Chapter VI: Anxious Thoughts

BUT however impossible it might seem to me, as well as to Robert, that we should send Maimie into the workhouse, yet making up my mind that she had to be kept, and making up my mind to accept the new burden cheerfully, were two entirely different things. I saw that the addition to our family was for the moment unavoidable. I did not see myself bound to take the burden with a smile. There are two ways of going through life: either smiling or sighing; either singing or groaning; either rejoicing or complaining. There are burdens which must be borne, and we cannot escape them. God chooses our way for us, and that way has to be walked. It is of no use for us to try to choose our own path; or, as it has been beautifully expressed, to attempt to row our boat any way contrary to the rowing of our Father’s Hand. Still, though the choice of a direction is not ours, we must choose whether we will go in the direction He wills with a smile, or whether we will complain and resist and only give in because we cannot help it.

I am afraid the last was the case with me. I would give in, because I felt that the thing had to be; but I would not give in happily.

The journey home from Aunt Briscoe’s was heavy and sad to me, therefore to Robert. A cloud upon one heart cannot but react upon other hearts.

We said little by the way. Indeed, a long omnibus-drive, in company with strangers, does not generally make one talk much of the things which interest one most. But I do not think I should have talked, even if we had been alone. I felt so hopelessly dull and depressed. I saw Robert steal a glance at me now and then; and the shadow on his face deepened.

The spring days were growing long. Still we had remained so late at “The Gables,” that it was almost dark when we reached home.

Cherry came out to meet us, with our fourth boy, Fred. The two youngest, Bob and Teddy, were in bed. I knew in a moment that the others had not returned: for Jack never failed to give me a welcome, if I had been absent and he were at home.

It was not, however, till I asked Cherry that she said, “No, mother, they are not back yet. I suppose they have forgotten how time was going.”

This was an unusual matter. The boys knew well that their father and I liked them to be back early from such excursions. A trip into the country would have been a different matter; but London on Saturday evening was not so desirable. And they had Maimie with them!

“I suppose they have been drawn on farther than they thought,” Cherry added, as if in apology. “It is all so new to Maimie, you know, mother; and Jack was quite excited at taking her.”

“They would not find so very much to see at Westminster,” I said.

“The Abbey, mother, at any rate,—and they talked of a long ramble on the Embankment, and taking Maimie across two or three bridges. Oh, they will find plenty to show to a stranger; and Maimie says she can walk any distance. They must have mistaken the time. But they are sure to be in directly.”

“Directly” is an elastic word sometimes, and it seemed so in this instance. We brought out our work, to finish some little mending needful for the morrow. Fred was sent to bed, and my husband opened a book, but speedily went to sleep over it. After some time I said softly to Cherry—

“Aunt Briscoe will give us no help with Maimie.”

“Mother, did you think she would?” Cherry spoke in a tone of surprise.

“I should have been very glad,” I said.

“I really don’t see how we are to meet the additional expense.”

“Don’t you think it will come all right, mother?” Cherry asked.

“It may,” I said.

“I think it will,” she murmured.

After a pause, she added,—“Perhaps Uncle Churton will soon write.”

“And if he does not?” I asked.

“If not—won’t there be something else instead, mother? Isn’t there sure to be?”

I did so want a little comfort of some sort. I found myself catching at Cherry’s words, as if for help. And I put down my work, and said, lifting my eyes to her dear face,—“What do you mean, Cherry?”

Cherry’s work went down also. She drew her chair nearer, and took both my hands, kissing them lovingly.

“Mother, you know it all,” she said in a low voice. “You know all a great deal better than I do. It is only—only—that the Bible says we are not to take too much thought, because ‘all these things’ will be added to us. Doesn’t that mean that we should be wrong to fret and worry?”

“Perhaps so,” I said. “Yet we must look forward, and try to arrange things.”

“O yes, of course,” Cherry said, smiling. “And of course it wouldn’t be right for us to spend money carelessly on anything we like. I think I should be quite wrong to have a new jacket just now, because there really is no extra money to spare. But that is different from being anxious and fretted.”

“I am both, this evening,” I said.

“Yes; about Maimie,” said Cherry. “But, mother dear,—if God has given us Maimie to take care of for a little while, won’t He give us food for her too? The Bible says ‘all these things,’ mother,—and ‘shall be added.’ That seems strong enough. And there is that other verse too about ‘all your need.’ I am sure food is one need.”

I could not help stroking Cherry’s soft smooth hair. She had always been such a good loving child to me. But generally we were reserved, and said little on such subjects. It is often so with a mother and daughter,—I do not quite know why. This new pressure, however, seemed to have broken down the barrier for once.

I repeated the words,—“‘All your need,’” only half thinking what I was saying.

“It is in Philippians, mother,” Cherry said, flushing, and looking almost pretty. “You know it, don’t you? ‘My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory, by Christ Jesus.’”

“I have always supposed that to mean spiritual needs,” I said.

“But, mother,” Cherry said wistfully,—“But, mother dear,—of course we have those needs too,—but I don’t see that spiritual needs are our only needs. Because we do really need food and dress as well. And the words are—‘all your need.’”

The simple common-sense of my child’s words struck home to me.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said slowly. “I believe I have always found it easier to pray for spiritual things, than for everyday earthly things. One can ask for faith and love and patience, and really expect an answer. But when it is a question of food and money—”

“Mother,” Cherry whispered, “don’t you think that is perhaps just the reason why the people have not always quick answers about food and everyday needs?”

“What reason?” I asked, not at once catching her thought.

“Why,—because they don’t expect.”

“It may be,” I said. “But it won’t do for us to choose for ourselves in such things after all, Cherry.”

“O no,” and Cherry smiled. “If you were to choose now, perhaps you wouldn’t have Maimie to live with us at all. But that isn’t our choosing. So I am quite sure we may ask to be helped,—and don’t you think we may really expect an answer? Because of that ‘all your need’?”

“Some would say we do not need so many things as we fancy we do,” I said.

“I dare say we don’t,” Cherry replied thoughtfully.

“Perhaps St. Paul meant that when he said,—,’Having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.’”

“You have a good memory for texts,” I said. And then we both went back to our work and were silent.

But I thought over Cherry’s words a good deal.

For it seems a wonderful thing, with that promise lying in the Bible, how few make use of it. “My God shall supply all your need.” Why, of course that means bodily as well as spiritual need. Of course it does. One kind of need, leaving out other kinds, does not mean “all.”

And there the promise lies; and even God’s own children do not use it. Just as one might have a signed cheque lying in one’s desk, and might never take it to the Bank to be cashed. What good would the cheque be to one, in such a case?

Such promises as this are plainly spoken to those who serve God. True, God gives rain both to the just and unjust; He is kind even to the unthankful and to the evil. Still, while inviting all men to come and learn to be His servants, He does not promise “whatsoever” they ask, or the supply of “all their need,” until they do come.

But of those who have come, of those who do really seek to be “faithful servants” of Christ, how very few understand the power and beauty of this promise, “My God shall supply all your need.”

I know it never struck me before, as it did that evening, with the help of my child’s simple trust. Something else came into my mind, as I thought, and that was—

“Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.”

Was not Maimie a care? Then why not cast her upon the strong Arm of my God, Who was so willing to bear?

I resolved that I would try, and would not be so burdened.