The Innkeeper’s Tale

THE INNKEEPER’S TALE
by Ralph F. Wilson

They think I’m some kind of cruel, heartless landlord. Someone must have told them that. But they’re wrong, just plain wrong, and it’s time to set the record straight, once and for all.

People say I’m an innkeeper. I suppose you’d call it an inn. To us it’s just a big house. My grandfather, Joshua ben-Yahoudi, built it back when his trading business was at a peak. And he built it big enough to fit all fourteen kids.

Well, a few years ago, the missus and I were just rattling around in that big house–kids grown up and all–and we were thinking, maybe we could take in a few travelers. Rachel has always been mighty good in the kitchen, so we just let out word that we’d take people in, and they started to come. Every night we’d have a person or two, sometimes more. People would always come back when they came to town again, intent on another bowl of Rachel’s lamb stew.

Then came that blankety-blank census the governor thought up. Taxation, pure and simple! People from all over the province flooded into town that week. Filled us clean up. Rachel and I slept in the main room where we always do, and we started putting guests in the other three rooms. They kept coming. Then
we doubled up two or three families to a room. They kept coming. Finally, when we had filled the main room with four families plus Rachel and me, we started turning people away.

I must have gotten in and out of bed ten times that night, stumbling over bodies to get to the door. “No more room, sorry folks. No more room. Come back in the morning. We have a couple of families leaving then.” They’d mutter something and head back to their party, and sleep somewhere next to a house under the shelter of a blanket. I just couldn’t make any more room. That’s the honest truth.

But I did make room for one more couple. Joseph was a burly man with big arms and strong hands, down from Nazareth, I think he said. He wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I would say, “No, I’m sorry,” and he’d tell my about his “little Mary.” Well, when I saw “little Mary” she wasn’t very little. She was just about as pregnant as a woman can get, and awfully pale. While Joseph was pleading, I saw her grab her tummy in pain, and I knew I couldn’t let her have that baby outside in the wind and sleet.

The barn. That would just have to do, I told myself, and led them and their donkey out back. Now it was pretty crowded, so I shooed several animals into the pen outside to make room in one dry corner. Joseph said, “We sure are grateful, sir.” Then with a serious look, he asked me, “Do you know where I can find a midwife in these parts? We might need her tomorrow or the next day.”

That man didn’t know much about having babies, it was plain enough to see. I ran to Aunt Sarah’s house and pounded on the door until her husband came. “One of the travelers is having a baby,” I told him. “I’ll wait while Aunt Sarah gets dressed.” I stopped a moment to catch my breath. “And tell her to hurry.”

By the time we got back to the barn, Joseph had “little Mary” settled on some soft, clean hay, wrapped up in a blanket, wiping the perspiration off her brow, and was speaking softly to her as she fought the waves of pain. Aunt Sarah sent me to get my Rachel, and then pushed Joseph and me out of the barn. “This ain’t no place for men,” she said.

We waited just outside in the shelter of the barn for hours, it seemed like. Well, all of a sudden, we hear a little cry. “You’ve got a baby boy,” Aunt Sarah was saying as we peeped around the corner. She hands the young-un to Rachel, and she wraps it up in those swaddling bands she had saved. Cute little thing, I tell you.

Well, Joseph goes over to Mary and gives her a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek, and Rachel hands Mary the baby, and then comes over to me and takes my hand. “Remember when our Joshua was born?” she whispers.

The lantern was blowing almost out, the cattle were lowing softly, and baby Jesus was asleep in his mother’s arms. That’s how I left them as I walked Aunt Sarah home. Chilly wind, though the sleet had stopped.

By the time I got back, Rachel was in bed, and I was about ready to put out the light, step over sleeping bodies, and get under the warm covers, when I heard some murmuring out by the barn.

I’d better check, I told myself. When I peeped in, I saw shepherds. Raggedy, smelly old shepherds were kneeling down on the filthy barn floor as if they were praying. The oldest one was saying something to Joseph about angels and the Messiah. And the rest of them just knelt there with their heads bowed,
some with tears running down their faces.

I coughed out loud, and Joseph looked up. I was almost ready to run those thieving shepherds off, when Joseph motioned to me with his hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “They’ve come to see the Christ-baby.”

The Christ-baby? The Messiah? That was when I knelt, too. And watched, and prayed, and listened to the old shepherd recount his story of angels and heavenly glory, and the sign of a holy baby, wrapped in swaddling bands, to be found in a stable-manger.

My Lord,, it was my stable where the Christ-baby was born. My manger he rested in. My straw, my lamp, my wife Rachel assisting at his birth.

The shepherds left after a while. Some of them leaned over and kissed the sleeping Christ-child before they departed. I know I did.

I’ll always be glad I made room in the barn for that family– that holy family. You see, I’m not some mean inn-keeper. I was there. I saw him. And, you know, years later that boy came back to Bethlehem, this time telling about the Kingdom of God. Oh, I believe in him, I tell you. I was there. And, mark my words, if you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d be a believer, to.

— Author Unknown

THE CHILD-HEROINE OF NEW BRUNSWICK.

We have read a touching incident about three little children, who, last autumn, late in the season, wandered alone in a dreary region of New Brunswick. The sun had already sunk in the west, and the gloom of evening was spreading itself over the surrounding country.

The night came on fast; and feeling sure that they could not get home before daybreak, the eldest (a girl of only six years) quietly placed the two little ones in a sheltered nook on the sea-beach; and fearing the cold, chilly night for the younger children, Mary stripped off most of her own clothes to keep them warm.

She then started off to gather dry sea-weed, and whatever else she could find, to cover them with. Having tenderly in this way wrought for some time to make them a nest, she at last fell down exhausted with the cold, and half bare to the cold inclement night.

That evening the loving father and tender mother sat up wondering at their children’s long absence; the hours dragged slowly past with anxious watching, and silent listening for the well-known little pattering feet. In vain the fond parents’ eyes pierced through the darkness. At length they roused the neighbors with their anxious inquiries after their lost ones. All that night was passed in searching and in tears, till early in the morning, lying fast asleep, and same- – -what numbed with cold, were found little Johnny and Lizzie. But, oh I a touching spectacle lay near them; their young savior was stiff, cold and dead on the sea-weed which the poor little child-heroine had not strength to drag into the nook, where those she so deeply loved, and died to save, were sleeping. Thus this little New Brunswick girl died in her successful and self-sacrificing endeavor to save her brother and sister.

Does not this recall the love of the Lord Jesus Christ to you who read? Mary went to the full extent of human love in dying for her little brother and sister. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Yet the Lord Jesus laid down his life for his enemies; for “scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die; but God commendeth His love toward us,” etc. He makes no mistakes. Yet how many listen to this story with more emotion and interest than they do to the story of the cross, where the love of Jesus, the Son of God, is told in letters of blood! – Dawn of the Morning.

INTRODUCTION.

True prayer is the language of an earnest soul breathing after God, and a knowledge of his will. The praying spirit is a search for the presence of God, and a continued craving for a conscious blessing from Him. “ Give ear to my prayer, O God, and hide not thyself from my supplication.” “O Lord God of my salvation, I have cried day and night before thee; let my prayer come before thee; incline thine ear unto my cry; for my soul is full of troubles.” “Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness; thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.” These are the cries of a dependent, trusting, and enriched heart. They show the natural disposition of troubled man to fly to God for succor and relief.

Man has always prayed. He cannot help it. He is made so. His prayers may not always be prompted by the right motive, nor couched in acceptable phraseology, nor offered in the proper spirit. “Ye ask and receive not because ye ask amiss.” But man will pray. He must pray. The very nature of his earthly life demands prayer. He may rebel against his environments, scoff at the necessity for supplication, for years neglect his duty, yet sooner or later, secretly or openly, he will call upon a higher power for that aid which earthly help can not render.

There is no substitute for prayer. Praise is excellent, and good works are noble, but prayer is indispensable. “Ask and ye shall receive,” has its counterpart in, Ask not and ye shall receive not. The prayerless life is a barren life. Jesus said: “Men ought always to pray.” He set a glorious example ” Sit ye here while I go and pray yonder.” His human life was the grandest life ever lived, yet It was a life of conscious dependence upon God, and constant supplication for His aid and blessing.

Prayer is successful when offered in faith and with obedience. No man can expect God to bless him while conscious of willful and unrepented sin. “He that turneth away his ear from hearing the law, even his prayer shall be abomination.” “If I regard (cherish) iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.” Man knows that his heart must be emptied of Satan, if it is to be filled with God. Just in proportion as his life is straight and pure, will his trust take hold upon the Infinite. “The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” Mark you, “a righteous man.” An unrighteous man may pray much and avail little.

Whatever tends to encourage the praying habit, should be itself encouraged. That a carefully selected list of incidents and statements, showing the beauty, power and success of prayer, will in itself encourage further devotion, we most candidly believe. Such a list is to be found in the following pages. Every incident may not be in complete harmony with the exact facts. Scientific accuracy is impossible, in gleaning so large a fund of matter from so many and varied sources. Yet the collection as a whole is both creditable and credible. It shows diligence and painstaking care on the part of the author, and illustrates unmistakably the efficacy and utility of true prayer. Let the book be widely read, and let us hope that every reader may receive an abundant blessing while he peruses these attractive pages.

JAMES H. POTTS.

Editorial Rooms of the

“Michigan Christian Advocate,” Detroit, Mich.

PREFATORY NOTE.

It is needless to say much by way of preface to this book. It will speak for itself. From the writer’s stand-point, none but those “given over to hardness of heart” can read these “Touching Incidents” without having their souls wondrously stirred within them; and none but the willfully unbelieving can say, in view of the ”Remarkable Answers to Prayer” herein recorded, that God does not hear and regard the cries of his faithful children.

But let it be remembered, that “prayer rises far above a mere form of good words. These, of themselves, are nothing, and may be much worse than nothing. The soul of the reader or utterer must be in them to give them life and power. God hears not my words, He hears me. I rise to Him upon the wings of prayer. I might recite good words forever, but unless my spirit is in them, they are nothing.” Yea, nothing but idle words, and mockery before God. The prayer of faith is always prompted by the Holy Spirit, and always receives an answer from the living Father whose Spirit moved its utterance in harmony with His own blessed will.

In these pages no place is given to anything that did not appear to be reliable, as well as calculated to do good. Some of the accounts narrated have come within our personal knowledge. Others have been written or furnished expressly for this work. Still others have been selected from the works of well-known authors, or gleaned from the large number of periodicals which came regularly to our office in connection with the periodical that was under our control. Nor has the supply of material by any means been exhausted. We have felt, rather, as did Paul, when, after referring to many of the mighty works wrought through faith in olden times, he said: “And what shall I say more? for the time would fail to tell me of Gedeon, and of Barak, and of Samson, and of Jephthae; of David also, and Samuel, and of the prophets; who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions,” etc.

We pray that through the perusal of these pages, precious souls may be led to the cross and the Savior, and God’s children encouraged to trust Him in every hour of need.

Your brother, true to God and man,

S. B. SHAW.

When Israel knew not where to go,
God made the fiery pillar glow;
By night, by day, above the camp
It led the way – their guiding lamp;
Such is Thy Holy Word to me
In day of dark perplexity.
When devious paths before me spread,
And all invite my foot to tread
I hear Thy voice behind me say –
“Believing soul, this is the way,
Walk thou in it.” O gentle Dove,
How much Thy holy law I love!
My lamp and light
In the dark night.

When Paul amid the seas seemed lost
By Adrian billows wildly tossed,
When neither sun nor star appeared,
And every wave its white head reared
Above the ship, beside his bed
An angel stood, and “Fear not” said.
Such is Thy holy word to me,
When tossed upon afflictions’s sea;
When floods come in unto my soul,
And the deep waters o’er me roll,
With angel voice Thy Word draws near
And says, “Tis I, why shouldst thou fear?
Through trouble great My saints must go
Into their rest, where neither woe
Nor sin can come; where every tear
From off the cheek shall disappear,
Wiped by God’s hand.” O gentle Dove,
How much Thy holy law I love!
My lamp and light
In the dark night.

When holy Stephen dauntless stood
Before the Jews, who sought his blood,
With angel face he looked on high,
And wondering, through the parted sky,
Saw Jesus risen from His throne
To claim the martyr as His own.
Angelic peace that sight bestowed,
With holy joy his bosom glowed.
And while the murderous stones they hurled
His heaven wrapt soul sought yonder world
Of rest. “My spirit, Saviour, keep,”
He cried, he kneeled he fell asleep.
Such be Thy holy Word to me
In hour of life’s extremity!
Although no more the murdering hand –
Is raised within our peaceful land –
The Church has rest, and I may ne’er
Be called the martyr’s crown to wear:
Yet still, in whatsoever form
Death comes to me, in midnight storm
Whelming my bark, or in my nest,
Gently dismissing me to rest,
O grant me in Thy Word to see
A risen Saviour beckoning me.
No evil then my heart shall fear
In the dark valley. Thou art near!
My trembling soul and Thou, my God,
Alone are there; Thy staff and rod
Shall comfort me. O gentle Dove,
How much Thy holy law I love!
My lamp and light
In the dark night.

1838.