Some One Is Here

“Ha saith unto them, It is I; be not afraid, They wara willing therefore to receive Him into the boat; and straightway the boat waa at the land whither they were going.” — John vi. 20, 21.

Jesus recognized and received into the boat of our daily affairs brings us to the land of glad quiet.

IT HERE are always lone hearth
fires; so many I And those
who sit beside them, with the
empty chair, cannot restrain the tears
that will come.

Yes, here’s the Bible close by. But there’s a heavy mood on that affects one’s eyes so. One sits alone so much.

There is some One unseen, just here, within reach. But somehow we don’t realize His presence; it does not seem real.

If we would quietly put a foot on the 7 next step up, and then rise up to that foot; we can recognize His presence: it is real.

Realizing is blessed, but — rare. It belongs to the mood; to the feelings. It is dependent on weather conditions and bodily conditions.

The rain, the heavy fog outside, the poor sleep, the twinging pain, the letters in the last post — these make one’s mood so much; they go so far in controlling the feelings; they seem to blur out the realizing.

But there’s something a little higher up than realizing. It is yet more blessed. It is independent of these outer conditions, whether of climate, or post, or market, or tenement of day.

It is a something that abides. It abides regardless of these things of such great influence. Then the fire always bumscheerily and warmly, regardless of wind or fog or chimney conditions.

It is this: recognizing that Presence, unseen, so wondrous and quieting, so soothing and calming and warming. This it is that clears your eyes and brains, and warms your heart, and steadies your feet, and loosens out. the song.

Recognize His presence — the Master’s own. He is here, close by; His presence is real. Recognizing will help realizing, too, but it never depends on it.

This is up on the higher level, the simple child-faith level that takes the Master at His word, and sings because of what He says.

This simple homely talk is written in the midst of evidences of sorrow that come pressing, seeping in from many quarters.

It is written with letters at hand from dear friends far away across the seas and near by who sit in the dark 9 shadows. The mood of sorrow is everywhere, an ever-changing, but nevereasing mood. One simply cannot escape it.

But one’s hand can still hold hard to His hand — our Lord’s — amidst the swirl and suction of the rising waters. And He keeps your feet steady. That’s everything.

Yet the last letter that came, and the closeness of friendship’s tie do but intensify the acute sense of sorrow; they intensify it tremendously, overwhelmingly, yet it is but an intensifying. For sorrow itself recognizes neither clock nor calendar, and ignores maps.

It was here, everywhere, long before this last hurting experience came. It will remain long after the present sorrow that presses closest just now has been measurably healed up. Time will take the sharpest edge off the pain that cuts so sharp and deep to-day. And 10 time will bring new cutting and jagging of pain to somebody to-morrow and every day and morrow.

Everywhere and always pain of spirit eats in, hearts break, bonds snap, loneliness wraps in its clinging folds.

And so is the comfort always here. Always and everywhere the truth remains the same, a bit of rock for the feet, a warm handclasp in the dark of a strange place.

Aye, more, immensely more, the Truth is a Presence, not a thing, a fact, a statement. Some One is present, a personal Saviour, a warm-hearted Friend, an all-powerful Lord.

He is present, and all He is in Himself is always available, everywhere. This is the essence of truth. He.. He.. is that part of truth which remains unchanged.

And this groundwork of truth, this One, Himself the truth, this.. He 11

.. clean overweighs all the rest.

Love outdoes sin. Gladness has a big margin over sorrow. The morning when it dawns will make the night be clean forgot.

And this is the joyful truth for weeping hearts everywhere, whatever be the hand that has drawn the tears; by whatever stream it he that your weeping willow is planted.