Letters to Mothers/Letter XXII
LETTER XXII
LOSS OF CHILDREN.
To bear the loss of children with submission, requires the strong, exercise of a christian's faith. It seems to contradict the course of nature, that the young and blooming should descend to the tomb, before the aged and infirm. We expect to see the unfolding of a bud which we have watched till it had burst its sheath, trembling with joy and beauty, as it first met the sunbeam. "These same shall comfort us, concerning, all our toil," is the voice in the heart of every parent, who contemplates the children, for whom he has laboured and prayed.
The death of a babe, creates no common sorrow. Even the burial of one that has never breathed, brings a keen pang to a parent's heart. The political economist, who estimates the value of every being, by the strength of his sinews, or the gain which he is capable of producing to the community, views the removal of infancy, as but the wiping away of "the small dust from the balance." But he has not, like the mother, knelt and wept over its vacant cradle, stretched out his arms at midnight for its pliant form, and found only emptiness, listened in vain for its little quiet breathing, and felt his heart desolate. The scales in which a mother weighs her treasures, are not the same in which the man of the world weighs his silver and gold. Her grief is often most poignant, for the youngest and faintest blossom. Thus feeling anguish, where others scarcely see cause for regret, has she not an opportunity more permanently to benefit by the discipline of Heaven? Is she not moved to deeper sympathy with all who mourn? Is she not better fitted to become a comforter? more strongly incited to every deed of mercy? When she sees a little coffin pass, no matter whether the mother who mourns, be a stranger, or a mendicant, or burnt dark beneath an African sun, is she not to her, in the paying thrill of that moment, as a sister?
Yet is it not alone in the quickening of sympathy, or the excitement to benevolence, that such deep afflictions bring gain to the sufferer. Other seeds of goodness are sown in the softened soil. The thoughts and affections are drawn upward. The glorified spirit of the infant, is as a star to guide the mother to its own blissful clime. Is it not her wish to be where her babe is? And will she not strive to prepare herself for its pure society? If the cares or sins of earth, ever threaten to gain the victory, will she not see its little hand reaching from the skies, and be guided by the cherub voice which implores, "Oh mother come to me."
Sometimes, grief loses itself in gratitude, that those who once called forth so much solicitude, are free from the hazards of this changeful life. Here, temptations may foil the strongest, and sing overshadow those, whose opening course was most fair. From all such dangers, the early smitten, the "lambs whom the Saviour taketh untask'd, untried," have forever escaped. To be sinless, and at rest, is a glorious heritage. Sorrow hath no more dominion over them. No longer may they be racked with pain, or pale with weakness, or emaciated by disease. No longer will their dove-like moaning distress the friend watching by their sleepless couch, nor the parent's shudder with untold agony to find that they have no power to soothe the last fearful death-groan. We, who still bear the burdens of a weary pilgrimage, who have still to meet the pang of disease, and to struggle ere we pay our last debt to the destroyer, cherish as our strongest consolation, the hope of entering that peaceful haven which they have already attained.
How affecting was the resignation of the poor Icelandick mother: "Four children were given me. Two are with me, and two with God. Those who are with God are the happiest. I do not feel troubled about them. I am only anxious that those who remain with me, may so live, that by and by, they may be with him too."
"The most lovely and promising of my children, have been smitten, said a mourning parent. If it were not so, I could have borne it better." But did not the very goodness and piety, which endeared them to you, render them more fit to be companions of the pure spirits around the Throne? Their virtues, their loveliness, seem indeed to have made your loss the greater. But would you have had them less virtuous, less lovely? You do not grudge, that the gift should have been in some degree worthy of Him who resumed it. Oh no! You cannot regret that their fair promise of excellence was unclouded, when they went down to the dust.
I once saw a sight, mournful, yet beautiful. Twin infants, in the same coffin. Their waxen brows had been so much alike, that only the eye of domestick intimacy could distinguish them. One, was suddenly wounded by a dart from those countless diseases, which are in ambush around the first years of life. The other moaned, and cried, incessantly for his companion. Nothing could divert or soothe him. But Death united them. So soon did the survivor sicken, that his brother waited for him in the coffin. There were bright rose-buds in their little bands, as they slumbered, side by side. Together they had entered the gate of life, and at the gate of death were scarcely divided. When after the silent lapse of time, the mother was able to speak of her bereavement with composure, she said that from among the sources whence she had derived comfort, was the thought that they would be always together. While in their health and beauty, she had sometimes anxiously contemplated those many changes and adversities, which might divide their path from each other, "far as the poles apart," and possibly estrange those hearts, which like kindred drops, Nature seemed to have melted into one.
Surely, the thought of the indissoluble union of their dear ones, must be a consolation to afflicted parents. Here, they met but to part again. There, they are to be forever with the Lord. Here, they must sometimes have left home, and been among strangers. Then, what anxieties disturb the parental bosom, lest they might be sick, and need care or comfort, in error or heaviness, and suffer for counsel, and sympathy. But they are where nothing hurtful can intrude. No longer they feel the timidity of strangers. They are at home in the house of their Father. A family broken up on earth, re-assembled in Heaven. Those who dwelt for a little time in the same tent of clay, are gathered together, around the altar of immortality.
We sometimes see parents suddenly bereft of all their children. To have their most precious treasures swept utterly away, and find that home desolate, Which was wont to resound with the voice of young affection, and the tones of innocent mirth, is a sorrow which none can realize, save those who bear it. All human sympathies fall short of the occasion. The admonition not to mourn, is misplaced. "Jesus wept." Is not this a sufficient sanction for the mourner's tear? He who appoints such discipline, never intended that we should be insensible to it, or that we should gird ourselves in the armour of pride to meet it, or seal up the fountain of tears, when he maketh the heart soft.
If we attempt to comfort those, who lament the extinction of an whole family, cut down in their tender years, what shall we say? We are constrained to acknowledge that earth has no substitute for such a loss. Dear afflicted friends, ask it not of earth, but look to Heaven. Is not the interval of separation short? How soon will the years fleet, ere you lie down to slumber in the same narrow bed appointed for all the living. If they died in the Redeemer, and you live in obedience to his commands, how rapturous will be the everlasting embrace in which you shall enfold them. Can you portray, can you even imagine that meeting in heaven?
You will not then, become a prey to despondence, though loneliness broods over your dwelling, when you realize that its once cherished inmates have but gone a little in advance, to those mansions which the Saviour bath prepared for all who love him. Can you not sometimes find it in your hearts to bless God that your loss is the gain of your children? While they were here below, it was your chief joy to see them happy. Yet you were not sure of the continuance of their happiness for a single hour. Now, you are assured both of the fullness of their felicity, and of its fearless continuance.
We are delighted, when our children are in the successful pursuit of knowledge, in the bright path of virtue, in the possession of the esteem of the wise and good. In sending them from home, we seek to secure for them, the advantages of virtuous and refined society, the superintendance of pious and affectionate friends. Were one illustrious in power and excellence, to take a parental interest in their welfare, or were they admitted to be the companions of princes, should we be insensible to the honour? Let us not then with a wholly unreconciled spirit, see them go to be angels among angels, and to dwell gloriously in the presence of that " high and holy One, who inhabiteth Eternity."
Is it not a holy privilege to add to the number of those, who serve God without sin? You must not now behold the dazzling of their celestial wings, as they unfold them without weariness to do his will. But those whom you rocked in your cradle, whom you consecrated by prayer, and in baptism, are of that host. You cannot hear the melody of ethereal harps, attuned to unending praise. But they in whose hearts early piety was implanted by your prayers, who learned from your lips to warble the sacred hymn at eve, swell that exulting strain. Perhaps, from their cloudless abode, they still watch over you. Perhaps, with a seraph smile, they hover around you. Will they not rejoice to behold you walking to meet them, with a placid brow and submissive spirit, solacing yourself with such deeds of goodness to others, as are approved in the sight of heaven?
Afflictions, are often the instruments of increasing, and maturing, the "peaceable fruits of righteousness." Peculiar ones ought therefore to produce prominent gain. What sorrows can be more peculiar and poignant, than the desolation of parents, from whom all their children have been removed, and who stand in hopeless solitude, the last of all their race? Are they not incited to eminence in those efforts of benevolence, which contain balm for the chastened spirit?
There was one, and my heart holds her image as among the most perfect of earthly beings, who in early life was written childless. Her three beautiful sons were taken from her in one week. In one week! and their places were never supplied. The little student of seven years, was smitten while over his books, the second at his sports, the youngest on his mother's knee. The deepest humility, the most earnest searchings of heart, were the immediate results of this bereavement. It dwelt on her mind, that for some deficiency in her christian character, this chastisement had been appointed. The language of her contrite prayer was, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" And he told her. And she became a "mother in Israel." A sleepless, untiring benevolence, was the striking lineament of her life. After the stroke of widowhood fell upon her, and she stood entirely alone, it seemed as if every vestige of selfishness was extinct, and that her whole existence was devoted to the good of others. She acquainted herself with the various necessities of the poor, the sick, the aged and the orphan. Her almoners bore gifts suited to their needs, while the giver sought to be undiscovered and unknown. Her charity shrank from the notice, and praise of man.
But especially to children, her whole soul poured itself forth. She distributed fitting books to the idle, and to the ignorant, to the erring and to the good; to some that they might be encouraged in the right way, and to others, that they might be allured to enter it. Those of her neighbours and friends, she gathered often around her table, made them happy by her affability, cheered them with her sweet, sacred songs, and improved the influence thus gained, to impress on them the precepts of heavenly wisdom. May I not hope, that the heart of some reader, enshrines the blessed image of the same benefactor, whose countenance was to my childhood more beautiful, amid the furrows and silver hairs of fourscore and eight years, than any where youth and bloom revelled: for it was beautiful, through the goodness that never waxeth old, and it was the eye of gratitude that regarded it.
For the stranger, the emigrant, and the poor African, how active were her sympathies. The outcast Indian, found in her mansion, bread and a garment, and what was dearer to him than all, kind, pitying words. Endowed with a lofty and cultivated intellect, and with that wealth which the world is wont to estimate still more highly, she humbled herself to the meanest creature, that she might do them good. She seemed willing to become "their servant, for Jesus' sake."
What part her deep afflictions bore in this meek and sublimated benevolence, whether they were as the crucible to the gold, or as the refiner's fire to the silver, we cannot tell: He who sent them, knoweth.
Though resignation under bereavement, or the springing of spiritual graces from its bitter root, are solemn and salutary lessons to the beholder, is it not possible to advance even higher in the ,school of Christ? May not a christian be able to yield without repining, the dearest idols to Him who loved him and gave himself for him? To reveal its complacence by gifts, seems to be one of the native dialects of love. The little child presents its favourite teacher, with a fresh flower. It hastens to its mother, with the first, best rose, from its little garden. In the kiss to its father, with which it resigns itself to sleep, it gives away its whole heart.
Nor does love falter, though its gifts involve sacrifices. The young bride leaves the hearthstone of her earliest remembrances, and lifts her timid brow in the home of strangers, or follows her chosen protector to a wild land, and uninhabited, willingly trusting to him, her "all of earth, perchance, her all of heaven." The mother grudges not the pang, the faded bloom, the weary night-watchings with which she rears her infant. Must an earthly love ever transcend that which is divine? Will christian parents always yield with reluctance their children to that Beneficent Being, whom "not having seen, they love?"
"How have you attained such sweet resignation?" said a pastor to a young mother, who had newly buried her first-born. She replied, "I used to think of my boy continually, whether sleeping or waking. To me, he seemed more beautiful than other children. I was disappointed, if visitors omitted to praise his eyes, or his curls, or the robes that I wrought for him with my needle. At first, I believed it the natural current of a mother's love. Then I feared it was pride, and sought to humble myself before Him who resisteth the proud.
One night, in dreams, I thought an angel stood beside me, and said "where is the little bud that thou nursest in thy bosom? I am sent to take it. Where is thy little harp? Give it to me. It is like those which breathe the praise of God in heaven." I awoke in tears. My beautiful boy drooped like a bud which the worm pierces. His last wailing, was like the sad musick from shattered harp-strings. All my world seemed gone. Still, in my agony, I listened, for there was a voice in my soul, like the voice of the angel, who had warned me: "God loveth a cheerful giver." I laid my lip on the earth, and said "let my will, be thine." And as I arose, though the tear lay on my cheek, there was a smile there also. Since then, it has been with me. Amid the duties of every day, methinks it says continually, "the cheerful giver! the cheerful giver!"
"That smile, said her venerable pastor, like the faith of Abraham, shall be counted unto thee as righteousness."