And your deacon will be some farmer, perhaps uncouth in
appearance and rough of dress, and certainly blunt in his scanty
speech. He'll not flatter you nor your sermons; and until you've
lived with him for years you will not know what a great heart there
is in that rugged frame, and what wealth of affection in that silent
hand-shake. And there is his wife. She is round and ample, and
certainly does not look especially solemn or pious. She is aunt and
mother to the whole community, the joy of all the children, nurse of
the sick, and comfort of the dying. She is doing the work of ten at
home, and of a host in the village. And your right-hand man is
great Onesiphorus from the mill down in the valley, fighting an
uphill battle to keep the wolf from the door, while he and his wife
deny themselves everything, that their flock of children may have
better training for fighting God's battles than they ever enjoyed.
I cannot describe these men and women. If you have lived with
them, you will need no description, and would resent the
inadequacy of mine. If you have never had the good fortune to live
with them, it is impossible to make you see them as they are. When
you once have thoroughly known them, language will fail you to do
them justice, and you will prefer to be silent rather than slander
them by inadequate portrayal.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346