Not My Will and The Light in My Window (34 page)
Read Not My Will and The Light in My Window Online
Authors: Francena H. Arnold
Eleanor was at a loss for an answer. Before she could reply, however, Philip King changed the subject and began to speak of the work at the institute. He had organized a boys’ club and had many other plans if only the right workers could be found.
Philip talked of Eleanor herself, asking about her life, her home, and her little son. She listened eagerly, hoping that he would say something of missing the Little Chap, but he never mentioned him, although several times he referred affectionately to Lorraine.
As he talked, Eleanor thought,
There are still two Philip Kings. This is the one who used to sit all night with his sick wife in his arms, and who is deeply interested in those ragged, pathetic boys at the institute. It’s easy to see why they love him. The other Philip King is a self-centered egotist who wants to run the universe and whose self pride will ruin Bethel College!
So, as before, Eleanor returned to the farm with a heavy heart, determined to forget Philip King and the
whole unhappy situation. But it was not easy. The Lord had laid upon her heart a deep burden of prayer for the self-surrender of Philip King, and she was constantly constrained to lift up her heart that he might forget his talented self and grow into the stature of full Christian manhood. Eleanor was learning the lesson Mother Stewart had taught her by example—that of prevailing prayer.
She prayed that Philip might see clearly the necessity for self-crucifixion before he could be really used of God, and for herself she asked strength and grace and courage to tread the way Christ should lead her—even though it should prove a lonely one.
The annual meeting of the board of trustees of Bethel College was scheduled for early June. As the date approached, Eleanor was increasingly burdened. One day, while she was on her knees in prayer for Philip, she seemed to receive a direct injunction, “Write to Philip.”
Write?
she wondered.
What shall I write? What can anyone tell him?
“Write to him,” directed the Spirit. “I will speak to him through the letter.”
So that night, after little Chad was asleep and the whole house was quiet, Eleanor took out her writing materials and began a letter to Philip. It was not an easy letter to write. Several times she tore up the pages she had written and would have given up the task in despair had not the urging of the Spirit been so strong within her. She prayed as she wrote:
Dear Dr. King:
I have been hearing much lately of your prospects in connection with Bethel, and there has come to
me an ever-increasing urge to write you. To make the situation clear to you, I must tell you of an incident that deeply affected my own life.
Several years ago at Thanksgiving time, you preached a sermon on a Sunday morning in a little place called Meadville. Your topic was “The Bond Servant of Jesus Christ.” You will remember the sermon, for you preached it later at the institute. It was a powerful message. My husband and I attended the service and heard the message and went out of the church with our hearts filled with its inspiration. Neither of us would forget that sermon or ever be quite the same after hearing it. My husband was already a consecrated Christian, and it served to deepen and sweeten his fellowship with Christ. It charged me with responsibilities of which I had never before been conscious. Because of that sermon, I was forced to make a decision of great importance involving the future of my husband and me. If I yielded to the Lord, I must make material sacrifices that would make impossible a career I felt we must follow. If I refused to make the sacrifice, I would be turning my back on the Lord who loved me. Chad, my husband, saw only one thing to do—to yield all to the Lord and trust Him to care for us. I was willful and refused to listen to the Spirit’s pleading. He wanted full surrender, but I hardened my heart.
Two days later my husband was taken from me, and I was left alone, bitter and rebellious. God had to lead me through deep and troubled waters before I finally yielded Him my life—before I was ready to
give Him the full allegiance that was His by right of purchase with His own blood.
You must wonder why I am telling you this, Dr. King. It is because your sermon stirred me and placed upon me the responsibility of surrendering to the Master. Because of what that sermon did in my life, I am claiming the right to say these things to you. When you read this letter you may be very angry with me. But whether you forgive me or not, I still must write this. Philip King, I challenge you to hear your own call! You preach surrender, but the months of close contact we had at Bethel have shown me that you are not surrendered. You are not yet a bond servant of Jesus Christ.
Am I too hard on you, dear friend, when I say that? Ask the Spirit to speak to you and show you His plan for your life. Ask Him to purge you from pride and self-will. Let Him lead you. Rely absolutely upon Him in
all
your ways and through all your days. I am sure you understand why this leading is so important just at this time. Do you remember another sermon you once preached deploring the folly of the Israelites who sought help from the Egyptians when they should have trusted God and triumphed? Oh, my dear friend, can’t you see the enemy now tempting you to go down to Egypt for help for Bethel?
Writing you this is the hardest task I have had to do since the day I began to follow the Spirit’s leading. But I
must
do it, and I plead with you again to let go of self and let God work through you. My days have become a constant prayer for you. Until I
hear that the victory has been won, I shall literally “pray without ceasing.”
Sincerely,
Your friend in Christ,
Eleanor Stewart
Eleanor laid down her pen. She was weary, utterly spent. But she had peace in her soul, so she knew that God was satisfied with the letter she had written.
After a few days had passed, Eleanor began to watch eagerly for the mailman’s automobile each day, although she could not have told why, for she had no reason to expect an answer to her letter. She felt that the Spirit would use it somehow, but very likely at the cost of Philip King’s friendship. A sense of desolation and loneliness came over her, but at the same time a sweet consciousness of having given something precious to her Lord, whom she loved more than ever before.
Then a letter came from Billy.
Dear Eleanor:
I can’t wait to tell you all about this choice incident, so am hurrying to write you before Dad begins to think the story should be hushed.
To begin at the beginning, Dad sprained his ankle last week and is confined to a wheelchair. So the meeting of Bethel trustees was held at our house. I had a sort of premonition that things would be interesting, so I offered to be steno and take it all down in shorthand. Dad didn’t fall for that idea at all, so I don’t have any verbatim reports.
The whole session was most stirring. You know
that Dad and Mr. Davenport, Angela’s father, never did hit it off very well, just on principle, I guess. I could hear argument after argument from out on the porch where I was. So by the time they got to the real purpose of the meeting, which was to elect a new president for Bethel, I think Dad and Mr. Davenport were pretty upset. (I know how Dad felt. I roomed with Angela.)
I wish I could have sat in on the session so I could give a coherent account. I could hear Mr. Davenport doing a lot of talking and being interrupted by Dad now and then. Next followed a long pause that must have been a prayer by Dr. Cortland, and then an hour of argument of which I could get nothing but occasional phrases. At last Mr. Davenport stamped out, his back stiff as a rod. Then, soon after, the others left. They didn’t notice poor little me, curled up on the porch settee, but I saw them and could hardly wait to find out what had happened. All of the trustees looked as if they had been to a funeral, very subdued and meek. Dr. Cortland had, apparently, been crying, and his dear old face was a little swollen. Philip King looked like a little boy that hadn’t any home or mother or even a dog to love him. Yet he was smiling, a kind of sick-looking smile, and he and Dr. Cortland went off in the car together.
So I went into the house. Dad was almost frantic because he couldn’t get out of his wheelchair and dance a jig. He had to tell someone, and, happily, I was the person at hand. Now, from his rather incoherent ramblings, here is the story as I have pieced it together.
Philip King refused the presidency of Bethel College! Instead, he suggested that the trustees choose Dr. Cortland, and they did! Oh, Eleanor, think of missing such a show as that must have been! Dad doesn’t tell it so that it makes much sense, but it seems Philip King had had some sort of a jolt that Mr. Davenport is sure unsettled his mind. Anyway, he talked so convincingly of his own unfitness for the job that he had them all shaking with terror at the close squeak they had had. Mr. Davenport threatened to resign and called P. K. a quitter and said neither he nor any of his friends would ever give another penny to Bethel. So P. K. answered that as long as Bethel had the Lord on her side she could do without the Egyptians. “Does that make sense?” snorts Dad. “Well, I don’t care if it doesn’t. Davenport fairly wilted!”
Dad asked me to get him a Bible and a concordance, and he is down there now, the old dear, trying to find out what the Egyptians could have to do with Bethel. I slipped away to write you.
I wonder what P. K. intends to do now. I don’t believe he will stay on as instructor or vice president. Maybe he will come to the institute full time. That would be better than my wildest imaginings. Since hearing what he did at the board meeting, I could believe anything.
I’ll let you know if I hear any more. In the meantime keep your fingers crossed, mainly that I don’t wake up and find that this was all a dream.
Your pal,
Billy
Eleanor’s heart sang! God had heard and answered prayer, and not only would God’s power and glory be recognized at Bethel, but Philip had surrendered, and his life would now be given to God in self-forgetful service. He would be the bond servant now. Eleanor knew that her letter must have helped his decision, else why those references to the Egyptians?
And yet Philip had not written. Surely if her letter had been used to help him, he would answer it and tell her that her prayers had been answered. But one week after another slipped past, and no word came from him. Dick wrote that Philip King had not been seen on the campus since commencement, and no one seemed to know where he was or what his plans might be.
Now Eleanor was sure that Philip had been offended and that, although he might have yielded to the Spirit as regards the Bethel situation, he had rejected her as a friend. Her heart was sore, yet she could not regret her action. She had followed the Spirit’s leading, and all would be well.
M
other and the girls were sitting on the porch one August afternoon, sewing some linens for Connie’s fast-filling hope chest. Eleanor came out of the door looking like a little girl with her hair tied back from her face. She wore a fresh yellow gingham dress. She was followed by little Chad, who had just awakened from his nap, and now looked like a tanned little cherub in a blue linen sunsuit.
“Chad and I are going up to the church to weed the rock garden,” Eleanor said. “I noticed Sunday afternoon that the purslane is trying to choke out the little new rock plants.”
“I saw it too,” contributed Mary Lou. “But it’s not two weeks since Ruth and Jimmie and I pulled it all out.”
“I know,” said Eleanor. “But weeds are like faults. You just have to keep everlastingly at them. Our handyman
once told me that I was meaner than purslane. I didn’t realize the import of the compliment—then.”
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” said Mary Lou soberly.
“I wasn’t a very nice child.” Eleanor laughed. “I was just as uncontrollable as a weed. Someone should have pulled me. Well, sonny boy, give Grandma a kiss and come along.”
Chad obediently planted a kiss on Grandma’s cheek and submitted to her hug. Then he ran on down the path with Sport, his puppy, barking and running around him in circles.
Eleanor followed leisurely, rejoicing at the sight of the sturdy little lad who bore such faint resemblance to the sickly baby he had been a few years before. He was tall for his four years, with tumbled golden hair and the same sparkling blue eyes that had been one of the chief charms of the older Chad. Eleanor had never become dull to the joy of motherhood. Every day her son brought new happiness. She loved to work and play with him and whenever possible found small tasks that kept him near her.
When they reached the rock garden on the hillside, Eleanor showed him how to tell the purslane from the little plants and how to feel for the central stem and pull the whole weed without breaking it.
“We have to get the whole root, or it will grow again,” she explained.
Then the mother and son spent a happy hour working at the stubborn little weeds. As they worked, Chad chattered gaily, and Eleanor drew him out in his conversation. She loved to hear of his doings, and she found
opportunities in their informal conversations to plant seeds that would bear fruit later in Christian faith and life.