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  QUIET TALKS WITH THOSE WHO WEEP
  by Samuel Dickey Gordon
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Gordon's pastoral work of comfort for those experiencing grief and loss,
addressing breaking hearts with Scripture's promises and using metaphors of
storms and tears to explore how pressure and grief can produce spiritual
refinement through Christ's compassion.

  Chapters: 7

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS
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    1. A Foreword
    2. Chapter 1: Breaking Hearts
    3. Chapter 2: If The Grief Died Too
    4. Chapter 3: The Absent One
    5. Chapter 4: The Throne View
    6. Chapter 5: Maybe Nearer Than We Think
    7. Chapter 6: The Pilot’s Face

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  CHAPTER 1: A FOREWORD
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There are lone hearth-fires to­day, so many! 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 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 clay.
It is a something that abides. It abides regardless of these things of such
great influence. Then the fire always burns cheerily 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 after almost a year of this
world-nightmare of war, in the midst of the terrible intensi­fying of horrors
that the past weeks have brought. It is written with letters near by from dear
friends who sit in the dark shadows. The mood of the war is everywhere, an ever
- changing, but never - eas­ing mood. One simply cannot escape it. But one’s
hand can still hold hard to His hand amidst the swirl and suction of the rising
waters. And He keeps your feet steady. That’s everything. Yet the war but
intensifies the sorrow for loved ones gone, in­tensifies it tremendously,
over­whelmingly . . . yet only intensi­fies it. For that sorrow knows neither
calendar nor map. It was here, everywhere, before the war began. It will remain
long after the prayed-for peace has been at last securely signed and sealed.
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 all­powerful 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 .. . 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 forgotten. And
this is the joyful truth for weeping hearts everywhere, whatever be the hand
that has drawn the tears; by whatever stream it be that your weeping willow is
planted.


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  CHAPTER 2: CHAPTER 1: BREAKING HEARTS
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Chapter 1: Breaking Hearts “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken
heart.”—Psalms 34:18. “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their
wounds.”—Psalms 147:3. . . . My heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that
is higher than I.”—Psalms 61:2. “Calm me, my God, and keep me calm; Let Thine
outstretched wing Be like the shade of Elim's palm, Beside her desert spring.”
Horatius Bonar It is always raining somewhere. Tears are ever falling. Always
some heart is breaking. And the rain beclouds other skies. And the tears wet
other eyes. And the breaking hearts make other hearts bleed. Yet there would be
no rare beauty at rising and setting of sun, holding our eyes in grateful
praise, were there no clouds. And there is no rainbow in the skies that can
compare with the one made when the dew-drops of the heart reflect the rich
colours in the light that shines out of the eyes. And the hearts that break are,
in their very breaking, coming into the most real touch with the heart of all
the race, and with the heart of Him Who died of a broken heart. The only healing
salve for hearts that are breaking comes out of hearts that have broken. The
pressure on the clouds be­comes greater than they can bear. So the rain comes.
And the pressure is relieved. And the earth is refreshed. It gives grate­ful
thanks in greener grass and browner soil and more beauteous colouring of
flowers, while all the air is fragrant with a new de­licious freshness. The
pressure of the heart on the eyes becomes more than they can stand. So the tears
come, pressed out by heart action. And the pressure on the heart is relieved.
And the eyes are bathed. They’re cleaner now and cooler and clearer. There is
truer, stronger sight. The pressure of life’s ills upon the heart is oft times
more than its sensitive walls can withstand. They quiver and tremble, and give
way, or seem to, or feel to; even while the outer surface may be fairly well
under a proper control. But under all is a broken or breaking heart. Yet no
heart was ever broken past repair. Though repairing seems quite utterly
impossible while the breaking bewilderment is crushing you. For the pressure is
relieved in the very breaking, and need never never regain its breaking
strength. And the warm heart-juices loosened out under the terrible pressure
have a softening in­fluence. They mellow and ripen and grow into richer fineness
all the heart qualities of the character. They have healing virtue. They cure
the unconscious hurt of hardening made by life’s easy unconsciously-selfish
flow. They heal the heart whose breaking presses them out. It becomes a better
heart because of the heal­ing touch of its own breaking juices. And blessed
influences go out, as mellowing, soothing, healing, fragrant balm, to the
countless other broken, breaking hearts, waiting wearily on the crowded street
for help. No heart ever broke past mend­ing. It may not be mended. But it can
be, even though you feel it can’t while the breaking’s going on. The worst
broken heart was the one that broke on Calvary. The tremendous strain and stress
on that great heart was too much for even uncommon human restraint. That heart
broke. No heart ever broke so, so utterly, so overwhelmingly, as that. And so no
heart need ever break so. For that heart, the heart of hearts; and that break,
the break of breaks, gave out under pressure the wondrous salve that can mend up
every other broken heart, and knit together the edges of every other break.
Since the heart of our Lord Jesus broke, our breaking hearts can be repaired.
The weather has been very stormy of late, the clouds the heaviest and blackest,
and the downpour the greatest. It is not too much to say, very thoughtfully,
that we’ve been going through the worst storms this old earth of ours has ever
known. The massing of black clouds, the horrible growling of the thunder so
near, the terrific driv­ing of the winds, the furious lashing of the waves, the
drench­ing of the rain, have broken all records. Tempest and hurricane, typhoon
and simoon and cyclone, seem all rolled into one, and to have got a momentum
terrific beyond words or imagination or ex­perience. And the wreckage is
every­where. Broken homes, broken families, broken hearts, broken plans, broken
laws, broken tradi­tions, broken honour, — was there ever such breakage! No;
sober second thought looks and thinks back and solemnly says, “Never such
breakage and wreck­age.” And tears have come in floods till the tear-ducts seem
to have run their waters clear out, and only dry eyes stare blankly, hope­lessly
out over the distracting beach of life. Will the sun ever shine again? Will the
clouds ever break? Will the storm ever spend itself, and calm come again? And
the ques­tions themselves seem but an intenser way of underscoring a negative,
and crying out despair­ingly, “Never.” Yet this is not the full answer, nor the
right answer. The feel­ings may not be allowed to over­ride the judgment. The
tears must not blind the eyes to what is there to be seen. The storm is not all
there is to be seen, though its horrible growling thunder is so deafening and so
close.


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  CHAPTER 3: CHAPTER 2: IF THE GRIEF DIED TOO
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Chapter 2: If The Grief Died Too “And He touched her hand, and the fever left
her; and she arose and ministered unto Him.”—Matthew 8:15. “When He giveth
quietness, who then can make trouble?”—Job 34:29. “Be still (let go) and know
that I am God.”— Psalms 46:10. “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 Let 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? Have we done
the best to meet the hour’s need, the best of gold and honour, yes, and of . . .
steady within there, steady ... of one's own loved ones, one’s own heart blood?
Has the best been given and done that can be? Yes? Ah, yes! Yonder vacant room,
and this empty chair by the fire, and at meal-time; the memory of the voice that
speaks not, of the old laugh that rings not, of the gentle smile that comes not,
of the step that is ever missing; and that little pile of letters there: these
all answer a mute emphatic, “Yes.” 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 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 someone 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
the life has gone. A part of the inner heart of one is quite gone. There’s only
an empty space ... so empty . . . where he was. And the emptiness aches, a dull
heavy aching, even in sleep. There isn’t even a place to put flowers out maybe,
on a little hilled-up sod, under a drooping elm. 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 the heart from getting together and healing.
“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.

“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.’ “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.” (Austin Dobson.) And there’s the broken future. So
much of the tomorrow 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 today
remains, with intervals of nights for sleeping; if sleep will come. And a
routine of goings around to ease the sharper edge a bit; but just today; no
mor­row; the future is dropped quite out. Future, plans, sunlight, flowers,
fragrance, music ... all quite gone, for be 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.


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  CHAPTER 4: CHAPTER 3: THE ABSENT ONE
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Chapter 3: The Absent One “He leadeth me beside the waters of quietness. He
refresheth my life.”—Psalms 23:2-3 (Free translation). “Thy rod and thy staff
(tokens of His presence) they comfort me.”—Psalms 23:4. “Calm in the hour of
buoyant health, Calm in my hour of pain; Calm in my poverty or wealth, Calm in
my loss or gain.” Horatius Bonar Yet . . . there is something more to be said.
Sit still, my heart, and let me try to see all there is to be seen. Let us stir
the fire a little, that what blaze there is may flame out. And let us draw our
chairs up a little closer, for there is surely some warmth here by this fire,
more than we are getting. He is not here. That is true. Yet he is somewhere. The
precious outer casket that his spirit carried about, that is . . . well it is
not here. We may not know just where, some of us. But then he is not with it He
. . . where is he? the real be that used that precious bit of vitalized clay?
Now let the answer to this come, and linger, until it is seen as big as it
really is. He was trusting Christ as His Saviour, was he not? Swift down under
all you know ... in his heart this, was his trust, was it not? And possibly you
cannot put your eagerly reaching out, trembling finger, on any particular word
or act or even bit in the letters yonder. Yet one remembers how in the thick of
the trenches, and of the awful smoke and fire and din there’s been a most
unusual sense of an unseen Pre­sence brooding. And men’s hearts, once so
thoughtless, have been strangely caught and hushed. And your prayers in Jesus’
Name have gone up so many times. And prayer does not fail. And one remembers
that when­ever there is the half-turning of an eye upward, homeward, in longing
and desire... that’s a little something that our Lord yearns for and reckons
with, and quickly sees and eagerly responds to. Some come in at close of day, as
the tired-out child creeps in­to his mother’s soft lap, wanting only rest, and
coming for it to the one place. And we know the mother never fails her child’s
acted plea. And would He? This is the one decisive thing. Our one hope is the
blood of our Christ. Precious old family ties, dearly-cherished traditions,
personal accomplishments and achievements, treasured posses­sions all fade away
now. And this, this thing that Christ died for us, this is the one thing that
stands out. And if this blessed hope is his, the absent one’s of whom we think
this hour, if under all there was a little of the real thing of this, enough for
Him, our Lord, to see, whose love makes His eyesight so keen, then, ah! then,
there’s another little chapter to add to our story. This answers our question:
Where is he? the real he? We sit very still and let the answer come into our
inner spirit-ears, as quiet and clear, as sure and undoubted, as the title-deed
to an estate: He is in the presence of our glorified Lord Jesus. Now as we sit
here, as we stir the fire to get more warmth out to help the inner chill, even
now he is in that wondrous Presence. He has been blessedly changed. He is in
full rhythm of spirit with things up yonder. He is looking into the face of our
Lord Jesus, into those eyes so kindly and gentle; and the Lord is smiling into
his eyes. And he answers that wondrous smile with his own smile. The two are in
touch of spirit. Is not this enough, alone, to bring sunshine down through these
low-hanging clouds, till it reaches clear in, and warms up where the wintry
chill is? But there’s more to add, much more. He is so happy up there. There’s
the music of that upper world. He is listening, caught and held, thrilled and
thralled. For it’s a great place of music, of singing, up there. Was he fond of
music? Well, he never heard such soft rich harmonies as reach his ear now. Maybe
he didn’t know much about it, though he liked to hear it. Well, he’s being swept
by it now, even as a fragrant breeze from over a field of wild roses in the
early summer blows softly into one’s face, at times, and sweeps his spirit away
into subtle wordless communion with nature and with God. And up yonder there is
a throne. There is a rainbow of exquisitely soothing quieting green round about
the throne. And a won­drous One in a soft blaze of blinding light is sitting on
the throne, looking out over all, there and here. And round about are the hosts
of angels with their pure strong faces and winsome presence, coming and going,
some hastening up from the old earth to tell of their last errand and get
further instructions. And some are eagerly hasten­ing away down to the old earth
with glad faces and outstretched hands, to guard and minister and help down
here. And they’re singing, always singing, softly singing praises to the King,
as they quickly, eagerly go and come. And there are the redeemed ones of earth,
a wondrous com­pany from all the ages, and all the nations, gathered about the
throne, talking, ministering, doing errands, busy with glad tasks, singing,
always singing, and with such glad faces. Over yonder is Enoch still walk­ing
with his Friend, and Moses with his face shining more softly than ever, and
gentled Elijah, and Isaiah with vision clearer than ever, and Paul down on his
face again, but in wonder and worship, all softly singing. And here are some
that he ... our loved one . . . knew. The one he loved so tenderly, and who
slipped away that early dawning from your clinging grasp and his . . . they’re
together now in gladdest reunion. And the children are there, hosts and hosts of
them, babies of months, and babies of wee years, and growing children each
tenderly cared for, and each growing, ever wondrously growing in that won­drous
atmosphere, and all singing, always singing, whatever else may be going on. And
he is part of all this. And he is growing too; growing in his mental powers,
growing in his understanding of the reason of things, growing in knowledge, and
in the fine graces of strength and beauty. And most of all growing in love,
which is the perfection of strength and beauty and life.


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  CHAPTER 5: CHAPTER 4: THE THRONE VIEW
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Chapter 4: The Throne View “Be silent to God, and let Him mould thee.”—Psalms
37:7 (Luther’s translation). “He that goeth aside to sit quietly in the secret
place with the Most High, will find Him coming over so close that this man shall
be lodging under the very shadow of the Almighty.” — Psalms 91 : i (Free
translation). “Calm in the sufferance of wrong, Like Him who bore my shame;
Calm, ’mid the threatening, taunting throng, Who hate Thy holy Name.” Horatius
Bonar But does he know about us down here; about just us, here by the old family
hearth-fire? And does he know about how things are still going on down here, the
awful war still on and even getting worse, the distress and sorrow, the hunger
and suffering, the awful moral tragedies, and . . . and . . . the loneliness,
and . . . all the rest of it: does he know? And if he does how can he be happy?
How can one ever be happy again who knows even a little of what has happened
just this year . . . how can he? And the rush of uncontrolled emotion comes
anew. And the break in the heart begins bleeding afresh. And one of those great
flushes of feeling sweeps over you as you ask. You may let it out. Some can and
do. You may keep it, most of it, under the lock and key of strong restraint.
Some can and do. And they feel the wear on the inner wheels all the more. How
can he? . . . They up there . . . how can they? Well, you see, you have dropped
your eyes a little, until you see only part, the dis­tressing weeping breaking
part. But they can see all. That’s the answer to your “how?” There's a throne up
yonder. They are getting the throne view. They’re under the blessed brood­ing
spell of the quieting green rainbow which the throne-light makes as it shines
out. Over all our world there’s a throne; there is control; there is mastery.
There is an eye that never slumbers, but instead watches sleeplessly with love’s
sleeplessness. There is a sensi­tive hand laid on the pulse of the old earth’s
life. There’s a master­ful hand on the helm. He . . . the one you are thinking
of ... he sees all this. He doesn’t know all. Ah! he’s just beginning his
lessons in knowing. But he does know enough to steady him, while the rest is
working out. Suppose we let him, the one you are thinking of, help us here a
little. That is, let us try to see things a bit as he sees them up there. Let us
try to get some­thing of the throne view. We’ll draw our Bibles over and recall
some of the things the Book tells. And he, his presence yonder . . . what we
know that he does know, this will help us. It will make it all more real and
personal. What we’re needing most is the throne view. We need to see things as
our Lord Jesus sees them. That will help us greatly as our feet press the common
clay, our common round of life. The present time is not all the time there is.
There is more coming after this. And the more will be a different sort from
this. And it will change the whole look of things. And— may be—it’ll come soon,
this other different sort, sooner than any of us now think. This horrible riot
of blood and din, of smoke and confusion, of suffering and wrong and
in­humanity, this breaking of all honour and right and pledged word, this is not
God’s plan. This tangle of tragedies and horrid discord of noises, this
stifl­ing nightmare, this is all dead set against God’s plan. It runs straight
across the grain of God’s plan. It hurts His heart more than it does ours. It is
a result of man's freedom; only this; all of this. This is the one only
explanation. This is the image of God in which we were made ... this freedom of
choice and action. And this hell-thing called war, now in its superlative
degree, this is a result, one result, of man’s freedom. That is one thing to see
clearly. The present is not the whole. It’s only a part. It’s only a hyphen, a
thing in between. There’s something coming after the hyphen, this bloody tangled
tangling hyphen. There is a change coming. It will be a radical change. It will
be a blessed change. It will be a change back to original Eden conditions. Some
day our Lord Jesus is coming back. The blue that opened to let Him through and
up, will open again to let Him through and down. He will come in great glory
just as He naturally is. His glory was hidden before, for the sake of our eyes.
No one knows when He will come. But, mark you keenly, when He does come . . . !
That fire is doing better now, isn’t it? That stirring up of the fagot did good.
We are getting a bit warmer now. The chill is less marked. Give that big log
there a turn . . . so . . . that’s good! Now we’ll go on. When He does come, it
will not be to wind things up, to close things up. It will be to begin things
anew on the old earth, on the original plan. Yes, there will be some radical
changes at the beginning of the new order of things. But chiefly it will be a
fresh start on the original plan of life on this same old earth, as first
planned by God. There will be no war then. There will be a gradual cessation of
sickness and death until these are largely, almost wholly un­known. Envy,
hatred, jealousy, bickering, fighting, rivalries of the bad sort and of the
not-good sort . . . these will be gone. Pain, hunger, poverty, weakness,
distressing partings, ignor­ance, passion, prejudice, super­stition, gradually
these will go until they will be almost for­gotten. It will be a reign of love,
on this same old earth, with the present laws of living, learn­ing, growing,
serving, all in full sway, but in a natural way. The common word for it all is
Kingdom, the thing we all pray daily to come. The atmosphere of it will be an
atmosphere of love—strong, pure, true love. The purpose of it will be to let men
really get acquainted with God, and God's way of things. They will be finding
how life will be when God is let in as freely as is natural, both to life and to
Him. There’ll be need of helpers in that day, great need of trained, tested,
trusty helpers. This pre­sent time is part of our school­time. And so is the
present interval with those who have been taken up and away. Our loved ones who
have been taken from our clinging grasp are in school. They are in training.
They are being got ready for the service of the Kingdom time that’s coming down
on the old earth.


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  CHAPTER 6: CHAPTER 5: MAYBE NEARER THAN WE THINK
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Chapter 5: Maybe Nearer Than We Think “Sit still, my daughter, until thou know
how the matter will fall: for the man will not rest until he have finished the
thing.”— Rth_3:18. “He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waters thereof are
still.”—Psalms 107:29. “He rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great
calm.”—Matthew 8:26. “Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Soft resting on Thy
breast; Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, And bid my spirit rest.” Horatius
Bonar That day may be much nearer than we think. He, our Lord Jesus, may be much
closer in His return than any of us suspect. “Some glorious morn—but when? Ah
who shall say? The steepest mountain will become a plain, And the parched land
be satisfied with rain. The gates of brass all broken ; iron bars, Transfigured,
form a ladder to the stars. Rough places plain, and crooked ways all straight,
For him who with a patient heart can wait. These things shall be on God’s
appointed day: It may not be to-morrow—yet it may.” It is quite possible — yes,
a stronger word can be used there —it is probable that our generation will see
this great change in the order of things. Some of us may actually see Him coming
down out of the blue. The very darkness of the night speaks of the coming of the
new day. “It darkens to the dawning More than in all the night; Earth’s shadows
cast an awning Just round the gates of light. “O’er the horizon nearest Lie
balanced light and shade, And where the light is clearest The dark is darkest
made.” (F. W. Robertson, of Brighton) And now there’s another warm­ing, helping
bit here. We’ll put another log on the fire. When He does come, these loved ones
of ours who are with Him now, they will come with Him. Some day we will suddenly
notice that the sun’s light at its noon- brightness has become a shadow.
Startled, we shall look up to see a brighter shining above the sun. There will
be a break in the blue over our heads, and out of it will come the Lord Jesus
Himself. The brightness of His Person will outshine all else. Then some very
swift and very wondrous, though simple, trans­formations will take place. It’ll
all be quicker than the words can be told. These dear bodies of our loved ones
that have been laid away will know the touch of a new life coming into them, as
their former dwellers shall re-enter them and rise up into the presence of the
Lord Jesus in the air. “How can we know that the flowers will bloom, When blue,
and scarlet, and gold, Lighting no more the forest’s gloom, Lie slain by the
frost and cold?

“How can we tell that the birds again Will warble from leafy spray? Garden, and
copse, and wood, and fen, Saw them all fly away.

“And yet, serenely, for bird and flower We wait spring’s fragrant breath, Faint
hearts, shall we not trust His power To lift the veil of death?” How can we know
this other spring is coming? Very simply. We have His Word pledged to us. And,
under that, we have the yet more sacred pledge of His blood shed for us. And
beyond that we have the yet more joyous pledge of His new life rising up out of
death and being lived for us. A three-fold cord that can’t be broken. So the
spring is coming, this new blessed Kingdom springtime, with its wondrous new
life for those we’ve loved long since, and lost . . . but only for a little
while. Then we who are living, who have courteously waited, and given these
loved ones precedence, then we too shall know a Divine change in our bodies,
making them answer to a new law of gravitation upward. And we shall all at once
find our­selves up with Him and with them. And then with them and with Him we
shall share in the blessed earthly ministry of the Kingdom time. “Out of the
chill and the shadow Into the thrill and the shine; Out of the dearth and the
famine Into the fullness Divine. Up from the strife and the battle (Oft with the
shameful defeat), Up to the palm and the laurel, Oh, but the rest will be sweet!

“Leaving the cloud and the tempest, Reaching the balm and the cheer, Finding the
end of our sorrow, Finding the end of our fear. Seeing the face of the Master.
Yearned for in ‘distance and dream,’ Oh, for that rapture of gladness ! Oh, for
that vision supreme!

“Meeting the dear ones departed, Knowing them, clasping their hands, All the
beloved and true-hearted There in the fairest of lands! Sin evermore left behind
us, Pain nevermore to distress; Changing the moan for the music, Living the
Saviour to bless.

“There we shall learn the sweet meanings Hidden today from our eyes; There we
shall waken like children Joyous at gift and surprise. Come then, dear Lord, in
the gloaming, Or where the dawning is gray! Take us to dwell in the presence—
Only Thyself lead the way.

“Out of the chill and the shadow, Into the thrill and the shine! Out of the
dearth and the famine, Into the fullness Divine. Out of the sigh and the
silence, Into the deep-swelling song! Out of the exile and bondage, Into the
home-gathered throng.” (Margaret E. Sangster.) This is the throne view, the
upper view, the fuller view. It fits this present sore time into its niche in
the whole sweep of our Lord’s plan. And this wholly changes the outlook. This is
the view our loved ones have up in the Master’s presence. And we may have it and
keep it, too, if we will. And so, many questions will be answered and much of
the heartache eased. “In the midst of you standeth One whom ye recognize
not.”—John 1:26. “Jesus stood on the beach; yet the disciples dis­cerned not
that it was Jesus.”—John 21:4. “And lo, I am with you all the days.”—Matthew
28:20. “A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot; Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern’d
grot— The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not—
Not God! In gardens! When the eve is cool! Nay, but I have a sign ; ’Tis very
sure God walks in mine.”


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  CHAPTER 7: CHAPTER 6: THE PILOT’S FACE
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Chapter 6: The Pilot’s Face But—meanwhile—there’s a mean­while. There’s a
waiting time, before the storm clears. And we must needs live through this
wait­ing time. The road up to the hill­top where the air is bracing and
sunshiny, that road leads through a valley. It goes down before turning up. It
may even go further down be­fore the turn-up is reached. And the valley is apt
to be damp and chill. Raw winds blow there. The sun doesn’t get through for days
at a time, sometimes. And the fog of the valley wraps you about with a close
clinging clammy fold. And we are in this valley. The hill-top’s there, that we
have been looking at, from which one can see all. The valley is only a part, the
sun-lit hill is the greater part. But we are so apt to get the valley mood, and
let our eyes drop instead of keeping them lifted up to the hills. Well there is
a bit of valley-truth for us valley-travellers to warm by. Let us put another
log on the fire, a good-sized log this time, one that is well-seasoned and will
kindle quickly, and burn brightly and send out a good glow of heat. And let us
clear the ashes a bit so that the fresh air can get to fire and log. Here is the
simple but wondrous bit of meanwhile truth, the valley truth, to cheer the lower
road: there is Somebody by your side. When you’re alone; you’re not alone He’s
there. The angels of the Lord are round about. Yes; but this One, the Lord
Himself is inside that angel-circle, nearer than they. But our eyesight is a bit
blurred. Maybe it is like Mary’s in the garden. (John 20:1-18). Her tear-misted
eyes thought she saw a gardener, but it was Jesus. And He had come there just
for her. He spoke her name. Then she knew. And all changed. Suppose you get
still a bit . . . quiet . . . and listen. You’ll hear your name in the same
voice. And there’ll come the same change as with Mary. One sound of His quiet
voice will change everything for you. Reach out your hand sometime as you sit
alone. He’s there by your side now. We are bothered, sometimes, like the seven
men in the boat that grey dawn on Galilee’s blue waters (John 21:1-14). A long
night it had been, and they were tired in body and more tired in heart. There
seemed no outlook, nor uplook. Only a discouraging in­look and the despairing
downlook. But they were wrong. That “seemed” wasn’t right. Jesus was there,
close up. He was talking with them, con­cerned about them, making a fire to warm
their cold, and broiling fish to feed their hunger. What a Saviour to think of
such things, just as a thoughtful mother would do! And His presence being
recognized made outlook and uplook and glad-look. Are you and I like them? ...
eyes down . . . heart down? But He is here. Listen to Him. Sit still with Him a
bit. Sing to Him a snatch or two of praise for what He is, and what He is going
to do. “I have not seen His face— Not yet, not yet! But oft beside my own His
feet are set, And I’ll no strangeness feel, No chill surprise, That glad day
when He bids Me lift mine eyes.

“If I have felt His touch I am not sure, But when earth-sorrows grow Past all
earth’s cure, Comes there such sense of Him So close, so dear, That mine own
blood and breath Seem not more near.

“I have not heard His voice, That, too, I wait; And not so much I pray The
opening gate, And all that shows or sings Dark Jordan past, As but to hear Him
speak At home at last.” (William Hervey Woods.) And as we sit in stillness, and
say to ourselves, “He is here,” something else comes. We re­member that He has
been here before. This road I’m on—this is no new road to Him. And it was a
rougher road then. “Rougher? ” you say instinc­tively, without stopping to
think, while your hand goes to your heart. Then as you think a bit you say
softly: “Yes, it was rougher for Him." The pain cut deeper . . . yes, this same
sort of pain. He knows. He understands. He feels. He feels with you. He suffers
with you. He has come to help. Let Him. Learn to spend the day with Him. That
will brighten this “little while between.” “Let the little while between In the
golden light be seen.” Lean on Him. He’s here. Readers of Robert Louis Stevenson
will remember that in one of his books he tells the story of a ship at sea in a
severe storm. Things had got into desperate shape. And now the storm is driving
the ship toward the coast, which means certain wreckage of the ship, and
possibly death for most of crew and passengers. The passengers are all below,
and sternly forbidden to attempt the deck. The hatches are all fastened securely
down. And there, huddled together, with only the dreadful noises of the storm
and the distressing pitch and toss of the boat, and the close foul air that can
hardly be breathed, the passengers are in great bodily discomfort and mental
distress. They are surely going down. Above, everything is tied up that can be
tied, the decks are washed by the furious waves, and forward the pilot is lashed
securely with ropes at the wheel, that he may not be washed away while he tries
to guide the wheel and turn the ship out into safe waters. It is a most
distressing scene. Then a venturesome passenger manages to elude officers and
crew, finds a way up on deck, and with great difficulty he creeps along the
smooth slippery deck, holding as best he can here and there, until finally he
manages to get within sight of the pilot. Yes, the pilot is still there. That’s
something. And as he gripped hard to the rail he thought he could half see
through blinding dash of wave and spray that, slowly, little by little, the
wheel was turning the ship out from the coast toward the deep water. Just then
the pilot seemed to feel the presence of someone, and glancing over saw the man
so intently watching him. And a smile lit up his tired, set face for a moment.
Quickly as he could, the man crept back the length of the slippery deck, and
down below; and as he reached the crowd of huddling passengers in the dark and
damp of their close quarters cried out, “I have seen the face of the pilot; and
he smiled.” The story tells its own tale to us just now. It is a tremendous
storm that is raging now. The ship seems headed straight for a rocky coast. The
wreckage will be terrific beyond any experience yet, if the ship actually
strikes the rocks. And we’re huddled in most of us, where the outlook is so
limited. Sometimes it seems as if there were no outlook. And the storm blinds
our eyes. And our per­sonal distress seems quite beyond words. But listen,
there’s a Pilot. His hand is on the wheel, steady and firm. And if we may, in
the ven­ture of a child’s simple faith, creep out and look, we can see His face.
For it is always turned toward us. And He is smiling quietly down into our
bewildered eyes. And we can say, in the words of the venturesome passenger, “I
have seen the face of the Pilot . . . and . . . He smiled.” And that will settle
everything for us. For He knows all. And He sees the sunshine after rain, and
calm after storm. He has our loved ones up in the sunlight of the homeland with
the Father. And He Himself walks close by, saying in a quiet voice with a thrill
of soft music in it, “Be of good cheer, I am here."

“After the wind . . . after the earthquake . . . after the fire, a still small
voice (which was a sound of gentle stillness). ”—1 Kings 19:11-12 with margin.
“Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease: Take from our
souls the strain and stress; And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy
peace. Breathe through the pulses of desire Thy coolness and Thy balm; Let sense
be done, let flesh retire, Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire O, still
small voice of calm.” John Greenleaf Whittier.

“Then are they glad because they are quiet; So, He bringeth them unto their
desired haven.”—Psalms 107:30.


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Source: https://sermonindex.net/books/quiet-talks-with-those-who-weep/
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