Martha Snell Nicholson

I was surfing the net this evening, and for some reason, I got to thinking about Martha Snell Nicholson.  You see, Martha Snell Nicholson was my aunt. She passed when I was about 10 or 11 years old, and my memory of her is very faded, although I believe I did see her once when I was very young.

I do not know why I thought of her on this particular day, and I do not know why I did a search of her name on the Internet. I do know that I am very pleased that someone in this world thought enough of  my aunt to feature her work on their web page. When I was very young, I remember having copies of her work in the house.  I do not remember reading her work as a child, although her books were there. Somewhere along the line, I remember having some of her books, although I have no idea where they may have gotten to.  I am now 54 years old, soon to be 55, and am very aware of the mortality of my time in life.  I read with reverence, the samples of her work on your web page, and would love to read more of her work.

I find great comfort in knowing that my aunt is so very appreciated, even in our present day and age.  I find that some of her work is as if it was just written today.  She seemed to be a very insightful woman, with a true love and devotion to Christ.  She seems to me, to have been a truly awesome woman, a woman of great sensitivity, and truly a child of God.  Someday, I will know her, in heaven. Now, though, during my time on earth, I want to really learn all about her that I can.

You may print this letter, if you choose, on your web page.  I would truly love to know of people that knew my aunt, that could tell me of their encounters with her.

My email address is patsouthard@aol.com, and I would welcome any and all emails from anyone, anywhere in the world that knew my aunt.

Thank you so very much for your attention to this letter.

In Christ’s love,

Pat Southard

And what friends He has given me! Are there more loyal friends than those who stand by the sick through the years? My family and friends have prayed for me, encouraged me, quietly sacrificed for me, washed my dishes, rubbed my aching head, offered me everything from new books to their very life-blood for blood transfusions. I should like to speak of a very devoted and tender husband, but that is a matter too personal.

The Gifts of Laughter and Vision

I know that laughter is not listed as one of the gifts of the Spirit, but I do thank God for it. He has undoubtedly given it to man, and personally, I fail to see how an invalid could bear life without it, or how our families could endure us unless we had some sense of humor.

I have thanked God many times for a love of beauty. How He must love beauty, since He took pains to make so much of it! I often think how much pleasure He must derive from all that He has created. Surely He wants us to appreciate it, not to go about with blind eyes, oblivious to so lovely a gift. I am reminded of the verse in Kings, “And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw.” There is so much that we could see in the physical as well as in the spiritual world if we would let God touch our eyes. Perhaps He has given to sick people, as a compensation, a freshness of impression, a height­ened appreciation of the things which are commonly taken for granted because we are accustomed to them—the marvelous tracery on the wings of a butterfly, the intricacy of a spider’s web, a child’s laughter, and the morning star alone in the sky.

I shall never forget one evening years ago. I had been in bed most of the time for five years, and that particular summer, I had not been out at all. My eyes as well as my soul needed far horizons to keep from growing nearsighted. So that evening I managed to get to the hammock on the front porch. The stars were bright above me, depth beyond depth of velvet space. The branches of an old elm tree were black against the sky, and the shadows of leaves in the moonlight fell over me.

The shadow of a leaf is a marvelous thing, with all that it implies of stationary laws, of creation, of growth, of God. I looked at them as though I had never seen them before. I saw so many wonders that night, wonders that God had made, of earth and sky and winds and trees. And always people passing, footsteps approaching and dying away, never realizing (how could they?) how wonderful were freedom and strength. How my heart went out to these passers-by, each one more precious to God than all the wonders of the night sky. And how surprised they would have been to know that someone, back in the shadows of the porch, had prayed for them! Machine loads of gaily laugh­ing young people, small boys breathless from an evening game of tag, bits of conversation. A child begging, “Daddy, carry me,” and a voice saying tenderly, “Lovey, do the new shoes hurt your feet?” It made me think of a tender Shepherd carrying the lambs of His flock. The memory of my magic night has never left me, and often when things grow flat and stale, I go back to the time when, for a little space, I really saw, when all of earth and all of heaven, all the things terrestrial and the things celestial, were in the living air about me.

and my hand was in His hand.

I looked down the road of the past,

as it stretched away in the dim distance,

till it was shrouded in the mists of time.

And I knew it had no beginning,

and a little chill wind of fear blew about my head.

God asked, “Are you afraid?"

And I said, “Yes, because I cannot understand how there

can be no beginning."

So God said, “Let us turn and face the other way."

And I looked into glory,

and my heart rejoiced with joy unspeakable.

And then my mind went ahead, a billion, billion years,

and I knew there would be no end,

and again that little chill wind of fear began to blow.

And God asked me again, “Are you afraid?"

And I answered, “A little, because I cannot

understand how there can be no end."

So God asked me tenderly,

“Are you afraid now, today, with your hand in Mine?"

And I looked up at Him and smiled and replied,

“O my Father, No!"

And God said,

“Every day in eternity will be today."

Pain knocked upon my door and said That she had come to stay; And though I would not welcome her But bade her go away,

She entered in. Like my own shade She followed after me, And from her stabbing, stinging sword No moment was I free.

And then one day another knocked Most gently at my door. I cried, “No, Pain is living here, There is no room for more”.

And then I heard His tender voice, " ‘Tis I, be not afraid”. And from the day He entered in – The difference it made!

For though He did not bid her leave, (My strange, unwelcome guest,) He taught me how to live with her. Oh, I had never guessed

That we could dwell so sweetly here, My Lord and Pain and I, Within this fragile house of clay While years slip slowly by!

if Christ should come today? What tasks would be unfinished if I were called away?

Suppose an angel told me at early morning light, “Your Lord will come this evening, You shall go home tonight,”

Would ecstasy be clouded by thought of work undone, The seed I might have scattered, The crown I might have won?

The soul I meant to speak to, the purse I meant to share, And oh the wasted moments I meant to spend in prayer!

The weight of unsaved millions would press upon my heart. In their death am I certain that I had not a part?

And such a few short moments In which to set things right! How feverishly I’d labor Until the waning light!

O slothful soul and careless heart, O eyes which have no sight, - Work, lest you reap but vain regrets! Your Lord “may” come home tonight!

In far off lands Because of sin and misery, And begged with outstretched hands For one small lamp to light his dark. Now fain I would have slept, So - stopped my ears, but in my heart That sobbing voice still wept. And then I heard the voice of one who Counted not the cost, But left His ivory palaces to seek and Save the lost. He said, “The sound of one who weeps Is coming up to Me. Dost thou forget that last command Which I gave unto Thee, To preach my Word to all the world?” O, bitter be our shame! Still hopeless millions walk the earth Who never heard His Name, And still the world spends lavishly In every crowded mart, And still the voice of Him who wept Is sobbing in my heart!

And I walked earth’s highways, grieving. In my rags and poverty. Till I heard His voice inviting, “Lift your empty hands to Me!”

So I held my hands toward heaven, And He filled them with a store Of His own transcendent riches, Till they could contain no more.

And at last I comprehended With my stupid mind and dull, That God COULD not pour His riches Into hands already full!

His eyes grew bigger and bigger, and at last he fairly gasped, “Oh, are there going to be crowns too? I should think it would be enough just to save our souls!”

There is so much we who are the Lord’s can do. I have long had the habit of praying for those whose stories of sin and sorrow are spread all over the pages of our newspapers, even for the murderers awaiting execution. And, of course, I pray for all Christian work and workers everywhere.

Then there is that very quiet work of grace. All summer I have thrilled to a miracle in our back yard. We had a sapling fig tree, only knee high. We poured on the water, and it drank it in and spread its little branches to catch the sunshine. I took such pride in it and would stroke its straight strong trunk and limbs so unlike my twisted body. It grew so quietly, never a sound nor a stir, yet now it is six feet tall, and this fall gave us largess of gifts, great fat figs bursting with their own sweetness. So we, on quiet beds of pain, may drink in His Word, and open our hearts to His Holy Spirit until we too bear fruit.

It is such a blessing to know that God makes no mistakes, that this illness is not something that just happened to me. “Shall the thing framed say of him that framed it, He hath no understanding?” No, the enduring is mine, to be sure, but the responsibility for it is entirely His, and what a difference that makes! Nothing can even touch the child of God without His permissive will. It is not necessary for me to know the reasons, for they are safe with our dear Lord, “in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”

I am no wise theologian, but I have thought that surely God will be glad when this is all over and He will no longer have to watch His children suffer, when all tears will be wiped from our eyes, and a song put upon our lips. Until then cannot we “endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ” and spare Him the sound of our wailing?

When I stand at the Judgment Seat of Christ And He shows me His plan for me, The plan of my life as it might have been, Had He had His way; and I see

How I blocked Him here, and I checked Him there And I would not yield my will, Will there be grief in my Saviour's eyes, Grief though He loves me still?

He would have me rich, and I stand here poor, Stripped of all but His grace, While memory runs like a hunted thing Down the paths I cannot retrace.

Then my desolate heart will well nigh break With tears that I cannot shed; I shall cover my face with my empty hands; I shall bow my uncrowned head.

Lord of the years that are left to me, I give them to Thy hand; Take me and break me, mold me to The pattern Thou hast planned.