Stepping Heavenward [5]
"go on praying-pray without ceasing.
I sat pulling my handkerchief this way and that, and at last rolled it up into a ball and threw it across the room. I wished I could toss my bad feelings into a corner with it.
"I do wish I could make you love to pray, my darling child," mother went on. "If you only knew the strength, and the light, and the joy you might have for the simple asking. God attaches no conditions to His gifts. He only says, 'Ask!'"
"This may be true, but it is hard work to pray. It tires me. And I do wish there was some easy way of growing good. In fact I should like to have God send a sweet temper to me just as He sent bread and meat to Elijah. I don't believe Elijah had to kneel down and pray for them.
Chapter 2.
II. June 1.
LAST Sunday Dr. Cabot preached to the young. He first addressed those who knew they did not love God. It did not seem to me that I belonged to that class. Then he spoke to those who knew they did. I felt sure I was not one of those. Last of all he spoke affectionately to those who did not know what to think, and I was frightened and ashamed to feel tears running down my cheeks, when he said that he believed that most of his hearers who were in this doubtful state did really love their Master, only their love was something as new and as tender and perhaps as unobserved as the tiny point of green that, forcing its way through the earth, is yet unconscious of its own existence, but promises a thrifty plant. I don't suppose I express it very well, but I know what he meant. He then invited those belonging to each class to meet him on three successive Saturday afternoons. I shall certainly go.
July 19.-I went to the meeting, and so did Amelia. A great many young people were there and a few children. Dr. Cabot went about from seat to seat speaking to each one separately. When he came to us I expected he would say something about the way in which I had been brought up, and reproach me for not profiting more by the instructions and example I had at home. Instead of that he said, in a cheerful voice,
"Well, my dear, I cannot see into your heart and positively tell whether there is love to God there or not. But I suppose you have come here to-day in order to let me help you to find out?"
I said, "Yes"; that was all I could get out.
"Let me see, then," he went on. "Do you love your mother?"
I said "Yes," once more.
"But prove to me that you do. How do you know it?"
I tried to think. Then I said,
"I feel that I love her. I love to love her, I like to be with her. I like to hear people praise her. And I try--sometimes at least--to do things to please her. But I don't try half as hard as I ought, and I do and say a great many things to displease her."
"Yes, yes," he said, "I know."
"Has mother told you?" I cried out.
"No, dear, no indeed. But I know what human nature is after having one of my own fifty years, and six of my children's to encounter."
Somehow I felt more courage after he said that.
"In the first place, then, you feel that you love your mother? But you never feel that you love your God and Saviour?"
"I often try, and try, but I never do," I said.
"Love won't be forced," he said, quickly.
"Then what shall I do?"
"In the second place, you like to be with your mother. But you never like to be with the Friend who loves you so much better than she does?"
"I don't know, I never was with Him. Sometimes I think that when Mary sat at His feet and heard Him talk, she must have been very happy."
"We come to the third test, then. You like to hear people praise your mother. And have you ever rejoiced to hear the Lord magnified?"
I shook my head sorrowfully enough.
"Let us then try the last test. You know you love your mother because you try to do things to please her. That is to do what you know she wishes you to do? Very well. Have you never tried to do anything God wishes you to do?" "Oh yes; often. But not so often as I ought."
"Of course not. No one does that. But come now, why do you try to do what you think
I sat pulling my handkerchief this way and that, and at last rolled it up into a ball and threw it across the room. I wished I could toss my bad feelings into a corner with it.
"I do wish I could make you love to pray, my darling child," mother went on. "If you only knew the strength, and the light, and the joy you might have for the simple asking. God attaches no conditions to His gifts. He only says, 'Ask!'"
"This may be true, but it is hard work to pray. It tires me. And I do wish there was some easy way of growing good. In fact I should like to have God send a sweet temper to me just as He sent bread and meat to Elijah. I don't believe Elijah had to kneel down and pray for them.
Chapter 2.
II. June 1.
LAST Sunday Dr. Cabot preached to the young. He first addressed those who knew they did not love God. It did not seem to me that I belonged to that class. Then he spoke to those who knew they did. I felt sure I was not one of those. Last of all he spoke affectionately to those who did not know what to think, and I was frightened and ashamed to feel tears running down my cheeks, when he said that he believed that most of his hearers who were in this doubtful state did really love their Master, only their love was something as new and as tender and perhaps as unobserved as the tiny point of green that, forcing its way through the earth, is yet unconscious of its own existence, but promises a thrifty plant. I don't suppose I express it very well, but I know what he meant. He then invited those belonging to each class to meet him on three successive Saturday afternoons. I shall certainly go.
July 19.-I went to the meeting, and so did Amelia. A great many young people were there and a few children. Dr. Cabot went about from seat to seat speaking to each one separately. When he came to us I expected he would say something about the way in which I had been brought up, and reproach me for not profiting more by the instructions and example I had at home. Instead of that he said, in a cheerful voice,
"Well, my dear, I cannot see into your heart and positively tell whether there is love to God there or not. But I suppose you have come here to-day in order to let me help you to find out?"
I said, "Yes"; that was all I could get out.
"Let me see, then," he went on. "Do you love your mother?"
I said "Yes," once more.
"But prove to me that you do. How do you know it?"
I tried to think. Then I said,
"I feel that I love her. I love to love her, I like to be with her. I like to hear people praise her. And I try--sometimes at least--to do things to please her. But I don't try half as hard as I ought, and I do and say a great many things to displease her."
"Yes, yes," he said, "I know."
"Has mother told you?" I cried out.
"No, dear, no indeed. But I know what human nature is after having one of my own fifty years, and six of my children's to encounter."
Somehow I felt more courage after he said that.
"In the first place, then, you feel that you love your mother? But you never feel that you love your God and Saviour?"
"I often try, and try, but I never do," I said.
"Love won't be forced," he said, quickly.
"Then what shall I do?"
"In the second place, you like to be with your mother. But you never like to be with the Friend who loves you so much better than she does?"
"I don't know, I never was with Him. Sometimes I think that when Mary sat at His feet and heard Him talk, she must have been very happy."
"We come to the third test, then. You like to hear people praise your mother. And have you ever rejoiced to hear the Lord magnified?"
I shook my head sorrowfully enough.
"Let us then try the last test. You know you love your mother because you try to do things to please her. That is to do what you know she wishes you to do? Very well. Have you never tried to do anything God wishes you to do?" "Oh yes; often. But not so often as I ought."
"Of course not. No one does that. But come now, why do you try to do what you think