonder and thankfulness. Or, we are tried and ask for patience: and our souls are kept in calmness, which means His peace. Or, we wait in painful suspense tidings that may bring sorrow, we are prepared by some diversion of thought or feeling, and are sustained under the saddest mourning. Above all comforts we believe in God—we confide to Him our little simple affairs; in that thought we put off our most painful responsibilities, and feel that in submitting to Him all, there is peace. This is not for emergencies only—for special seasons of trial and need, but as the young, trusting disciple said, “For all our little daily ways.” The leading of the unseen Spirit was real to her, she followed the guidance, and that is why she sat calm and still. A heart so peaceful cannot be lonely; if alone, it is with God. It cannot be afraid, for His presence is its shield, and if in its human relations it feels pain and sorrow, it is in Him exceeding joyful still. What we most need is Christ in our daily experience—in the example and testimony of common lives: not Christ alone in the far off glory of the heavens, in the history of world-worshipped saints and martyrs, or altogether in the record of devoted ministers and missionaries. But we want Him where men sow and reap, where they labor in the factory, the mine, the counting-house, the camp, or the court-room, where the women guide the house, and sit by the cradle; where they toil with the needle, the pen, or the text-book; where they entertain society, or wear life away at the bed of sickness. And we want the witness of such as walk with Christ, that His guidance lightens care, and sweetens pleasure, and brings to pain a divine consolation. Their little testimony ingeniously, perhaps unconsciously, given, is not in vain; we feel its influence, and are drawn Christ-ward by its sweet attraction. We thank those we love when they tell our weary hearts, “He leads me like a tired child.”—Advocate.