Foundation of Hope?

It is on the humanity of Christ she said after some musing, that all my other reasons for hoping for such a heaven as I hope for rest for foundation. He knows exactly what we are, for he has been one of us—exactly what we hope and fear and crave, for he has hoped and feared and craved, not the less humanly, but only more intensely. If it were not so—do you take in the thoughtful tenderness of that? A mother stilling her frightened child in the dark, might speak just so—if it were not so, I would have told you. That brooding love makes room for all that we can want. He has sounded every deep of a troubled and tempted life. Who so sure as he to understand how to prepare a place where troubled and tempted lives may grow serene? Further than this—since he stands as our great Type, no less in death and after than before it, he answers for us many of these lesser questions on the event of which so much of our happiness depends.

How will it be there?

We serve God quite as much by active work as by special prayer, here, I said after some thought—how will it be there? We must be busily at work certainly—but I think there must naturally be more communion with Him then. Now, this phrase communion with God has been worn, and not always well worn. Prayer means to us, in this life, more often penitent confession than happy interchange of thought with Him. It is associated, too, with aching limbs and sleepy eyes, and nights when the lamp goes out. Obstacles, moral and physical, stand in the way of our knowing exactly what it may mean in the ideal of it. My best conception of it lies in the friendship of the man Christ Jesus. I suppose he will bear with him, eternally, the humanity which he took up with him from the Judean hills. I imagine that we shall see him in visible form like ourselves, among us, yet not of us—that he, himself, is Gott mit ihnen—that we shall talk with him as a man talketh with his friend. Perhaps, bowed and hushed at his dear feet, we shall hear from his own lips the story of Nazareth, of Bethany, of Golgotha, of the chilly mountains where he used to pray all night long for us—of the desert places where he hungered—of his cry for help—think, Mary—His!—when there was not one in all the world to hear it, and there was silence in heaven, while angels strengthened him and man forsook him. Perhaps—his voice—the very voice which has sounded whispering through our troubled life. Could ye not watch one hour? shall unfold its perplexed meanings—shall make its rough places plain—shall show us step by step the merciful way by which he led us to that hour—shall point out to us, joy by joy, the surprises that he has been planning for us, just as the old father in the story planned to sur prise his wayward boy come home. And such a communion, which is not too much, nor yet enough, to dare to expect of a God who was the friend of Abraham, who walked with Enoch, who did not call fishermen his servants—such will be that presence of God that adoration, on which we have looked from afar off with despairing eyes that wept, they were so dazzled, and turned themselves away as from the thing they greatly feared.

Physical Keepsakes?

You see it could not be otherwise, she went on, speaking low. Where would you be, or I, or they who seem to us so much dearer and better than ourselves, if it were not for Jesus Christ? What can heaven be to us, but a song of the love that is the same to us yesterday, today, and forever—that, in the mystery of an intensity which we shall perhaps never understand, could choose death and be glad in the choosing, and, what is more than that, could live life for us for three-and thirty years? I cannot strain my faith—or rather my common sense to the rhapsodies with which many people fill heaven. But it seems to me like this—A friend goes away from us, and it may be seas or worlds that lie between us, and we love him. He leaves behind him his little keepsakes—a lock of hair to curl about our fingers—a picture that has caught the trick of his eyes or smile—a book, a flower, a letter. What we do with the curling hair, what we say to the picture, what we dream over the flower and the letter, nobody knows but ourselves. People have risked life for such mementos. Yet who loves the senseless gift more than the giver—the curl more than the young forehead on which it fell, the letter more than the hand which traced it? So it seems to me that we shall learn to see in God the centre of all possibilities of joy. The greatest of these lesser delights is but the greater measure of His friendship. They will not mean less of pleasure, but more of Him.  Human dearness will wax, not wane, in heaven—but human friends will be loved for love of Him. I see—that helps me—like a torch in a dark. But there will be shadows in the corners. Do you suppose that we shall ever fully feel it in the body? In the body, probably not. We see through a glass so darkly that the temptation to idolatry is always our greatest. with Paganism. At times I fancy that, somewhere between this world and another, a revelation will come upon us like a flash, of what sin really is, such a revelation, lighting up the lurid background of our past in such colours, that the consciousness of what Christ has done for us will be for a time as much as heart can bear. After that, the mystery will be, not how to love Him most, but that we ever could have loved any creature or thing as much.

A shift from fear to natural love?

You had all your life been directed to an indefinite heaven, where the glory of God was to crowd out all individuality and all human joy from His most individual and human creatures, till the Glory of God had become nothing but a name and a dread to you. So I let those three words slide by, and tried to bring you to them, as Christ brought the Twelve to believe in him, for the works' sake. Yes, my child—clinging human loves, stifled longings, cries for rest, forgotten hopes, shall have their answer. Whatever the bewilderment of beauties folded away for us in heavenly nature and art, they shall strive with each other to make us glad. These things have their pleasant place. But, through eternity, there will be always something beyond and dearer than the dearest of them. God himself will be first—naturally and of necessity, without strain or struggle, first. When I sat here last winter with my dead in my house, those words would have roused in me an agony of wild questionings. I should have beaten about them and beaten against them, and cried in my honest heart that they were false. I knew that I loved Roy more than I loved such a Being as God seemed to me then to be. Now, they strike me as simply and pleasantly true. The more I love Roy, the more I love Him. He loves us both.

Psalm 46:1?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Jeremiah 32:40–41?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

John 14:6?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

2 Corinthians 1:20?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Hebrews 12:13?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Matthew 28:20?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Numbers 23:19?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

John 14:9?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

John 15:15?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Exodus 3:13–15?

I believe I want—God. You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleas ant promise, but—I don't know—there seems to be an outline wanting. 

No dead fact stranded on the shore

Of the oblivious years—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help. 

He was an inexorable Mystery who took Roy from me to lose him in the glare of a more inexorable heaven. He is a Father who knew better than we that we should be parted for a while—but He only means it to be a little while. He is keeping him for me to find in the flush of some summer morning, on which I shall open my eyes no less naturally than I open them on June sunrises now. I always have that fancy of going in the morning.

Learn and pray away?

Grace and peace in Christ, my dear little son. I see with pleasure that thou learnest well, and prayed diligently. Do so, my son, and continue. When I come home I will bring thee a pretty fairing. I know a pretty, merry garden wherein are many children. They have little golden coats, and they gather beautiful apples under the trees, and pears, cherries, plums, and wheat-plums—sing, and jump, and are merry. They have beautiful little horses, too, with gold bits and silver saddles. And I asked the man to whom the garden they belongs, whose children they were. And he said—They are the children that love to pray and to learn, and are good. Then said I—Dear man, I have a son, too—his name is Johnny Luther. May he not also come into this garden and eat these beautiful apples and pears, and ride these fine horses? Then the man said—If he loves to pray and to learn, and is good, he shall come into this garden, and Lippus and Jost too—and when they all come together, they shall have fifes and trumpets, lutes and all sorts of music, and they shall dance, and shoot with little crossbows. And he showed me a fine meadow there in the garden, made for dancing. There hung nothing but golden fifes, trumpets, and fine silver crossbows. But it was early, and the children had not yet eaten—therefore I could not wait the dance, and I said to the man—Ah, dear sir! I will immediately go and write all this to my little son Johnny, and tell him to pray diligently, and to learn well, and to be good, so that he also may come to this garden. But he has an Aunt Lehne, he must bring her with him. Then the man said—It shall be so—go, and write him so. Therefore, my dear little son Johnny, learn and pray away! and tell Lippus and Jost, too, that they must learn and pray. And then you shall come to the garden together. Herewith I commend thee to Almighty God. And greet Aunt Lehne, and give her a kiss for my sake. 

Thy dear Father 

MARTINUS LUTHER. ΑΝΝΟ 1530

There was that poor little fellow whose guinea pig died?

There was that poor little fellow whose guinea pig died—do you remember? Only half—what was it? O mamma he sobbed out, behind his handkerchief, don't great big elephants have souls? No, my son. Nor camels, mamma? No. Nor bears, nor alligators, nor chickens? O no, dear. O mamma, mamma! Don't little CLEAN white-guinea-pigs have souls? I never should have had the heart to say no to that—especially as we have no positive proof to the contrary. " Then that scrap of a boy who lost his little red balloon the morning he bought it, and, broken hearted, wanted to know whether it had gone to heaven. Don't I suppose if he had been taken there himself that very minute, that he would have found a little balloon in waiting for him ? How can I help it?

Who gets it all up?

Who gets it all up? asked puzzled Molly. Jesus Christ will give me all these beautiful fings said Faith, evidently repeating her mother's words—the only catechism that she has been taught. And what will He do when He sees you? asked her mother, coming down the stairs and stepping up behind her. Take me up in His arms and kiss me. And what will Faith say? Fank-you! said the child, softly. In another minute she was absorbed, body and soul, in the mysteries of One Old Cat.

I give her unqualified gingersnaps?

But Faith, if I told her that her heavenly gingersnaps would not be made of molasses and flour, would have a cry, for fear that she was not going to have any gingersnaps at all—so, until she is older, I give her unqualified gingersnaps. The principal joy of a child's life consists in eating. Faith begins, as soon as the light wanes, to dream of that gumdrop which she is to have at bedtime.

What do you think heaven will be like?

I found the heat to be more bearable if I kept busy—and could see, unseen, all the little tableaux into which the two children grouped themselves—a new one every instant—in the shadow now—now in a quiver of golden glow—the wind tossing their hair about, and their chatter chiming down the hall like bells. O, what a funny little sunset there's going to be behind the maple-tree said the blond-haired Bland, in a pause. Funny enough, observed Faith, with her superior smile, but it's going to be a great deal funnier up in heaven, I tell you, Molly Bland. Funny in heaven? Why, Faith! Molly drew herself up with a religious air, and looked the image of her father. Yes, to be sure. I'm going to have some little pink blocks made out of it when I go—pink and yellow and green and purple and—O, so many blocks! I'm going to have a little red cloud to sail round in, like that one up over the house, too, I shouldn't wonder. Molly opened her eyes. O, I don't believe it. You don't know much! said Miss Faith, superbly. I shouldn't s'pose you would believe it. P'r'aps I'll have some strawberries too, and some gingersnaps—I'm not going to have any old bread and butter up there—O, and some little gold apples, and a lot of playthings—nicer play things—why, nicer than they have in the shops in Boston, Molly Bland! God's keeping 'em up there a purpose.

With his likeness?

Two things that He has taught us, she said after a silence, give me beautiful assurance that none of these dreams with which I help myself can be beyond His intention to fulfil. One is, that eye hath not seen it, nor ear heard it, nor the heart conceived it, this lavishness of reward which He is keeping for us. Another is, that I shall be satisfied when I awake. With his likeness. With his likeness. And about that I have other things to say.