183

CHAPTER XII.

THE BREAKING UP OF THE HOME.

NOTHING more sadly convinces us that this is not our rest, than the disruption of our dearest and purest earthly ties. We can endure, perhaps, that our cherished schemes of worldly success or ambition should be thwarted; we can bear the changes which occur in the ordinary course of human events; we can think with calmness, even of the passing away of the great and good, whose names are precious to us. But the home! That is a retreat we would fain keep inviolate. We would shield it from the changes of life. We would defend it from the fatal shaft of death. We would live on with those we love, secure against all calamity but the advance of kindly age, and would then, if possible, pass away together, hand in hand, through the dark valley to the regions of light.

Alas! sin and sin's consequences have destroyed the inviolability of home. Painful experience sooner or later teaches us all this lesson. We turn from the turmoil of the world without us, to see vacant places, to listen for now silent voices in the sacred precincts of the home sanctuary. Our loved ones were, and are not. The home circle is broken. Its bright light is dimmed. We who remain draw closer together; our hearts beat thick, our tears gather, we dare not trust ourselves to speak. There is one less to care for, work

for, pray for, now. One less to be thought of in the thousand little arrangements of daily life. And that, the one, perhaps, who filled a very large space in our thoughts, and in whom our very life, in all its pursuits and interests, was bound up. There is some family or business anxiety to be consulted about;—we must ponder it alone. There is something of interest to tell on returning home, but there is no one to tell it to now. Memory is busy in us. Days gone by, events

before us, and force

almost forgotten, come vividly themselves upon our attention. Things to be regretted, but for which now no regret can be expressed. Things that ought to have been said or done, the opportunity for which is now for ever gone. Things pleasant, now saddened by the thought that we must enjoy them alone. Things painful, which now, in the recollection of them, inflict a yet sharper pang. How much kindness that might have been shown, how many unfaithfully performed duties that now never can be discharged! All is changed to us. The better part of our nature seems benumbed. There is a sense of loneliness which no society can remedy. There is for us henceforth a loss, an irreparable loss to bear.

Kindly time may indeed deaden the smart of the wound. Divine grace may sanctify the sorrow, and turn it into deeper joy than the world can give, but the loss remains. The sympathizing heart beats for us no more. The welcome greeting is no longer to be looked for; the kind, yet searching glance, which was so quick to catch the meaning of the clouded brow, or to respond to the brightened look, no longer beams upon us. Our hearts crave and are not satisfied.

"Oh! for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still."

my

"The day," writes Dr. Vaughan, "when this medical report first reached me" (respecting the threatened loss of his much-loved son), was the darkest day in my history. This stroke came not on the branch only, it seemed to descend to the centre of the root. I felt that the severance threatened left very nature poor. It was not so much an outward object as myself, my better self, which seemed to be passing away from me. Hopes cherished through half a life fell like a faded flower. Untruthfulness seemed to have come into the memories of the past. The visions of the future vanished. The void produced a heart-sickness such as men do not put into words. But the son did not charge God foolishly, and I trust the father did not. We had both been made to know in whom we had believed."

The Christian home will not be a scene of unmitigated sorrow, even when robbed of its richest treasures. How grand and full of meaning are the words, written as they were to individuals dwelling amid heathen superstitions and heathen philosophies,-both alike unable to cast any light upon the region beyond the tomb,-"I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope." The religion which heightens the endearments of our homes, provides the richest consolation for those who mourn over their invasion by death,-"Even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." We are not

1 1 Thess. iv. 13.

2

2 1 Thess. iv. 14.

finally separated. In him "they live whom we call dead." The perishable perishes, but that which is imperishable remains, and to that we are united still. The bond between the spirits of the just is not broken by the destruction of the temporary ties of earth. The real bond of union is eternal life in Christ.

"The saints on earth, and all the dead,

But one communion make;

All join in Christ their living head,
And of his grace partake.”

Unfamiliar

The home may not only be broken into, but broken up. Strangers stand on the old hearth. voices greet us in the well-known rooms. Other children gather round the fireside or play in the garden. Once we shared in the sunshine of prosperity which beamed upon that home. Once we were among the happy group which day by day raised there the song of devout praise. Once we joined in the kindly hospitalities which made it no less sacred to the guest than to the home-dweller. But now all is changed. The time of trouble came. The home endeared to us by a thousand ties,-ties which never seemed so strong before, the home of childhood, so loved, possessing such a charm of its own, was for ever broken up and gone. The asso

ciations of years were destroyed at a stroke, and the world became for us, henceforth, a world new and strange. We looked on each well-remembered scene, and learned from events which seemed to tread down ruthlessly our most hallowed feelings, that "here we have no continuing city." Happy those who under such circumstances can add, But we seek one to come."

Scripture history strikingly illustrates both the instability of earthly homes, and the spirit in which the good man can see them broken up. How sublime is the resignation of Job, yet what a loss was his! His whole family in one day swept away, and his home left desolate. This was the climax of his bitter trial. One by one the messengers came with the sad burden of loss and ruin, but the last was the hardest to bear. We could pity him if for a moment his lips had murmured under a sorrow which seemed too heavy to be borne. But we hear only the words of resignation. Deep, very deep, is the wound which they disclose, hard the struggle of which they tell; but faith had the victory. "Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped, and said, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. In all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly."

" 1

The case of David, as the history is related in the book of Samuel,' was one of peculiar sadness. His sorrow had a double edge. It was not only a gracious discipline, it was a severe fatherly chastisement. As he fasted and prayed, and lay all night upon the earth, we cannot doubt that his sad pleadings for the child were mingled with sadder thoughts of his sin against God. The weary night at length passed, but there was then no little life to pray for. His servants, as they looked upon his face, pale with sorrow and watching, feared to tell him of the event. "Behold," they

1 Job i. 20-22.

22 Sam. xii. 15-23.