Our old friend, J. Baker, now preaching at Hartford, Mich., who has for years trusted the Lord for all things, both temporal and spiritual, sends us the following:
At the Raisin Center campground, August, 1886, a brother came to me on Saturday evening, requesting that I should come to his tent on Sunday morning, and anoint him for the cure of his deafness. He was a man between forty and fifty years of age. He had been deaf ever since a boy; his deafness being caused by scarlet fever. At the time appointed, in company with Clara Rouch and Carrie Kimball, I went to his tent, and anointed him with oil, we laying our hands upon his head. He was instantly healed, and shouted and rolled on the ground, calling on those standing around to help him praise the Lord. He declared he could hear the faintest whisper.
When I lived in Detroit, in the winter of 1883 I had a house in view which I desired to use as a home for friendless women. The rent was $20 per month. I asked the Lord for the amount to be given me inside of six days, if it was his will I should have the house. In a few days I received a check for $25, from Chicago. Some years afterward, I met the individual who sent the money, and he told me he was very forcibly impressed to send me the money. He never knew what it was for until I told him the circumstance.
“She-was-a-good-wife-to-me. A good wife, God bless her!” The words were spoken in trembling accents over a coffin-lid. The woman asleep there had borne the heat and burden of life’s long day, and no one had ever heard her murmur, her hand was quick to reach out a helping grasp to those who fell by the wayside; and her feet were swift on errands of mercy; the heart of her husband had trusted in her; he had left her to long hours of solitude, while he amused himself in scenes in which she had no part. When boon companions deserted him, when fickle affect selfishly departed, when pleasure palled, he went home and found her waiting for him.
“Come from your long, long roving, On life’s sea so bleak and rough; Come to me tender and loving, And I shall be blessed enough.”
That had been her love-song – always on her lips or in her heart. Children had been born to them. She had reared them almost alone – they were gone! Her hand had led them to the uttermost edge of the morning that had no noon. The she had comforted hom, sent him out strong and whole-hearted, while she stayed at home and – cried. What can a woman do but cry – and trust? Well, she is at rest now. But she could not die until he had promised to “bear up;” not to fret but to remember how happy they had been.
They? Yes, it is even so. For she was blest in giving and he in receiving. It was an equal partnership after all! “She – was – a – good – wife – to – me.” O man! Man! Why not have told her so, when her ears were not dulled by death? Why wait to say these words over a coffin wherein lies a wasted, weary, gray-haired woman, whose eyes have so long held that pathetic story of loss and suffering and patient yearning which so many women’s eyes reveal – to those who read. Why not have made the wilderness in her heart blossom like the rose with the prodigality of your love? Now you would give worlds – were they yours to give – to see the tears of joy your words would have once caused, bejeweling the closed windows of her soul. It is too late.
“We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometimes guest; But oft for our own, the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best.” – Sel.
On the summit of Washington mountain, overlooking the Housatonic valley, stood a hut, the home of John Barry, a poor charcoal-burner, whose family consisted of his wife and himself. His occupation brought him in but a few dollars, and when cold weather came he had managed to get together only a small provision for the winter. The fall of 1874, after a summer of hard work, he fell sick and was unable to keep his fires going. So, when the snow of December, 1874, fell, and the drifts had shut off communication with the village at the foot of the mountain, John and his wife were in great straits.
Their entire stock of food consisted of only a few pounds of salt pork and a bushel of potatoes; sugar, flour, coffee and tea had, early in December, given out; and the chances for replenishing the larder were slim indeed. The snow-storms came again, and the drifts deepened. All the roads, even in the valley, were impassable, and no one thought of trying to open the mountain highways, which, even in summer, were only occasionally traveled; and none gave the old man and his wife a thought.
December 15th came, and with it the heaviest fall of snow experienced in Berkshire County in many years. The food of the old couple was now reduced to a day’s supply, but John did not yet despair. He was a Christian and a God-fearing man, and His promises were remembered; and so, when evening came, and the north-east gale was blowing, and the fierce snow-storm was raging, John and his wife were praying and asking for help.
In Sheffield village, ten miles away, lived Deacon Brown, a well to do farmer fifty years old, who was known for his piety and consistent deportment, both as a man and a Christian. The deacon and his wife had gone to bed early, and, in spite of the storm without, were sleeping soundly, when with a start the deacon awoke, and said to his wife: “Who spoke? Who’s there?” “Why,” said his wife, “no one is here but you and me; what is the matter with you?” “I heard a voice,” said the deacon, “saying, ‘Send food to John.” ” Nonsense,” replied Mrs. Brown; “go to sleep. You have been dreaming.” The deacon laid his head on his pillow, and was asleep in a minute. Soon he started up again, and waking his wife, said “There, I heard that voice again, ‘Send food to John.'”
“Well, well! ” said Mrs. Brown. “Deacon, you are not well; your supper has not agreed with you. Lie down and try to sleep.” Again the deacon closed his eyes, and again the voice was heard: “Send food to John.” This time the deacon was thoroughly awake. “Wife,” said he, “whom do we know named John who needs food?” “No one I remember,” replied Mrs. Brown, “unless it be John Barry, the old charcoal-burner on the mountain.”
“That’s it,” exclaimed the deacon. “Now I remember, when I was at the store in Sheffield the other day, Clark, the merchant, speaking of John Barry, said: ‘I wonder if the old man is alive, for it is six weeks since I saw him, and he has not yet laid in his winter stock of groceries. ‘ It must be old John is sick and wanting food.”
So saying, the good deacon arose and proceeded to dress himself. “Come, wife,” said he, “waken our boy Willie and tell him to feed the horses, and get ready to go with me; and do you pack up in the two largest baskets you have, a good supply of food, and get us an early breakfast; for I am going up the mountain to carry the food I know John Barry needs.”
Mrs. Brown, accustomed to the sudden impulses of her good husband, and believing him to be always in the right, cheerfully complied; and after a hot breakfast, Deacon Brown and his son Willie, a boy of nineteen, hitched up the horses to the double sleigh, and then, with a month’s supply of food, and a “Good-bye, mother,” started at five o’clock on that cold December morning for a journey, that almost any other than Deacon Brown and his son Willie would not have dared to undertake.
The north-east storm was still raging, and the snow falling and drifting fast; but on, on went the stout, well-fed team on its errand of mercy, while the occupants of the sleigh, wrapped up in blankets and extra buffalo robes, urged the horses through the drifts and in the face of the storm. That ten mile’s ride, which required in the summer hardly an hour or two, was not finished until the deacon’s watch showed that five hours had passed.
At last they drew up in front of the hut where the poor, trusting Christian man and woman were on their knees praying for help to Him who is the “hearer and answerer of prayer;” and as the deacon reached the door, he heard the voice of supplication, and then he knew that the message which awakened him from sleep was sent from heaven. He knocked at the door, it was opened, and we can imagine the joy of the old couple, when the generous supply of food was carried in, and the thanksgivings that were uttered by the starving tenants of that mountain hut. –Albany Journal.
A Christian wife, whose husband was an officer on a Mississippi steamer (which was burned), as she prayed that her husband would be preserved and saved, not knowing of the disaster, was assured that his life would be spared and that he would be saved.
When, the day following, she received a telegram, stating that her husband had perished, she folded it and said: ” It is not so. He is saved from the flames and waves, and shall be from his sins.” A few days later he arrived at home, and was soon converted. The faith of this Christian wife, after praying was earnest.
The Methodist Preachers’ Meeting of Boston was well attended last Monday, and W.N. Brodbeck, D.D., the pastor of the Tremont-street Church of this city thrilled the brethren with an address on “The relation of the ministers to revivals,” during which he pointedly referred to church fairs and festivals as barriers to revivals. He declared that some ministers and churches would never have a revival, because they would not do the hard work, and make the sacrifice essential to secure said results
At Urbana, Ohio, he began revival services, but at first only doubtful characters came to the altar, in whom the public had no confidence. Many were offended, and some said: “Do you know those people that are coming to the altar?
He replied: “Yes, I know them; they are immortal souls for whom Christ died.” When the meetings had run three weeks, one of his leading members came to him and said : ” I think it is time these meetings were stopped we have held them three weeks, and we want to hold a fair, and have some entertainments “
The pastor firmly and promptly replied: “You may do as you please, but these meetings will not stop.”
His heart was broken, and so was the heart of one of the devout women members. They expressed their feelings to each other and parted. They both spent the night in prayer, and at 10 o’clock the next morning, the pastor gained the evidence that his prayers were answered. After dinner he went out, and met the devout lady on the street, her face shining with the glory of God. She said: “The victory is coming.” “How do you know?”
“I got the evidence at 10 o’clock this morning, after spending a whole night in prayer.”
This was the very time that the pastor gained the evidence. That very night, while the pastor was preaching, a young man arose and came to the altar; others followed, so that the pastor had to stop preaching. God was among the people in power; the church was quickened, backsliders were reclaimed, hundreds of sinners were converted. Places of amusement and saloons were closed. The face of the community was changed, and 275 converts joined that one church, and the fair was not held. All because they refused to have the fair. Oh, for more nights of prayer! Oh, for more agony of soul for perishing sinners! Oh! For more of the mind of Christ! Then would revivals prevail, and thousands would be converted to God. — Christian Witness.
This is my personal collection of thoughts and writings, mainly from much smarter people than I, which challenge me in my discipleship walk. Don't rush by these thoughts, but ponder them.
Milo 