What Is the Comfort?

He had just completed his long course of preparation. He had been graduated from the University, and then from the Theological Seminary. He had been called as pastor of an interesting church, and had been ordained and installed. Then almost immediately he became ill. He was tenderly watched over. The best medical skill was procured in his behalf, and all that could be done was done. But all availed not. One October day he sank away into the quietness and stillness of death.

Truly it seemed a mysterious providence. The sadness is always peculiar when a young person dies. The old have filled up the measure of their days, and have finished their work; but the young are only beginning to realize the dream of their heart. This young man died at the close of a long and costly preparation for life. He gave also unusual promise of a most successful career. “He will be an eloquent preacher,” men said. Yet after all this course of training, and with all this brilliant promise for the future, he had no opportunity to try his powers. The consecrated talents laid upon the altar were employed in no active service of earth. Ready for beautiful and noble work, his hands were at once folded in death’s repose.

From childhood his parents had watched over his life with gentlest care. They had brought him up for Christ. They had given the most diligent and intelligent thought to his education, sparing no pains and no cost that he might be well fitted for the chosen work of his life. They had dreamed large things for his future. They had expected that his voice would be heard throughout the land in eloquent tones as he delivered his message from God to men. No words can describe the bitterness of their grief and disappointment as they bent over the coffin, which held not only the precious form of their beloved son, but seemed to hold also all the fond dreams and hopes of their hearts for him.

What is the comfort of the religion of Christ in such a case as this? There must be comfort, for life has no experiences for the believer in which the light of the gospel does not shine. One comfort is that death really interrupts nothing beautiful and good in a Christian life.

A mother was speaking of a daughter who had died just after finishing a long course of education, and was lamenting that all her costly training had been in vain. The friend to whom she was speaking replied that all education was valueless which was not for eternity.

It might seem that it was scarcely worth while to spend so much in the education of this young man, when he did not live to make any use of his trained powers in this world. But we must remember that his life belonged to Christ, and that his early death meant only that his Master had called him to service elsewhere, nearer the throne. His parents did not know it; but through all the years of their self-denial for his sake and their patient nurturing of his life, they were educating and preparing their son for service in the blessed fields of glory, instead of for ministry on the earth. Could any honor be greater than this? The long, patient training was not in vain; he is finding opportunities now for the use of all his fine gifts and cultured powers in the holy service in which he is engaged close to Christ.

There was another most pathetic element in this providential mystery. The young man was engaged to a noble girl. For years they had loved each other, and had ardently dreamed of the day when they would be united in marriage. This dream, too, seemed on the verge of fulfilment. They intended in a little while to be wedded, and then to set up their home in the parish over which he had become the pastor. But this sweet dream was not realized; it, too, lay among the broken hopes that were folded up and shut away in the coffin.

What comfort has the gospel of Christ for this sorely bereft and sorrowing child in her pathetic loneliness? For one thing, she has the assurance that this strange thing which has happened was no accident. The two faithful lovers had their sweet dream of life together in this world. They hoped to share each other’s cares and trials, and to go hand in hand in their work for Christ. But this was not the divine purpose for their lives. From the beginning it was the Master’s plan that one of them, when fully trained and ready for service, should be transferred to another field, in a brighter country, while the other should remain on earth, to serve Christ here, without the loved companionship.

This separation, therefore, was no accident, no surprise to God; it came as part of the divine plan for their two young lives. Hence we know it was not a calamity to either. The years of love had their part in the building up of the character and the culture of the spirit of him who was called to higher service. He is the better servant of his Master now in the bright fields where he is, for the enriching of his life which that sweet love wrought in him. She who was left has also received from the experiences of love an enlargement and a culture of heart, by which she has been fitted for gentler and more effective ministry in this world. Then the sorrow through which she has passed has also had its influence upon her life, anointing her for yet holier and more helpful service.

She is not the girl she was in those light-hearted days when the two used to walk and talk together while love’s dreams were so bright. It is not long since; but in the little time she has learned strange lessons — lessons which have gone deep into her soul. All life has been changed for her, and in her too. She is a woman now, set apart by the baptism of sorrow. The light still shines in her face; but it is not morning light now, it is the serious light of the mid-day. She has new joy now — joy which is sorrow transfigured, glorified. God’s comfort is in her heart, and a holy peace is in her eyes. She has experienced sore loss, but she never was so rich as she is now.

“What can the brown earth do,

Drenched and dripping through, To the heart, and dazzled by the sight Of the light

That cometh after rain?

What can the hurt life do,
Healing through and through,
Caught and captured by the slow increase
Of the peace
That cometh after pain?

I would not miss the flower
Budded in the shower
That lives to lighten all the wealthy scene
Where rain has been,
That blossoms after pain!”

This bereft child need not think of her life-work as in any real sense broken up by the sorrow which has brought such disappointment. It is still God’s plan for her that is going on amid the desolation of her hopes. Her friend’s work in this world was finished when he passed over to take up new and holier service; but her work is yet here, and she must not lose an hour even for sorrow. Her grief was but an incident in her life; and she must not allow her spirit to be broken by it, or her serving of Christ to be hindered. With heart made more tender by the pain, with hand made more gentle, with sympathy deepened and her whole nature enriched, she is ready to go out now to be a blessing to many. God will care for her life, that no sweet hope of her heart may perish, but that in some other way than she had dreamed of, every holy vision of her love shall yet come true.

“Strange, strange for thee and me,

Sadly afar;
Thou safe beyond, above,

I ‘neath the star;
Thou where flowers deathless spring,

I where they fade;
Thou in God’s paradise,

I ‘neath time’s shade!

Strange, strange for thee and me,

Loved, loving ever;
Thou by life’s deathless fount,

I near death’s river;
Thou winning wisdom’s love,

I strength to trust;
Thou ‘mid the seraphim,

I in the dust.”