06.09. The Art of Sitting Still
Chapter 9 The Art of Sitting Still
"Sit still, my daughter," Naomi said, as the two lone women sat together, while the gray dawn broke over the sky. Each had her special thoughts, thoughts that tended to disquietude and restlessness. The elder was eager to find a home for the young life which had twined itself so tenaciously around her. The younger was filled with hope and fear and wonder, as she stood in the doorway, which seemed about to open into a garden of delight. It is not easy to sit still when young life is throbbing through our veins, and hope beckons us forward, and our natural impulse is to do something to secure the accomplishment of our plans.
Months before these two had traveled together from the valleys of Moab, where the girl was known as the Rose. At first, life in Bethlehem had meant a rush of bitter memory, sad foreboding, bitter privation; but of late there had been a turn in the tide. Those strong young arms, filled with the gleaner’s sheaves, had beaten back hunger and want, bringing comfort and help to the aged heart of the mother, for whom all pleasantness seemed to have passed, and whose eyes would wistfully turn at sunset to the long range of the hills of Moab, glowing in the slanting rays, because on their farther side lay the three graves where her life lay buried. How natural that Naomi should strive to win rest and home and love for the one who was more to her than ten sons!
It is not on the pathos of this story that we desire to dwell, but on the reason that Naomi gave Ruth for the hush on her throbbing nature, for the stillness and sitting down for which she pleaded. Boaz was known through the whole district as a man of honor, strong as he was considerate, fit to rule others because able to control himself, a man to whom a defenseless woman might intrust herself without the slightest fear of his taking undue advantage of her, one to whom the boys and youths of Bethlehem looked up as their model, and whose pure, simple, and beautiful life was the bread on which his fellow-townsmen daily lived. In former days, Naomi, in common with the rest of her people, had read him as we read a book, and was persuaded that he was a man of his word, one who could be relied on to see to the end any duty which he undertook. "Sit still, my daughter," she therefore said; "for the man will not rest until he have finished the thing this day."
It is thus, and only thus, that we too can rest. Every year the stress and speed of life increase. Events, engagements, books, opinions, flash past us, as the country seen through the windows of an express-train. One impression has not time to fix itself on the inner eye before it is succeeded by another, by which it is effaced. It is increasingly difficult to find time literally to sit down, and even if the physical attitude is assumed, the mind is invaded by so many distracting thoughts and suggestions that it is almost impossible to sit still.
It is needless to emphasize the immense injury which is inflicted by this unceasing restlessness, not only on the worker, but on the work. Manufacturers of goods requiring the highest finish are compelled to move their workshops from the feverish rush of our great cities to the quiet of country towns, where the current of life runs less swiftly and it is possible to look from end to end of the main street at noon without descrying a single individual. What obtains in respect to artistic fancy and skill is still more true of the highest forms of spiritual work. The incessant demand for fresh matter, for the fulfilment of public duty, for an opinion on every new book or fresh development of the eager life around, is diametrically opposed to that quietude of the soul in which the muddy waters can deposit their heavy silt and become clear again and able to reflect the azure sky. It is therefore the sorrowful confession of many foremost workers that they are able to complete nothing, and all their work bears trace of the pressure under which it has been produced.
Besides this, the restlessness of the soul breeds irritability, fretfulness, and nervous depression. The home life suffers. The family circle is broken up. The natural play of disposition on disposition has no opportunity for its wholesome ministry. There is a story told of the children of a certain enthusiastic artist, who were found running in desperate haste, as if pursued, to a remote corner of the house, and who gave the explanation, "Father’s painting a sky!" and perhaps many a home where some prominent worker lodges --for it is little else is shadowed by a similar fear, the indirect result of the overpressure of the age.
It is only as we sit still that we can elaborate our fairest work; conceive, like Mary, the idea of breaking alabaster on the head of our Lord; utter, like David, our noblest prayers; or preserve that natural healthy life which is the charm of the home, the secret of healthy influence over others. But there is only one method by which this lost art can be regained: we must shelter ourselves in absolute faith behind Jesus Christ. These two solitary women were able to still each other and themselves by remembering that Boaz had their matter in hand, and that he was both able and eager to carry it through. They might sit still because he would not sit still. They might rest since he would not. Their cause was safe in his hands, and he would see it to the end, whatever it might be. Happy is it when we can thus hand over our many anxieties and burdens to the Lord, and be sure that He has assumed them, bears them in His heart, and will not rest until He has seen them safely to the end. "Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him. Fret not thyself." The habit of reckoning on Christ is the key to a restful life. Not only to depend on His promises, but to count on Himself. A good man, one of those for whom some would even dare to die, is more than his words or assurances, because a case may arise not covered by either of them, and then we can fall back on what we know him to be. Christ is more than His spoken and recorded words. Is there some great perplexity in your life, the result of some indiscretion or sin in years gone by? Is there a lurking evil in your heart, which you have tried in vain to quell? Is there some anxiety about one dearer to you than life, who is drifting beyond your reach? Is there the sickness of heartache and despair? Is there a yearning for all that can be realized of deliverance from sin, the filling of the Spirit, the life and love of God? Go to the great Kinsman, find Him when you can speak to Him without interruption, tell Him all, hand it all over to Him, then go home and sit still.
If there is anything for you to do He will tell you what it is, and give you the grace to do it. But if not, sit still, wait patiently, quiet yourself like a weaned child: He cannot forget, He will not procrastinate, He cannot fail. He is allowing no grass to grow under His feet. He is making haste, though He appears to tarry. And presently at the door there will be a shout of joy. Then the bridal bells shall ring out over an accomplished purpose, and your life shall be no more Marah, but Naomi, and bitterness shall be swallowed up in blessedness.