If the Grief Died Too

44 And He touched her hand, and the fever left her; and he arose and ministered unto Him.” — Matthew viii. 15.

44 When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble!’* — Job xxxiv. 29.

44 Be still (let go) and know that I am God.” — Psalm zlvi. 10.

44 Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ear that greet;

Calm in the closet’s solitude;

Calm in the busy street.”

Horatius Bonar

L ET us see. Has every thing been done that can be done? Is the boat as shipshape for the gale as we can make her? Are the ropes all taut and well knotted? Are the sails set best for the winds that blow?

Is the hour’s duty being done? Is the day’s task being fully met? The loved ones that tarry yet, are they being cared for, fully, thoughtfully, and with an extra touch of love’s caress?

The common round of need waiting the thoughtful touch, the commonplace things asking to be done — is the touch being given patiently and with thoughtful thoroughness? and the mute request of all voiceless things being answered?

Yes, I know it’s hard to break loose from this spell that seems to hold one’s spirit prisoner, and to do these commonplace things. Yet this is the hour’s task. The unceasing need of life, of those dependent on us, waits not our mood.

And these must not suffer because of us. Duty must be done and done right well, for others’ sake at least. Is all being done? the prosaic things?

Well, then, it may ease the waiting time a bit to sit down, and, in between prayings, talk awhile in slow, hushed tones. Aye, and it will do more than 21 ease waiting time. It will ease the tension on the heartstrings.

The thing that hurts the very most, down under all, is the personal loss. The feeling here is too deep and intense for speech. Always there is some one who is not here. There’s the one who doesn’t come now.

“The lights are out

In the mansion of clay;

The curtains are drawn,

For the dweller’s away;

He silently slipped
O’er the threshold by night,

To make his abode
In the city of light.”

A bit of ourselves has gone. The absent one is a part of one’s very self. We’re not all here. There’s a strange, bare, gone feeling. A part of one’s very life is gone. The companion by your side is — not — there — now; never — there. The little garments and be- 22 longings are not needed now. They’re folded and laid away. The round of daily doings for another that depended wholly on you — this no longer calls. The one you leaned upon, the voice that was a bit of sweetest music, the touch, the look, the presence, — these are missing, always missing. The empty chair, the voice that does not speak, the laugh that doesn’t ring, the tread that sounds not — oh! this personal part is the part that hurts most. This is where the thing comes closest and cuts deepest. This it is that seems to hold the break in your heart from getting together and healing.

IF THE GRIEF DIED TOO

“Here in this leafy place quiet he lies, Cold with his sightless face turned to the skies;

’Tis but another dead — all you can say is said.

23 “Carry his body hence — kings must have slaves;

Kings climb to eminence over men’s graves

So this man’s eye is dim; throw the earth over him.

“What was the white you touched there at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched tight ere he died;

Message or wish, may be — smooth out the folds and see.

“Hardly the worst of us here could have smiled —

Only the tremulous words of a child —

Prattle, that had for stops just a few ruddy drops.

“Look, she is said to miss, morning and night,

His — her dead father’s — kiss; tries to be bright,

Good to mamma, and sweet — that is all, “Marguerite.”

24 “Ah, if beside the dead slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled slept with the slain!

If the grief died! — But no — Death will not have it so.” 1

And there’s the broken future. So much of the to-morrow of one’s life was bound up in the one who isn’t here.

It is as if all the morrows, that were so bright with radiant sunlight, and clustering with buds and roses, and rippling with joyous music, and fragrant with all the sweetest subtlest fragrances of life, as if all these morrows were clean wiped out with one fell stroke.

And only a dull, heavy, laden-skied to-day remains, with interval of nights for sleeping; if sleep will come. And a routine of goings around to ease the

1 Austin Dobson.

25 sharper edge a bit; but just to-day; no morrow; the future is dropped quite out.

Future, plans, sunlight, flowers, fragrance, music — all quite gone, for he is gone. Only to-day’s dull round, heavy steps, drab skies, wintry chill, clinging fog. The cherished plans have gone. This adds its sting to the personal loss.