It is Sunday
evening. I am writing from Mr. White's
bungalow. The cool air, the mellow,
autumnal beauty of the scene, the magnificent Yangtze - with Silver Island,
beautifully wooded, reposing, as it were, on its bosom - combine to make one
feel as if it were a vision of dreamland rather than actual reality. And my feelings accord. But a few months ago my home was full, now so
silent and lonely - Samuel, Noel, my precious wife, with Jesus; the elder
children far, far away, and even little T'ien-pao in Yang-chow. Often, of late years, has duty called me from
my loved ones, but I have returned, and so warm has been the welcome! Now I am alone. Can it be that there is no return from this
journey, no home-gathering to look
forward to? Is it real, and not a sorrowful dream that those dearest to me lie
beneath the cold sod? Ah, it is indeed
true! But not more so, than that there
is a home-coming awaiting me which no
parting shall break into, no tears mar….Love gave the blow that for a little
while makes the desert more dreary, but heaven more home-like. "I go to prepare a place for
you": and is not our part of the
preparation the peopling it with those we love?
And the same loving
Hand that makes Heaven more home-like is the while loosening the ties that
binding us to this world, thus helping our earth-cleaving spirits to sit
looser, awaiting our own summons, whether personally to be "present with
the Lord," or at "the glorious appearing of our great God and
Savior" "Even so, come, Lord
Jesus," come quickly!
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