IT was in the autumn of the year 1859 that was privileged to witness for the first time in my life the saving power of the grace of God in the conversion of a sinner.
I knew many Christians―was, in fact, brought up among children of God. My parents were both earnest followers of the Lord, so that I had the advantage of seeing before me, day by day, what the life and conversation of saints should be.
Still, with all this, I had never, so far as I can remember, seen one whom I had known when living in the world and without God, turned right round and brought to God through Jesus Christ our Lord. I had often heard of conversions, and knew that I must myself be converted if ever I was to go to heaven; but how I or anyone else was to be converted was a matter of which I was profoundly ignorant. Not ignorant from want of instruction, nor from not knowing, even from childhood, the theory of the Gospel; but, like thousands of other persons, my ignorance lay in, this, that I thought I believed everything; that is, I did not doubt the truth of what is declared in the Scriptures, but how believing that Jesus died for sinners, or even for me, would cave my soul, was something never could see, or rather feel.
Awakened through God’s mercy, at about the age of twelve years, to a sense of my sinfulness before God and my need of a Saviour, I passed a few years of my life with a good deal of inward strife; for the world on one hand, and Christ on the other, were both bidders for my poor worthless heart.
Such was pretty much my state at the time have named, when my French tutor, who had for six years been my instructor, and to whom I was much attached, took ill of a disease from which it was not possible he could recover.
My father and mother had often spoken of his soul, and longed for his blessing; but there seemed a barrier in the way. The poor Frenchman had been brought up a Roman Catholic, but, like too many of his fellow-countrymen, had lapsed into utter carelessness as to God, and even into infidelity. He never went to church, chapel, or meeting-house, and his pet thought of what was good was to hate every priest and all priest-craft. It is true that on one occasion he accompanied me and my brother to hear the famous Pasteur M― preach a sermon in French, and that on another occasion he came with us to hear a young man deliver a special Gospel address to young men. But beyond these two solitary instances, I never knew my poor friend to go to hear the Word of God anywhere.
One day, while my parents were still wondering how this soul could best be reached by the sound of the Gospel, some friends came to say we ought certainly to get someone to call and see Monsieur I―, as he was dying, and he ought not to be allowed to die like a heathen.
Accordingly, the next day my father suggested that I should ask Monsieur I― if he would like to see a friend of ours, a devoted servant of Christ, who had spent many years in France in the Lords work. He had just come to town, and the Frenchman had often heard the name of Mr. D―in our house. I rather objected to doing this, on the ground that I did not make any profession of religion, but afterward consented.
I went, therefore, that morning to see the sick man, taking with me some little comforts for the body, such as he required, but hardly knowing how I was to broach the subject of Mr. D―’s visit.
As soon, however, as I went into his room, I found the way was already plain for me. The poor fellow was unhappy in a way I had never seen him before. As soon as he saw me, he said, “I am a miserable man; I wish I was dead, but I am afraid to die. I am a burden to you, and I am a burden to myself and to everybody. I wish I was dead. If I were as holy as that young man (meaning the one we had heard preach some months before), I should not be afraid to die.”
I felt for the poor fellow, and gave him such comfort as I could, telling him to cheer up, and take a more hopeful view of his case; that perhaps, after all, he would pull through, and be himself again.
“By the by,” I added, “our friend Mr. D― here at present; you have often heard of him. He speaks French like a native; perhaps you would like him to call upon you and cheer you up a little?”
To this the sick man, with all the natural grace and politeness for which his nation is so famed, not only assented, but even seemed most thankful for the suggestion. After a little more conversation I left him.
My next step was to call upon Mr. D―, and ask him if he would be willing to come with me in the afternoon to see the man whose case I described to him. He very readily consented to accompany me, so about four o’clock we proceeded to the house of the dying Frenchman.
The introduction over, Mr. D― was very soon seated by the bedside of the patient, talking to him of his native land, and various places in it which they both knew. It was a pleasant conversation to the sick man; and it was very easy to see Mr. D― had quite gained his Confidence.
Presently the conversation changed. Mr.
D― turned to the subject of the dying man’s state before God, and immediately met with a hearty response. There was an eagerness about the way in which he seemed to grasp at every word spoken (as a drowning man would catch at a draw), which I, in my ignorance, supposed arose from politeness on the part of Monsieur I― who must needs assent to all that was said.
In the course of their conversation (which I cannot detail as I should wish), Mr. D― spoke of Christ as the sale and all-sufficient Saviour.
“Ah,” said the Frenchman, “if I only knew Him, if I only had Him.”
“Well,” replied Mr. D―, “He is beside you. He is here. He is knocking at the door of your heart, wanting to come in. He says, Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.”
The moment the dear fellow heard these precious words he sat up in the bed, and with both hands pulling his night-shirt open, and baring his breast, he looked up, and said with the most intense earnestness, “Oh, I am open, I am open: come, Jesus, into my heart!”
A little more conversation followed, and we took our leave. As soon as we were outside the house, Mr. D― took my arm, and said, “Do you know, F―, I believe that man is Converted!”
CONVERTED! I thought. I― converted! It seemed more than I could credit.
I said nothing, but thoughts passed rapidly through my mind: “Could this marvelous change, by which a guilty sinner is made meet for the glory of God, take place in so short a time, and in so very simple a way? Was it possible that if I― died NOW, he would go to heaven to be with Christ? Was every question settled between him and God? Was he really ready to go, while I, with so many more advantages, was still unsaved?
“Ah well!” I thought, “time will tell, and time will prove all.”
And so it did.
Monsieur I― lived for some weeks after his first interview with Mr. D―. The change in him, in his spirit and in his hopes, was something indescribable. His Roman Catholic wife again and again said, after his death, “Well, whatever that gentleman you brought said to my husband, it enabled him to die very resignedly, and made him very happy.”
But it was much more than mere resignation.
That is a poor, cold word that does not at all express the Imaging, of the soul who desires to depart and be with Christ. Monsieur I― was saved. He knew it; he knew his Savior, too, and his whole heart’s craving was to be with Him. He wanted to see the blessed One who had plucked him as a brand from the burning.
Several times he said to me, when I had brought him little bodily comforts, “Ah, I don’t want these things now. They only help to keep me here, and I would rather go to be with Jesus.”
Ere long he was called homo to enter into the inner chamber, the Father’s house, to be “forever with the Lord.” Happy and perfectly peaceful he was unto the last.
And now, beloved reader, what about you? Have you opened your heart to the blessed Savior who stands knocking and seeking an entrance? Many and many a time has He knocked, and long has He waited. He has knocked every time you have heard the Gospel He has knocked by sickness, it may be, or by the removal, through death, of a beloved one from your side. He has knocked in a thousand ways and at a thousand times; and yet have you never, as the dying Frenchman did, opened your heart to let Him in?
You mean to do so, no doubt; you intend to open to Him some day. You perhaps think the grace that has waited so long will still wait your convenience. You think of a future day, another time, a convenient season. But oh! how you slight the love of Him who knocks, and how you imperil your own soul, by listening to the devil’s gospel― “TOMORROW!”
An American poet has put into our language, from another tongue, the following touching lines, which only too truly tell the way in which the grace and kindness of the Savior are so often treated:
“Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me―that Thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh strange delusion!―that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and Oh! to Heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet!
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
‘Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How He persists to knock and wait for thee.’
And, Oh! how often to that voice of sorrow,
‘Tomorrow will open,’ I replied.
And when the morrow came, I answered still, ‘Tomorrow.’”
Before I close this paper I would call the reader’s attention to another knocking―not the Savior’s knocking at the hard and impenitent heart of the sinner, but a great knocking―the knocking of many at a closed door which cannot again be opened, even though they are importunate and plead their works.
Hear the words. They are from the lips of Christ (Luke 13:24, 2524Strive to enter in at the strait gate: for many, I say unto you, will seek to enter in, and shall not be able. 25When once the master of the house is risen up, and hath shut to the door, and ye begin to stand without, and to knock at the door, saying, Lord, Lord, open unto us; and he shall answer and say unto you, I know you not whence ye are: (Luke 13:24‑25)) “Strive to enter in at the straight gate: for MANY, I say unto you, will seek to enter in, AND SHALL NOT BE ABLE.” Why is this? How awful to think that some shall seek to enter in, and yet shall not be able! What can it mean?
The next verse explains it. It is very simple, but very dreadful. They have put off until it is TOO LATE. The Savior had knocked at their door, but they did not open. He called, but they did not answer, and now He has risen up and shut-to the door.
Ah, poor silly souls, YOU are now “without” and HE is within. Eternally separated!
“Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now!”
May the Lord mercifully give you so to learn your need of Him, that you may no longer delay opening your heart in simple faith to Him who so graciously deigns to knock, and seeks to, be its guest!
F. C.