01.08. The Hidden Cross

The Hidden Cross

Notwithstanding all that has been said and written about the happiness of childhood and early youth — it is, nevertheless, true, that neither is beyond the influence of that decree, alike the just penalty and the consequence of sin, by which "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." The tear on the cheek of childhood scarcely flows before it is dried again — yet none can look back to their own early days, without feeling that the fountains of sorrow were none the less bitter for being easily stirred. The cloud may soon pass away, but, while it lasts, the whole sky is overshadowed. And when childhood is exchanged for youth, who shall say that sorrow is also left behind? Surely its touch falls most heavily on the young and untried spirit, which the stern discipline of life has not yet taught to "suffer and be still!" How soon, how effectually, does reality dispel our bright visions of perfect happiness in our "teens!" There is no home so carefully guarded, that death may not enter it. A father’s place may be left vacant — a mother’s voice may be silent — a brother’s manly form may be laid low — and even the gentle sister, in whose life your own seems to be bound up, may leave you to tread the wilderness path alone.

Sickness, too, may come. Days of pain and nights of weariness may be your portion. You may be painfully taught how difficult it is to struggle through the routine of daily duty, when, with languid pulse and aching head, and every nerve unstrung — each trifling annoyance seems to stir up all the impatience that is in you.

Perhaps you may be altogether laid aside; and, so, entirely prevented from openly showing your love and devotedness to the Master whom you serve. But if we are only hidden within the clefts of the smitten rock, no evil shall befall us. When loved ones are taken from us, we know that if they were united to Christ by living faith, we are separated only for a time, for they have but gone before us to the meeting place above. The gates of death are gilded by the light of resurrection hope, for "those who sleep in Jesus — God will bring with Him." We trace their footsteps in the path we tread, and from the home to which they have gone, they beckon us to "follow them, as they followed Christ." A message floats down to us, soft and clear as angels’ music: "Do not be slothful, but followers of them, who, through faith and patience, now inherit the promises."

We look up from the narrow graves in which we have laid their mortal bodies, and smile through our tears at the blessed assurance that we may "go to them — though they may not return to us." And in sickness, we may lean for support upon the arm of Him, who was Himself "perfected through suffering." His love and sympathy are at all times precious to His people — but never so much so as in the dark day when heart and flesh are failing. Then the world is shut out — and we are shut in alone with God. The things of eternity become more near, more real to us; for, as it has been remarked, "in sickness we live upon what in health we only talk about." We search into our own hearts, and feel more deeply the sin that stains them, and the iniquity that pollutes even our most "holy things."

Viewed in the light of the eternal world, they seem more dark to us than when seen through time’s deceitful glare. Then we are driven afresh to the blood of atonement, and learn to rest, in more childlike faith, on the Savior’s finished work. We feel that nothing else can sustain us — that nothing else can hear our weight. The Holy Comforter, too, draws near, and His voice is heard when the din of earth is hushed, bringing to our remembrance the "great and precious promises" which, to us, are "Yes and Amen in Christ Jesus" — and applying them with a force and power such as we have never felt before. Surely such experience is worth gaining! And there is work to be done in sickness too. The constant struggle against impatience and selfishness — the "offering up of our will to God" in the little trials which are so hard to bear — the watchfulness to speak a word for Christ which may, perhaps, be remembered when we are gone. All this is work, none the less real because it is what few can perceive, but is done in silence, "as unto Christ."

"Those also serve — who only stand and wait;" and, if the waiting is only done in a working spirit, it is acknowledged as an acceptable offering. It is less pleasing to the flesh than the bustle and excitement of outside service, and is, therefore, more pleasing to our Great Master. It is purer, higher, holier, than even the active duty in which there is much danger of self-seeking.

"To be a follower of Christ," says MacDuff, "does not require huge sacrifices — brilliant displays of heroic suffering. I believe the Savior is most honored by those who bear most meekly what I might call little crosses — who, not in the great battle-field of the world, but in the quiet of their own homes, exhibit the lowly, submissive, patient spirit of cross-bearing disciples." This, also, is part of the discipline by which we are "made fit for the inheritance of the saints in light." But it is not of these trials that we wish chiefly to speak. There are others, less visible, but not less bitter. There are few, even of those seemingly beings whose feet yet linger on the threshold of life, who have not known its hidden mystery of joy and sorrow. The trials of childhood pass over and are forgotten; the trials of youth leave an impress upon the life. They stir up the very depths of our being, and awaken us to a knowledge of that fearful power which is bound up in our mysterious nature, "the soul’s capability to suffer." It is no light matter to have early hopes withered, and the heart’s first fresh tide of warm and tender feeling crushed back again upon itself. Yet it is an ordeal which few escape. Few but can look back on the time when "The hopes of youth fell thick in the blast,
And the days were dark and dreary!"

We do not say so that it must be. There is no doubt that careful watching and steady self-control may prevent, if exercised in time, much subsequent misery. We have no sympathy with those sentimental damsels, the readers of Byron, and "yellow-colored literature," who are always imagining themselves the victims of unrequited love, and delight in bewailing their self-created misery. But a woman’s heart is a wild and wayward thing, and too often it is her lot to "make idols — and to find them clay!" There is in the youthful mind, a yearning for something strong on which to rest itself — for some prop, around which the clinging tendrils of its affections may be entwined. And often, when it has been found — it is again quickly removed, and the fibers of the heart are left, torn and bleeding. Is there no bitterness in this — no misery?

But, though the cloud may be dark — it has a "silver lining." It is a message to you, dear reader, from your Father’s heart of love — to remind you that you are not yet where tears are dried forever. Take it as it comes, directly from Him, and do not bewilder yourself by looking at second causes.

Without His permission, "not a sparrow falls to the ground!" Every minute circumstance of your life is ordered in His providence. And though it is a sorrow with which a "stranger may not meddle with" — a wound which no human hand may heal — there is the most tender sympathy, the most unfailing love — in that Savior who still retains, in glory, the loving human heart which once He wore on earth. To Him the hidden grief is unveiled — and in His bosom may the aching heart find rest. If He sends affliction — He sends strength with it. If He "allures you into the wilderness" — it is that He may "speak comfortably unto you." His voice is heard above the storm, and it is a voice of peace. But the trial has its lessons — and they are lessons rich in blessing.

It teaches us to sympathize. We must ourselves go down into the deep waters — that we may hereafter be enabled to speak words of encouragement and hope to those who are overwhelmed by the storm. We can show them that there is a strong foundation on which to rest, and that, even when the waves and the billows pass over us, the Rock of Ages is beneath our feet.

God has need of "reapers with sharp sickles," and if we are to be successful laborers in the Vineyard, we must know how to touch, with a skillful hand, the most delicate chords of the human heart. It is only by personal suffering that we can be fitted to "strengthen our brethren," and to hear a rejoicing testimony to the faithfulness of Him whom we know to be a "very present help in times of trouble." Many a weary-hearted one may be afresh inspired with hope and energy by the healing sympathy of a "companion in tribulation," who can point to the only true source of strength, and minister the same comfort with which she has herself has been "comforted by God."

Another lesson which this peculiar form of trial seems specially designed to teach, is unselfishness. We must not infect others with our own sadness, or cast from our own darkened hearts one shadow over those we love. Cheerfully must the hidden cross be borne, and borne in silence. It is not in selfish withdrawing from the social and relative duties of life — but in bravely fulfilling them, that the secret of peace is to be found. Still you can be the sunshine of home — though your own spirit may be cheerless and dark. It will soon grow brighter, for the effort to promote the happiness of others, must have a reflex influence upon yourself, and there is joy and gladness in the thought that even yet you may be enabled to fulfill a lowly ministry of blessing. But this brings another quality into exercise, namely, self-control. It is one which sorrow alone can impart — and those who have not acquired it, have acquired but little. The struggle to keep back the surging tides of emotion, to conceal the aching heart beneath a cloudless brow and a tearless eye — is one for which, in after years, you will have cause to be most thankful. And, if it is true that those only can beneficially influence others, who have learned to control themselves — then, surely, we may well desire such knowledge, however dearly it may be bought!

We must not shrink from any discipline by which we may be prepared for the work we have to do. So you cannot but rejoice if your present trial sobers and calms you, sufficiently to enable you, by and bye, to be one of the quiet ones, whose influence gladdens many a home, and teaches many a throbbing, anxious heart, how those who have been trained in Christ’s school can pass through life more calmly, patiently, and happily — than others, who seem always laboring for their own ends, anxious about this, fearful about that, forgetting that they are not to be their own guides.

England still remembers the gallant conduct of some of her troops in the Crimea, who, when at Alma, marched in front of a galling fire until within about twenty paces of the enemy, and then fired. That was true bravery. It showed cool courage, determination, steadiness. But, depend upon it, those brave fellows had been well drilled. And we believe that the same sterling courage and endurance may be found among the softer gender. But not among those who have passed their girlhood in gaiety and folly — so much as those whom early sorrow has early trained.

There must be self-discipline — self-conquest. There must be a development of those deeper and stronger qualities of a woman’s nature, without which she must ever remain a weak and changeful thing — swayed by every passing impulse, and utterly unfitted for the duties of sister, friend, or wife. And in no school can these be so well cultivated as in the school of suffering.

Nothing (we speak, of course, of secondary means only) will so greatly tend to dissipate the cloud which hangs over you — as full and constant occupation. Whether it be engagement in intellectual pursuits, or self-denying exertion for others — you will find it the most unfailing safeguard against melancholy and wretchedness. As painful as the effort may be, it will bring with it a rich reward. We must not bend helplessly before the storm, or fold our hands in the listlessness of despair — but fight the daily battle, with a brave and earnest purpose, looking ever upward and onward! Upward to the ever-present Savior whose strength is "made perfect in weakness!" Onward, to the blessed rest, where "sorrow and sighing shall flee away." Do not, then, give yourself up to idle and morbid regrets. Wait patiently — the victory will come at last, though the struggle may be long and weary. Those who have never known what it is to suffer — have never known what it is to live. The idols must be broken, the flesh must be crucified, the quivering heart must be laid as an offering upon the altar of sacrifice. It is a bitter cup — but it is mingled by a Father’s hand — it is dipped in the blood of the Elder Brother! Do not be afraid, then, but be of good courage, for, by the grace given from above — woman’s feeble nature is made strong. You tread no solitary path; it is marked by the "footsteps of the flock." Nay, more precious than any human sympathy, is the thought, that He who the chief sufferer — can feel for you, and feel with you. The Savior’s eye is upon you. His arm can uphold the fainting spirit. His voice can speak peace to the troubled heart. He draws near in the day when earthly comforters avail not, and whispers, in tones of tenderest pity and compassion, "Be of good cheer, it is I! Do not be afraid!" His hand binds up the bleeding wound, pouring into it the healing balm of "His own unutterable peace."

Rest, then, in the Lord; for, however outward circumstances may distress you, there is peace for you in His presence. "When He gives quietness — then who can make trouble?"