01.36. The Sick Room

Chapter 36 THE SICK ROOM.

Very many are the thoughts that come to one in the loneliness of the sick room. There is ample facility for uninterrupted meditation in the solitariness of the apartment. Then pain provides as many wakeful hours at night as are generally given us by the laws of nature in the day.

Very many, then, are the lessons of the sick room. In fact it is one of God’s schools or colleges where the very best knowledge is imparted, where we learn and unlearn, and where new light falls on persons, events, conditions and one’s own self, so that salvation is found by some, and great advancement to others in the wisdom and knowledge of God and in the soul life when already we are saved.

Some men seem to find no place or apology for the presence of sickness in the Christian Dispensation. They appear to think that it is declarative of sin somewhere, and Heaven’s judgment upon it; or that it records a low state of faith in the child of God who is physically afflicted and cannot obtain an instantaneous, or anyhow a speedy cure. This is certainly not the teaching of Scripture, but the contrary. And as for the lessons and achievements of the sick room, we fail to see how as a race we can afford to do without them.

While none of us naturally prefer to be the victim of a painful illness, nor would we like to see it visit another, and are quick to pray for deliverance from the pale faced visitor at once; yet it remains that to strike out what sickness of the body has been under grace to the soul, what a power it has wielded in the home, and how God has in innumerable times and places been glorified by it, would be to rob the Cause of Truth not only of the greatest moral victories, sublime heroisms, holy triumphs, and beautiful, melting scenes of grace in the sick room and death chamber, but would lay low one of Christianity’s greatest universities where we are taught truths and brought into mental and spiritual conditions that overtop in value, and outlast in time and eternity, all the curriculums of earth’s most famous schools and colleges.

Men are not so fond of pain as to desire spiritual knowledge by that sorrowful route. But the invalid room comes to us all sooner or later, whether we like it or not, and the teaching begins while the mind silently takes note of the presence of the Faculty in the physician, with his knife, the nurse, with glass and spoon, and then the long procession of the hours, the longer array of physical pangs, and the eloquence of silence itself is poured forth, while the weary days and nights go by.

They all seem qualified to teach, and certainly we learn, under their varied ministry. The desk in this strange, sad institute is a bed, while the correct, approved and insisted-upon attitude of the students is a horizontal one. Here the back is turned towards the earth, and the face lifted upwards to the sky, and all it contains in its marvelous depths. The school house is very quiet. No noise allowed in the room. The student with his desk which is placed in the corner or pulled out into the middle of the apartment, must have perfect stillness around him. Who can tell what is taught, what is received or given up, what is conquered or yielded in these lessons of a week, month or several months.

We have all been to this school. Many are still at the desk. It has been hard study for months and months. It would certainly be surprising if we did not learn some few things in that time.

One thing we got to feel most deeply was the sense of our own insignificance.

What did it matter to the world; what does it amount to the whole earth if any man is moved from its walks and men are told that he is sick. The globe rolls on just the same carrying the nations with it; the nations rush on their way regardless if thousands disappear from their midst. The absence of a man from the ranks of men is as much missed and as quickly replaced by the form of another, as the water rushes in to fill up the space when the finger is withdrawn from the bowl. The water pours in, and the hole that the child thought would be left after the pulling away of the finger is as instantly gone. So when the invalid with pale face and feeble step comes to the open window and looks out; the rattle of cabs, the tread of heels on the pavement, the roar of the train and whistle of distant steamboats tells him in unmistakable language that the world has rolled on just the same in its labor, thought, speech, action and achievements, and that this faded piece of humanity leaning against the window has not been missed among the busy millions a single moment.

Moreover, the world hardly knew when he disappeared, and when he returned to the scene of action. Only recently one man said to another in a crowd, grasping his hand with surprise: "Why, Joe, I thought you were dead." And yet this same Joe doubtless wondered who could take his place when he was gone. In the city of New Orleans there is a building which apparently rests upon a row of Satyr-like figures. They appear to be holding up the main structure and the bent position of the forms, the deep lines on the stony faces would indicate that the load and pressure were tremendous, and but for them, all would topple in the dust, walls, pillars, dome and all. But the architect and builder will tell you that not a pound of weight rests upon the shoulders of these stone images. That niches were provided for them, and they--these same burdened looking Satyr--were slipped into the places prepared for them after the building was completed. In a word, they were "put in" and the anxious, wearied, oppressed look was "put on!" And so it is that the little human figure of today can be taken from the niche of time, place, and position, and the great edifice that God has built for the present and everlasting good of man will continue to stand and abide forever. Redemption does not rest upon us, but upon Christ as its true, immovable and eternal foundation. A second lesson was the helplessness, and if we might be allowed to say it, the secondariness of the body. Its boasted spring and strength is gone in a few hours. Its appetites are disregarded. It is evidently a vessel or casket containing something greater. And this greater thing comes to the front now. The soul flits like an angel over the prostrate body and marvels at its weakness and heaviness. The strength of the soul rises over its fallen physical comrade. It exults when the body complains. Its hunger and thirst remains and is gratified, while the material form before it can neither eat nor drink, nor does it care to do so. The poor body is reduced to whispers, and finally to inability to communicate its wants to friends and attendants; while the soul at this very time of physical prostration seems often to be at its best, and communes face to face unbrokenly with the God of the Universe.

We can but say in view of this fact alone, there is another nature distinct from the physical, and a higher, nobler nature, and that whatever is done for the spirit is necessarily compelled to take rank far above anything that is or could ever be done for the body on the part of Heaven.

Still another out of the numerous lessons obtained at the sick school, we receive a deeper realization than ever of the faithfulness of Christ.

Numbers see the person smitten with disease rise up, leave the ranks of the well in body, and disappear in the sick room, but do not follow him. They sometimes give a passing thought or recollection, but they stop short of the door, and by and by forget the one who went in and lay down in a suffering that was to continue for long weeks and months. But Christ came into the room, and closing the portal remained with the afflicted one. How sweet it was to find Him by you and in you, when the hot head struck the pillow, and pain in spite of all you could do, wrung scalding tear drops from the eyes. The divine whisper was, "I will not leave you comfortless. I will never leave thee nor forsake thee."

Then some more tears came of another order, and they were very sweet and heart relieving.

It matters not with the Saviour that the sick one is gifted or not, well-to-do or not, attractive or not, popular or unpopular, a success or a failure, as men count these things. Jesus comes into the sick room all the same and there He abides. The physician steps in for a minute twice a day; the visiting friend manages to give five minutes; the nurse on being paid, stays from six to eight hours, but the Saviour never leaves the room. He stays all the hours. The Life Angel may be sent at last, and the invalid goes back to the labors and conflicts of earth, fairly weighted down with holy, gracious, grateful memories of Christ in the sick room. Or the Death Angel may come; the weary wheels of life cease to turn; and one of God’s chariots sweep the sufferer from the realms of pain to the glory world, and rest life above in the skies.

Now then for the undertaker and plumed hearse, for anchors and crowns of roses on the coffin lid, for silver plates and inscriptions of broken hearted love and grief that were unuttered on earth. Now, then, for a great attendance and procession of suddenly materialized friends, for sighs that cannot be heard in the casket, for tears that cannot be seen through the shroud, for words of kindness and commendation and praise that came too late for the silent sleeper on the bier. Now then, we repeat, is the time for the works of men, music, addresses, brotherhoods, regalias, flowers, funeral train and all. And all done for one who sees not, hears not, and is a billion leagues away in another world. But Christ’s work was done before hand. He came to us while we were living and suffering. He handed us over, so to speak, to men when we were dead, and when only the poor shell that contained the gem was left.

Truly, many of us will say with overflowing hearts, and eyes, and lips, when we see the Saviour in Heaven: "I was sick and ye came unto me."

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