JAMES'S DEATH
AS SOON AS JAMES'S ILLNESS HAD appeared dangerous, Mary had gone to Erlenbrünnen, to ask the minister of that place to come and see her father, as the Pine Farm was in that parish. The minister, a pious and worthy man, had paid several visits to the invalid; they had had many pleasant conversations together, and his visits and his prayers were a great consolation to Mary.
One afternoon, when he came, he found James much weaker. He remained a long time alone with him; and after he went away, James said to his daughter, "My dear Mary, I do not think I shall ever be able to be out at church again, and tomorrow I hope to receive communion here, from the hands of our good minister."
Mary felt this deeply. It seemed as if her father had given up all hope of recovery; but she strove to command her feelings for his sake. James spoke little during the day and seemed much engaged in silent prayer. Next day the good minister came, and a little congregation was formed in James's room. The farmer, his wife, and several of the work people were present. They seemed all much moved and solemnized by the service, and Mary felt comforted and strengthened by it.
Notwithstanding all Mary's care, the old man continued to get weaker every day. The farmer and his wife, who loved him much, did all they could for him, and they often went to his room to inquire how he felt, or to help poor Mary in her anxious hours of watching.
Mary often asked them, with a mixture of fear and hope, "Oh, do you not think it is possible that he may yet recover?" and they as often evaded answering her question. At length, thinking it cruel to deceive her, the farmer's wife said, in answer to her oft-repeated question, "My dear Mary, while there is life there is hope; but I do not think that your father will ever see the trees in leaf again, or the summer flowers in blossom."
From that moment poor Mary dreaded the approach of spring. Till then she had welcomed it with joy; she had watched the first opening bud, the first green shoot appearing through the ground. But this year she dreaded to see it. The bright green hue, beginning to steal over the dry, brown branches, as the tiny buds began to expand, the snowdrop raising its snowy head, the joyous song of the birds filled her soul with sadness. These signs of spring now seemed like the announcement of her father's approaching death.
One day she opened her window to breathe the fresh air for a moment. It was one of those bright spring mornings when all nature seems to rejoice. For the first time, these voices were at painful variance with Mary's feelings. "Must all things rise to new life," said she, "except my poor father? He is fading away, when everything is reviving and rejoicing. All things speak of life and hope and joy, and is there no hope for him?"
But even while she was speaking, Mary's conscience smote her for her forgetfulness of her father's lessons. She breathed a fervent prayer to God for strength to bear whatever it might be His will to send, and calm and peace returned to her soul. "My father, too, will rise to new life," thought she, "though not in this world. He is now only laying aside an old worn-out garment, to be clothed in immortal robes. His hope is fixed as an anchor within the veil, sure and steadfast! He is going to fall asleep in Jesus, to rise to new life and glory. His true life is just going to begin."
The old man delighted in hearing Mary read aloud. She read with feeling, and her voice was very sweet and clear. How necessary a qualification this is for the watcher by a sickbed and how few really possess it! How few read with that softly modulated voice, these distinct, clear, but gentle tones, which soothe the weary ear and charm away the sense of pain! This is an accomplishment which no woman should be without, for all must have to watch one day at the bed of sickness and death.
One night, Mary was sitting silently beside her father. She had put out her rushlight, for the moon was shining brightly into the room, and she loved to watch its beams. Her father, who had had a short sleep, awoke, and called her to him. "My child," said the dying man, "read to me once more our Lord's last prayer for his disciples." Mary lighted a candle, and read to him the seventeenth chapter of John's Gospel.
"Now, raise me a little, dear Mary," said James, "and bring me the Bible." Mary put the Bible into his hand and brought the candle nearer her. "Listen, my child," he said, "to the last prayer I offer for you."
With a trembling voice, and marking the passage in the Bible with his finger as he spoke, he prayed thus: "O my Lord and Savior, Thou art calling me to leave this world, and I must leave my child alone in it. But let her not be alone; be Thou with her. May I go to Thee, to be with Thee where Thou art, O my Savior! and do Thou preserve my child. I do not ask Thee to take her out of this world till Thou seest it best; but oh, I beseech Thee, do Thou keep her from the evil that is in the world. Sanctify her, I pray Thee, by Thy truth-Thy Word is truth. Thou gavest her, O Lord, to my care in this world, and I have tried, as far as I could, to devote her to Thee. If we must part now, O grant that we may meet again before Thy throne, to be with Thee forever and ever, and to behold Thy glory; for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."
With a throbbing heart and a faltering voice, Mary whispered, "Amen."
"Yes, my child," continued James, "I trust that we shall meet again above, and see our Lord Jesus in His kingdom. In the mansions above, which He has prepared for His people, there will be no more grief, no more sorrow, no more painful separations. God will wipe away all tears from every eye. There shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain. There shall be no night there; for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light thereof."
He fell back on his pillow exhausted; he could speak no more for some time, and Mary stood by his side in silence. The Bible was still grasped in his hand. It was one which he had bought with his first savings after he had come to Pine Farm, and it had been his constant companion, his great comfort in his illness.
After he had rested a few minutes, he revived a little, and said, "I thank you once more, my darling child, for all your care and kindness to me in my long illness. You have been truly a dutiful child, and God will bless you. I leave you to His care. Trust in Him, dear Mary, and He will provide for you, though I have nothing to leave you but my blessing and this Book. I know you will value both, my dear Mary, more than any worldly thing.
"This Bible only cost a few pence, and yet it is a richer treasure than gold or silver. It is a better legacy than gold or jewels; for it is the Word of God, and by it we learn to know that heavenly wisdom which is better than rubies (Prov. 3:1-1 8). Take this Bible, my beloved child, as your father's last gift. Keep it as a remembrance of me. Read in it every day. However busy you may be, do not let any morning pass without reading at least a small portion of it. Try to fix a verse in your memory, to think of and meditate on through the day, when your hands are busy. If you do not understand any passage, pray to God to grant you His Holy Spirit to enlighten you. God Himself, and He only, can open your eyes and make you see wonderful things out of His law; and if you pray to Him, He will do this, and will give you day by day more knowledge of Himself.
"Each verse, meditated on with prayer, will become a fresh treasure of heavenly wisdom. I have learned more from these few words, 'Consider the lilies of the field,' than I learned in my youth from many a volume. These simple words have been the origin of my purest enjoyments; and in many an affliction, when I was ready to faint under the weight of the trial, they have revived my courage, strengthened my faith, and restored peace to my soul."
Again James was forced to cease speaking, from exhaustion, and he lay quiet till about three o'clock in the morning. He then said faintly, "Open the window, Mary; I feel very ill."
She hastened to open the window. It was a clear night; the stars were shining bright. The fresh air revived the old man. "How brilliant the stars are!" said he. "What are the fading flowers of earth when compared with the unfading glories of the sky! It is there I am going. O what joy! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly!"
Saying these words, his head sunk back on the pillow, and he slipped away so quietly that Mary did not know it was death. She thought he had fainted; but when she drew nearer to try to revive him, she was seized with sudden fear. She had never seen that look before—that indescribable look, when once seen never to be forgotten, of the mortal frame when the soul has just left it.
She hastened to awaken the people of the house, and they told her that her father was dead. The farmer's wife gently closed his eyes.
Poor Mary could scarcely be persuaded to leave the bedside. She kissed his pale face; she implored them to leave her alone with him; she refused, almost frantically, to allow him to be moved or touched. At last she fainted, and while she was unconscious the kind farmer's wife carried her into her room and laid her on her own bed, where she sat by her, gently soothing her, and weeping with her, while the other women quietly arranged her father's room.
But thither Mary soon insisted on returning. She seemed unable to remain away from all that was now left to her of the father she had loved so much. The kind neighbors often persuaded her to come away for a little; but when they left her alone, she slipped quietly back to that cold lonely room. She had been for months so accustomed to watch her father's slightest movements, that her straining ear, often deceived, imagined still to hear the well-known voice. Ever and again she would start, fancying she heard her father calling, her father moving, scarcely even now able to believe that she would never hear that much-loved voice again.
Oh, who can describe the unspeakable anguish of the first days after a sore bereavement, when all is over, when the hope against hope that sustained to the last, through all the long weary hours of watching, is gone, and, deprived at one stroke of all that has been the constant thought and care of every moment, the mourner is left bereaved and desolate indeed!
Mary's only comfort was in reading her father's Bible. With this well-worn book in her hand, she could almost fancy that he was still speaking to her. On the day that the coffin was going to be closed, Mary strewed in it some fresh spring flowers, the first snowdrops and primroses, with some sprigs of rosemary. Her father had loved flowers so much that she wished to put them near him, even at this last moment. These early flowers of spring were associated in her mind with all he had so often said to her of the resurrection of the body to a new and fresh life; and the rosemary, ever green and ever fragrant, she put in as an emblem of the unfading and pleasant remembrance which she would ever cherish of her kind and much-loved parent.
The funeral day was a sad trial to Mary, but she resolved to do her duty to the last. Dressed in deep mourning, she followed her father to the grave, calm and composed, but pale as death. Everyone who saw her pitied the poor orphan, now left alone in the world.
As James was a stranger at Erlenbrünnen, his grave was dug in a corner of the churchyard near the wall. Two large fir trees overshadowed the place. The minister addressed the people from these words, "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit" (John 11:2424Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. (John 11:24)). He spoke first of the beauty and depth of meaning in this verse, as applied by our Savior to His own death.
He then considered it as applied to the death unto sin which must take place in each individual believer. Every soul united to Christ must die to self and sin before it can rise to new life in Him. As the apostle explains it, "We are buried with him by baptism unto death, that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection" (Rom. 6:4-54Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. 5For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection: (Romans 6:4‑5)).
He spoke also of the twofold effect of this spiritual resurrection in this life. 1. That the power of sin is destroyed in believers: "Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with him, that the body of sin may be destroyed, that henceforth we should not serve sin. For he that is dead is free from sin" (Rom. 6:6-7). 2. That after this, being thus made free from sin, believers live to the glory of God. They have their fruit unto holiness (Rom. 6:18-2218Being then made free from sin, ye became the servants of righteousness. 19I speak after the manner of men because of the infirmity of your flesh: for as ye have yielded your members servants to uncleanness and to iniquity unto iniquity; even so now yield your members servants to righteousness unto holiness. 20For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free from righteousness. 21What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death. 22But now being made free from sin, and become servants to God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life. (Romans 6:18‑22)). They are no longer unprofitable; they bring forth much fruit. He then explained that it is only if we have been made partakers of this spiritual resurrection in this world, that we can have any sure hope of a resurrection unto life in the world to come.
As the life is never actually out of the seed—for though for a time it appears to die and decay, the principle of life remains hid, and this is quickened into new life and fresh vigor when it springs anew—so when the believer dies, and his body is laid in the grave, his life is hid with Christ in God; and when Christ, who is his life, shall appear, then shall he also appear with Him in glory.
The minister concluded his address by speaking of the sure hope they might have of the resurrection unto life of the good old man who was that day laid in the grave, because he had been a true believer, one of those really united to Christ, as had been evident to all by his holy and consistent walk and conversation, and by his incessant labors for the spiritual good of others. He reminded those who had profited by his good counsels to show their gratitude by their kindness to his daughter. He spoke of the peculiar duty laid upon all who profess to be Christians to visit especially the fatherless and widows in their affliction (James 1:2727Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. (James 1:27)).
Mary often visited her father's grave to think of him, to recall to mind his cherished counsels, and to pray there for strength to follow them. She loved the perfect calm and tranquility of that lonely churchyard.
It seemed that thus, in the very presence of death, she felt more separated from earth and more filled with earnest longing for the day when all that are in their graves shall hear His voice and shall come forth. Thus meditating on the coming of the Lord, she stayed her soul on Him, the only true comforter; and never did she feel more serene and resigned than after a visit to the churchyard.