IV.I might speak of other offices discharged by little children; of the influence upon us of their purity and their innocence; their importance in the social state; of the benefits conferred upon us by the very duties which we exercise toward them.But merely suggesting these, I will speak at this time of but one more mission which they perform for us.and this, my friends, is performed through sadness and through tears.The little child performs it by its death.It has been with us a little while.We have enjoyed its bright and innocent companionship by the dusty highway of life, in the midst of its toils, its cares, and its sin.It has been a gleam of sunshine and a voice of perpetual gladness in our homes.We have learned from it blessed lessons of simplicity, sincerity, purity, faith.
It has unsealed within us this gushing, never-ebbing tide of affection.Suddenly, it is taken away.We miss the gleam of sunshine.We miss the voice of gladness.Our homes are dark and silent.We ask, "Shall it not come again?" And the answer breaks upon us through the cold gray silence, "Nevermore!" We say to ourselves again and again, "Can it be possible?" "Do we not dream?" "Will not that life and affection return to us?""Nevermore!" O! nevermore! The heart is like an empty mansion, and that word goes echoing through its desolate chambers.We are stricken and afflicted.But must this, should this, be always and only so? Are we not looking merely at the earthly aspect of the event? Has it not a spiritual phase for us? Nay, do we not begin to consider how through our temporal affection an eternal good is wrought out for us? Do we begin to realize that in our souls we have derived profit from it already? Do we not begin to learn that life is not a holiday or a workday only, but a discipline,--that God conducts that discipline in infinite wisdom and benevolence,--mingles the draught, and, when he sees fit, infuses bitterness? Not that constant sweet would not please us better, but that our discipline, which is of more importance than our indulgence, will be more effectual thereby.This is often talked about; I ask, do not we who are called upon to mourn the loss of children realize it,--actually realize that that loss is for our spiritual gain? If we do not, we are merely looking upon the earthly phase of our loss.If we do not realize this spiritual good, we may.
Yes, in death the little child has a mission for us.Through that very departure he accomplishes for us, perhaps, what he could not accomplish by his life.These affections which he has awakened, we have considered how strong they are.They are stronger, are they not, than any attachment to mere things of this earth? But that child has gone from us,--gone into the unseen, the spiritual world.What then? Do our affections sink back into our hearts,--become absorbed and forgotten? O, no!
They reach out after that little one; they follow him into the unseen and spiritual world,--thus is it made a great and vivid reality to us,--perhaps for the first time.We have talked of it, we have believed in it; but now that our dead have gone into it, we have, as it were, entered it ourselves.Its atmosphere is around us, chords of affection draw us toward it, the faces of our departed ones look out from it--and it is a reality.And is it not worth something to make it such a reality?
We are wedded to this world.It is beautiful, it is attractive, it is real.Immortality is a pleasant thought.The spiritual land is an object of faith.But the separation between this and that is cold to think of, and hard to bear.It needs something stronger than this earth to draw us toward that spiritual world;to break some of the thousand tendrils that bind us here.My friends, though many powerful appeals, many solid arguments, cannot break our affections from this earth, the hand of a departed child can do it.The voice that calls us to unseen realities, that bids us prepare for the heavenly land, that says from heights of spiritual bliss and purity, "Come up hither;"--that voice that we loved so on earth, and gladly can we rise and follow it.
Behold, then, what a little child can perform for us through its death! It makes real and attractive to us that spiritual world to which it has gone, and calls our affections from earth to that true life which is the great end of our being, which is the object of all our discipline, our mingled joy and suffering, here upon this earth.That little child, gone from its sufferings of early,--gone "Gentle and undefiled, with blessings on its head,"--has it indeed become a very angel of God for us, and is it calling us to a more spiritual life, and does it win us to heaven? Is its memory around us like a pure presence into which no thought of sin can readily enter? Or is it with us, even yet, a spiritual companion of our ways? From being the guarded and the guided, has it risen in infant innocence, yet in the knowledge and majesty of the immortal life, to be the guard and the guide? Does it, indeed, make our hearts softer and purer, and cause us to think more of duty, and live more holy, thus clothing ourselves to go and dwell with it? Does it, by its death, accomplish all this? O! most important, most glorious mission of all, if we only heed it, if we only accept it.Then shall we behold already the wisdom and benevolence of our Father breaking through the cloud that overshadows us.Already shall we see that the tie, which seemed to be dropped and broken, God has taken up to draw us closer to himself, and that it is interwoven with his all-gracious plan for our spiritual profit and perfection.And we can anticipate how it will all be reconciled, when his own hand shall wipe away our tears, and the bliss of reunion shall extract the last drop of bitterness from "the cup that our Father had given us."
