By the Late Dr. Doudney.
IN my last I sought to urge upon you the desirableness of seeking to be content with such things as we have, inasmuch as “the bounds of our habitation are fixed by Him who cannot err.” In our extreme shortsightedness and folly, we may imagine that this or that position were more desirable than that we at present occupy; but, rely upon it, we should soon discover our mistake, provided that the Most High were to yield to our dictating to Him. Well has this subject been treated by some hymn-writer
“‘Not so, my Father,’ oft we cry,
‘This cross—this pain—remove;’
Too blind to fathom Wisdom’s way,
Or see ‘tis sent in love.”
Well do I remember the case of one who, although a man of large wealth, and living in the midst of luxury, suffered from almost entire sleeplessness. He had scarcely known for twenty years what a thorough night’s sleep was, although he had consulted many physicians, and had resorted to numberless expedients, in order to obtain sleep. But, upon one occasion when speaking to me of this distressing ailment, he said “he was afraid to ask God to take it away, lest He should find it necessary to replace it with even some more severe trial.”
Now, dear aged friends, this was the right state of mind to seek to possess and to cultivate. We are poor shortsighted creatures, and know not what is good for us. “It is not in man that walketh to direct, his steps.” In our ignorance, we might be disposed to imagine this or that one occupied a more desirable position than ourselves, whereas, were we to exchange places, we should soon discover our mistake, and be most anxious to return to the previous state of things. Depend upon it, dear aged friends, that Scripture, as well as all other portions of the sacred Word, is true: “The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.”
In proof that the all-wise and unerring God knows what is best for us, and how and by what means to instruct us, I remember, many years since, meeting a friend who, at the time, was suffering from a very painful bereavement, even the death of his beloved and most devoted wife. He felt it acutely. Some ten years or more passed away before I saw him again; when, as we met in one of the crowded thoroughfares of London, I told him I had never forgotten the anguish of mind under which he was suffering when we last saw each other. “Ah!” said he, “I have a much heavier trial now.” Thought I, “What trial can exceed that under which you were then laboring?” Upon inquiry, I found that, after a time, my friend had married again, and that the mind of his second wife having given way, she had been for years an inmate of a lunatic asylum. She has passed away since, but not until little short of twenty years had been spent in that institution.
This simple fact, my dear aged friends, has helped, among many others of a varied and greatly diversified character, to convince me that the Lord knows infinitely better than ourselves can ever know exactly where to place us.
Moreover, the longer I live, the more reason I see to be “contented with such things as we have.”
Furthermore, I may state that, in looking back upon one’s little and somewhat eventful life, I am brought to this sober conclusion—that every trial I have had has been absolutely necessary. Humanly speaking, I could not, without such trials and afflictions, have been kept in my proper place—that is, as a poor and helpless creature, requiring wisdom and strength from above, day by day and moment by moment.