CLARA LANGFORD CALLS BACK

Bereavement and loneliness go hand in hand especially when you have lost a beloved partner with whom you have enjoyed so much happiness, fellowship and love. Clara Langford, a Somerset schoolmistress, experienced such a loss and comforted many through her inspired poems.  When her beloved husband met with an accident which caused much suffering and eventually resulted in his death, she tells how God helped her meet the dark hours of loneliness which followed:

“Oh, has He planned it right when darkness falls,

And all one’s world which once looked fair and bright

Had faded out of sight and sorrow reigns?

He’s planned it right.”

“Thus I wrote in my darkest hours,” Clara writes, when deepest sorrow and loss had touched my life, changing everything. Those of us who have suffered in this way, know how the sorrow returns like a flood to be fought by faith and prayer. It was so with me one May Sunday morning in the early days of my grief. I woke with a sense of depression. Rising early I dressed, made a cup of tea on my stove in my tiny bungalow—I could not eat—and gathering up my Testament, notebook and pencil, put on coat and hat, locked my door and set out to walk, in the loneliness of my spirit.

“It was a perfect morning and the countryside was lovely. I skirted the village for the woodland road. As I stood on the brow of the first meadow, with a sob in my throat, I said aloud, ‘Father Thou knowest, I am so distressed, so lonely, almost heart-broken, and the way seems very difficult—speak to me this morning before I return.’

“Then I wended my way down into the valley. A gate led into a peaceful and picturesque old lane shaded by trees. A stream sang its way through the meadow close by. Oh, the peace and loveliness of that morning as I slowly walked along that lane—walked with a sad, lonely heart and all the time, though I knew it not, my prayer was being answered.

“A little further on the lane widened into a woodland road and a gap in the hedge revealed a small clearing among the trees and a fallen ivy-covered tree trunk lay invitingly a few yards away, so I went in and sat on it.

“Looking around I saw young fern fronds springing up in clusters and at a short distance a large furze bush in all bright yellow blossom. I listened to the birds’ songs. I longed with an unspeakable longing for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that was still, until I broke into uncontrollable sobbing until I was spent.

“Presently, I opened my Testament, asking for a message. My eyes lighted on St. Paul’s words to the Philippians, 1:12, ‘But I would ye should understand, brethren, that the things which have happened unto me have fallen out rather unto the furtherance of the Gospel.’ Oh, here was strength indeed!—Might not I too, make a pearl out of my grain of sand? I prayed that it might be so and that He would strengthen my heart—give me a new message.

“I lifted my eyes to the tops of the tall trees, beautiful in their new spring dress, then at the glorious blue of the sky above—I thought of life’s journey, now so lonely without the dear one who had made life rich and beautiful and in the intensity of my spirit I said, ‘Oh, Father, do you know when hearts are aching?’ Immediately another line came—I found notebook and pencil and discovered I was writing a poem.

“How long I sat there I cannot say, but verse by verse the inspiration came until it was finished and when I read the lines through I knew with a deep sense of gratitude and thanksgiving that God had indeed spoken to me that morning.

“And so it proved. It was requested—together with another poem—‘Answered prayer’—and was produced—beautifully illustrated in Golden Thought Series under the title of Solace, A Little Book of Comfort. Much blessing attended the publication of this little book. Over the world it went until more than one hundred and fifteen thousand copies had sold and countless messages were received, but I shall never know here, all that resulted through His leading that May Sunday morning.

“It is the first time I have told this story thus. I do so now hoping hearts that are lonely, troubled, bereaved, disheartened perhaps, may be helped and find solace and comfort through renewed faith and trust. ‘God is able to use you according to His power and not according to your weakness.’”

Here is the poem:

Oh Father, do You know when hearts are aching;

     When summer days have fled and north winds blow,

Skies heavy, gray, and days so dark and lonely?

                 “My Child, I know.”

Oh Father, do You care when hours are empty,

     Empty of all that made this world so fair—

When blessings once so precious, now have faded?

                 “My Child, I care.”

Oh Father, must we trust when ties are broken,

     When loves of earth once strong and deep have gone,

And strange unwelcome things beset our pathway?

                 “Yes, Child, trust on.”

“Be of good cheer, Let not your heart be troubled.

     Nothing can touch your life unless I will;

I, who have shared Life’s loneliness and sorrow,

                 Say ‘Peace be still.’”

Call Back Vol. 1, pages 118-121

Frustrated Again and Again

Not many days go by before I am reminded once more of the Christian poetess, Frances Ridley Havergal. It may be while singing one of her inspiring hymns on a Sunday morning at Church; it may while reading a daily devotional and I am inspired by one of her poems; or it may be while searching through our bookshelf for a Christian biography to read between other tasks. But how many of us realize that this exceptional Christian author was tempted just as we are: sometimes lonely, often suffering from discouragement, fighting illness, and now and then, deeply frustrated. Frances was not hesitant in sharing these experiences with her readers as she does in the following excerpt from one of her many letters:

“I have just had such a blessing in the shape of what would have been only two months ago a really bitter blow to me.  And now it is actual accession of joy, because I find that it does not even touch me!

“I was expecting a letter from America, enclosing $70.00 now due to me, and possibly news that ‘Bruey’ was going on like steam and my other book pressingly wanted.  The letter has come, and, instead of all this, my publisher has failed in the universal crash.  He holds my written promise to publish only with him as the condition of his launching me.  So this is not simply a little loss, but an end of all my American prospects of either cash, influence, or fame, at any rate for a long time to come.

“Two months ago, this would have been a real trial to me, for I had built a good deal on my American prospects; now ‘Thy will be done’ is not a sigh but a song!”

The next year another more serious set-back came just when she was full of spiritual vitality and planning a heavy schedule of writing.  Her sister, Marie, gives the details of the fire which destroyed her manuscripts:

“Very patiently had she prepared for press many sheets of manuscript music in connection with the Appendix to Songs of Grace and Glory.  Well do I remember that day it was completed.  We were at home, and she came down from her study with a large roll of post, and with holiday glee exclaimed, ‘There it is all done!  And now I am free to write a book.’

“Only a week passed, when the mail brought her the news: ‘Messrs. Henderson’s premises were burned down this morning about four o’clock.  We fear the whole of the stereotypes of your musical edition are destroyed as they were busy printing it.  It will be many days before the debris will be sufficiently cooled to ascertain how the stereotype plates stand.’

“Further news confirmed the loss: ‘Your musical edition, together with the paper sent for printing it, has been totally destroyed.’  On the same sheet Frances wrote to her sisters in Worcestershire: ‘The signification hereof to me is that, instead of having finished my whole work, I have to begin again de novo, and I shall probably have at least six months of it.  The greater part of the manuscript of my Appendix is simply gone, for I had kept no copy whatever, and have not even a list of the tunes.  Every chord of my own will have to be reproduced; every chord of anyone else re-examined and revised.  All through my previous Songs of Grace and Glory work, and my own books, I had always taken the trouble to copy off every correction on to a duplicate proof, but finding I never gained any practical benefit, I did not as I considered it waste time in this case.

“‘Of most of the new work, which has cost me the winter’s labor, I have not even a memorandum left, having sent everything to the printers.  However, it is so clearly “Himself hath done it,” that I can only say “Thy way not mine, O Lord.”

“‘I only tell you how the case stands, not as complaining of it, only because I want you to ask that I may do what seems drudgery quite patiently, and that I may have health enough for it, and that He may overrule it for good.  It may be that He has more to teach me before He sets me free to write the two books which I hoped to have begun directly.  Thus I am cut off from the bright stream of successful writing and stopped in all my own plans for this spring. . . . If I did not rejoice in letting Him to do what He will with me, when He thus sends me such very marked and individual dealing, I should feel that my desire for sanctification, for His will to be done in me, had been merely nominal, or fancied and not real.’”—Call Back Vol. 1, pages 229, 230.

Martha Snell Nicholson Calls Back

The future, ah the future! Starting out on life’s journey, how many times have God’s children dreamed of what they would become …. someday!! And then they find themselves face to face with life’s stark reality and their childish dreams evaporate overnight.

This was the case with the Christian poetess, Martha Snell Nicholson. Her own words will best describe the secret of her serenity of spirit and her contagious cheerfulness that overflowed into verse:

“Looking back over nearly a lifetime of illness, I am thanking God for these pain-filled years…. When I stood at the beginning and strained my eyes to see down the dim path ahead, I was sure it would be strewed with roses. When pain and sorrow came, I could not understand, but now as I look back the long road which lies so clearly behind me, I see that His hand was upon me all the way.

“Never strong as a child, I broke down very early in young womanhood. I spent the ensuing seven years in bed, most of the time with TB, then up off and on, one sick spell after another, seven operations besides fifteen minor ‘carvings.’ It seems that almost every disease has had a try at me. For the last twenty years I have been on the shelf, able to attend church only once during that period.

“They have brought me gifts—those weary years. I do not enjoy sickness or suffering, or the nervous agony and exhaustion that are harder to bear than physical pain. And an invalid must bury so many dear dreams which have death struggles and refuse to die decently and quietly. But God has a way of taking away our toys, and after we have cried for a while like disappointed children, He fills our hands with jewels, which ‘cannot be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire.’

“I recall that after I had been sick for several years, I thought, in my foolishness, that I had learned the lessons which God wanted to teach me, and that He would let me go out into the world and work for Him. As though one could ever learn all that God has to teach! No, I am still sick. I do not understand why I must still be an invalid. I no longer expect to understand. If I did, there would be no need for faith. Enough that He knows why, and some day He will tell me about it—why it was best for me and best for His cause.

“Then came the hardest blow of all. Nearly nine years ago, He called my beloved husband and left me here alone, crippled with arthritis, facing cancer, and with dimming eyesight and other illness into which I need not go. Then indeed I learned about God and that His strength is made perfect in weakness and that He can supply all my needs ‘according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus.’ It is one thing to think so—it is another thing to have found out by actual experience that it is so, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when you go down into the valley, you can clasp His hand—that you never need to be alone or afraid for He will go with you on all your paths—and that His arm is strong enough to carry you. It is blessed beyond words to know these things.”

Before she was called Home, Martha Snell Nicholson experienced an even more crippling form of illness—Parkinson’s disease. Out of her suffering was born her poem entitled, “Tranquility”:

Holds fast my hand.

My life is molded by the One

Who shaped the land.

The Mind which planned the march of suns

Can understand

The petty trials of my day;

Who hollowed out the cup that holds

The mighty sea,

And keeps the waves in check, can give

Tranquility

In my small storms. Shall not the One

Who holds in place

The Milky Way, keep me each day

And by His grace

Present me perfect, faultless there

Before His face?

 Used by permission of the Wesleyan Advocate

Maybe some who read this blog empathize completely with this poetess, because they have traveled the same path she did, or maybe a loved one is being overwhelmed by the same sense of futility and frustration as this invalid experienced. If so, may this testimony reassure you that God is there with you even in the darkest hours.

Kneeling We Triumph

Prayer is not just a good idea—it is His divine plan. . . .
Our generation has yet to see prayer as a ministry, and to take God
at His Word on this subject. It is while we pray that God works, if we
can but see Him—not merely before, or after prayer. Our idea is, “Let
us pray, and then get on with the work.” But prayer is our real work.
We so often think of prayer as a prefix or a suffix to an otherwise busy
round. But God’s works are wrought as we pray, and while we pray.
It brings a revolution to any minister or Christian, once he believes
God’s Word on this point. His works are done through prayer, for He
always works out from His throne by intercession. It is not only His
intercession, but ours too, for, by His Spirit, He not only prays for us,
but in us. He gives us of His own great praying—and that is true
praying indeed.
We are not just to imitate His praying, but to enter into it, receive
it, and have it enter into us. That is how we enter into His works,
become “laborers together with God,” and learn to cease from our
own works. We learn in this way to work with Him, instead of for
Him. Sons, and no longer slaves.
Then after we have prayed, we walk with the Lord Jesus into the
works He has wrought in answer to prayer. Prayer is our real work.
Working is drudgery. Even working for the Lord is dreary. But
working with Him is delight. In His Kingdom, it is those to whom He
ministers who minister. The conquered conquer, and the followers of
Christ lead others.—Armin Gesswein.
God does nothing but by prayer, and everything with it.—John Wesley

Springtime in Ukraine

Springtime in Ukraine

Springtime! —
A cascade of new blooms, pushing their way through the dark soil of winter; 
Bleak branches now ablaze with pink or white blossoms; 
Birds—excitedly sharing their anticipation of new life and hope in one melodious chorus of praise. 
Have we gotten the message yet? 
Winter has been winter defeated for one year more at least!

But, is this how my friends feel in that distant land— 
Searching for mementos in the rubble of past dreams;
Hastily stuffing photos of loved ones past and present into bulging bags as they
Hurriedly begin their harrowing escape to freedom? 
Or does the roar of gunfire drown out the birdsong?
Does the smoke of war dim the hues of springtime flowers? 
And fear!
Is it able to choke the promise of new life?

And back in the cities!
Are the tree lined avenues once more ablaze with white and pink blossoms?
Or are there any trees left at all?
Maybe just a few here or there—
Lone stragglers, 
Struggling for survival midst the smoke and fire of guns? 

And the people!
Oh yes, the people!
People like you and I
Who cannot or will not
Escape to friendly frontiers of fields and flowers!
Are they even aware 
Entombed in their basement shelters, 
That winter is over and the singing of the birds has come? 

These questions nag me,
Plague me,
Disturb me!
I do not know the answers,
For America is not and never will be Ukraine!

What can I do, then?
I cannot send the suffering ones gifts of Spring-hope wrapped up in pretty paper.
I have no power to dispel their winter of despair and death.
And so I simply pray, 
For no enemy can block a prayer by guns:
“Oh, God of all seasons and all lands,
Let the Springtime of hope’s resurrection  bloom once more in every anguished heart. 
Let each one feel, somehow:
That the Enemy cannot obliterate the seasons!
That the winter of hatred cannot forever swallow the hope of Spring!
That the God of resurrection and Eternal life has not been forced to flee to some other universe for safety.
Let this message reverberate:
Through every message winged their way,
Through every dollar sacrificed to relieve their suffering.
Through every stuttering, stammering prayer, uttered from anguished and love-torn hearts.” 

No, hatred!
No, fear!
No, death!
Try as you will, 
You cannot kill Spring-time, 2022!
The God of resurrection and Eternal Life has not been maimed by artillery fire.
He is not curtailed by sanctions,
Or roadblocks,
Or hostile frontiers.

Then take heart, 
Beloved, suffering ones! 
It’s Spring again—in Ukraine!
		—Trudy Harvey Tait.

Call Back

The Call Back series.   

If you have gone a little way ahead of me, call back—
’Twill cheer my heart and help my feet along the stony track;
And if, perchance, Faith’s light is dim, because the oil is low,
Your call will guide my lagging course as wearily I go.

Call back, and tell me that He went with you into the storm;
Call back, and say He kept you when the forest’s roots were torn;
That when the heavens thundered and the earthquake shook the hill,
He bore you up and held you where the very air was still.

O friend, call back and tell me, for I cannot see your face;
They say it glows with triumph, and your feet bound in the race;
But there are mists between us, and my spirit eyes are dim,
And I cannot see the glory, though I long for word of Him.

But if you’ll say He heard you when your prayer was but a cry,
And if you’ll say He saw you through the night’s sin-darkened sky— 
If you have gone a little way ahead, O friend, call back—
’Twill cheer my heart and help my feet along the stony track.
—Lettie B. Cowman.


Reading of saints who had to face uncertainty, trials and fears is so helpful in our present situation.  Today there are many conspiracy theories and end of time prophecies.  They have always arisen in times of trouble because our norms are are being eroded.  Keep yourself looking to Jesus and not distracted by other voices.  And most of all never lose your heart of compassion.  Yes, the suffering in Ukraine is real.  May we not turn a blind eye.  We are commanded to "Love one another," and also to, "be addicted to hospitality."  Never let the enemy steal your warmth of compassion for the suffering of others!  We can love righteousness and hate evil, we can praise and weep.  We need to do both!  Faith just as much as life, is practical and real so read about others who went through times like these and came out victorious.

UNLABELED

Prologue
It happened in Africa
Rahela Morgan tiptoed along the tiled hallway, holding her breath. A hyena howled in the distance. Her dog, Titan, barked in reply. But in the house, no one stirred, not even her old nurse, Deborah, who had ears like a hawk and a nose for sniffing out trouble.
“So far, so good,” thought Rahela, as she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind her. She fumbled in the pocket of her pajamas for the precious packet she had bought that day at the pharmacy in Mombasa, fifty miles away. Morning sickness for several weeks had made her determined to know the worst.

Broken Bread

Broken Bread

Thirty years ago I read, Broken Bread, by John Wright Follette. The following poem has stayed with me all these years and I consider his book was worth reading for this poem alone. But there are other gems too.––R. Barry Tait

Identification

I am a flame born of celestial fire,
I bear a name, Insatiable Desire.
   I wear in heart an image all divine,
   Past human art, not traced by mortal line.
I hear God call to taste His heavenly power:
I give my all to burn life’s single hour.
   So let me burn through fetters that would bind;
   Thus will I learn and freedom will I find.
I shall return to Love’s eternal fire,
There shall I burn─a satisfied desire.
                                      ─John Wright Follette

                                        

The White Yogi

From the book, George Bowen of Bombay, “The White Yogi” by the Rev. J. Sumner Stone, M. D., Dec. 23, 1889:

Two young men just landed from America on “India’s coral strand” started out to see the curiosities and celebrities of a great city on the shore of the Indian Ocean. There were monuments, temples, and palaces by the score; there were princes and princelings, governors and generals and nabobs. But this morning we were hunting a prince, but not among palaces. So we picked our way through the crowded native district till we came to a broad street called Grant Road, and stopped in front of a low, one˗storied building divided into narrow apartments, two rooms deep. This was the office of the Bombay Guardian and the home of its editor and proprietor—one of the celebrities of India.

Americans and English called him George Bowen; natives called him the “White Yogi,” or white saint. To our timid knock the door opened and—I started. It was December, 1880, yet we seemed to be in the presence of a Huguenot, Geneva Calvinist, or Scotch Covenanter of the sixteenth century. The figure that greeted us might have been John Calvin or John Knox. Spare body, thin face, gray beard, narrow, high forehead, surmounted by rimless skull cap, thus the “White Yogi” stood framed in the door, bidding the strangers to enter.

How shall I picture to you that room? It was small, its furniture was of the plainest type and limited. The editorial table was a chaos of books, copy, manuscripts, and periodicals. Among the books, placed without order in the bookcases, I noticed a loaf of bread next to a dictionary, and a few bananas sharing a shelf with some works on theology and sociology. I realized that I was in the presence of a remarkable man, in the sanctum of one of the leading writers of the Indian empire, one of the most distinguished representatives of Christianity in the eastern world. At once there flashed into my mind the words of Jesus concerning John the Baptist: “What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft clothing are in kings’ houses. But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yes, I say unto you, and more than a prophet.”

George Bowen was a scholarly man; he was by birth and training a gentleman. He was widely read, widely traveled, a thoroughly trained man. When he wrote golden words flowed from his pen; gems of thought fell from his lips when he spoke. He had the brain of a philosopher, the soul of a poet, and the genius of a musician. I wish I could convey to you the impression produced by the strangely˗gifted man when he sat down at the organ to let his fingers “wander idly over the noisy keys.” He lived in poverty, yet he was rich—he had all that the millionaire possesses—sufficient. He lived among the poorest of the people, was a comrade of the coolie, yet he was sought by the cultured and the noble.

How we met George Bowen

The annals of the Church are replete with the names of missionary saints: Francis of Assisi, David Brainerd, David Livingstone, Mary Slessor, Adoniram Judson, Hudson Taylor, Mother Teresa—the list is virtually unending. With Edwin and Lillian Harvey as my parents, it is not surprising that I grew up, as it were, on these saints. They were my heroes and heroines—my standards of devotion, my blueprints of sacrifice.
But it was not until I was in my early teens that I heard about George Bowen of Bombay.

While browsing in a secondhand bookstore in Belfast, Northern Ireland, my father struck up a conversation with the owner who mentioned the author, George Bowen. “If you ever come across one of his books,” he told my dad, “grab it. It’s a prize.” Some years later, my father remembered this advice when he visited a skid row mission in Chacago. After preaching to the men, he was browsing in their library and stumbled across Love Revealed by Bowen—devotional meditations on the upper room chapters of St. John’s Gospel. Borrowing it from the mission, he took his treasure back home to England, read it to his family and fellow mission workers, digested it from cover to cover, reprinted it, and mailed several copies to the mission in Chicago.
This, then, is how George Bowen entered my life and our publishing. But it was not until after my dad’s death that my mother obtained the unabridged biography of George Bowen. I remember my husband reading it to her day by day as she sat in her recliner, by then well into her nineties and diagnosed with dementia. It was probably the last book we read to her, bar the Bible, of course.
As the years have passed and an increasing number of our readers have been blessed by Love Revealed, it has been our intention to make Bowen’s remarkable life-story accessible to them. At first, we attempted to abridge it but that attempt never materialized. And yet although this biography is very lengthy and written in Victorian English, it is a gripping and inspiring portrayal of the “White Saint” as Bowen came to be called. His intellect was mind-boggling in its scope and depth as anyone reading his books soon discovers, and his sacrificial life-style was virtually unparalleled in the history of missions. Christ and Christ alone was his passion, his consuming love, and his inseparable Friend.
While proofing the manuscript several times during the past months, I have become increasingly aware that George Bowen was entering the inner sanctums of my heart. In fact, I found it almost impossible to describe my emotions as I closed the book for the fourth time several days ago. What was there about this man, I ask myself, that has moved me so deeply? His rare combination of genius and spirituality? His faithfulness to his missionary call whatever the cost? His humility and sacrifice? All this, admittedly, has greatly influenced me, but it is something more that makes me, even now, want to fall down and worship my Redeemer. It is, in fact, nothing more or less than George Bowen’s obsession, and I use that word deliberately, with Jesus Christ! This humble and eccentric missionary has made me fall in love afresh with my Lord and Savior. And that is recommendation enough, is it not?
Trudy Harvey Tait
trudytait@gmail.com
October, 2021

Writings of George Bowen available from Harvey Christian Publishers:
Love Revealed — https://harveycp.com/?product=love-revealed
Daily Meditations — email harveycpbooks@gmail.com for a digital file.
The Amens of Christ — email as above for a digital file.

George Bowen of Bombay by Robert E. Speer $24.95 — available by November 1st.