Norton. Am I glad
for trials, for disappointments, for opportunities for self-sacrifice, for
everything God sends? Ah! indeed I do not know! How many times, when we say,
"Try me, and know my heart," the answer is, “Ye know not what ye
ask!" And I know not why, in some states of mind and body, what seems a
very little trouble (or would, if told another), should be so oppressive.
But
"little," and "great," in the world's vocabulary, are very
different terms from what they are in individual experience; and submission,
and grateful acquiescing obedience to divine will, are to be learned by each in
his own capacity. Two weeks ago, I was saying over to myself, every day, as if
it were a new thought, Keble's lines,
"New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice."
And as those words
kept recurring, as if whispered by a spirit, I thought I should be glad to have
my best treasures to give for sacrifice, to make others happy with what was
most precious to me. And as my way seemed uncertain, and for a day or two I
knew not whether to move or to sit still, I said, "Lead me! Behold the
handmaid of the Lord; let it be unto me according to Thy will, — only let me do
nothing selfishly." And the answer came in the withdrawal of a blessing
from me; no doubt with purposes of greater blessing to some one, somewhere and
somehow; and I am only half reconciled as yet. Shall I ever believe that God
knows best, and does what is best for me, and for us all? It is easy enough in
theory, but these great and little trials tell us the truth about ourselves,
show us our insincerity. And now I close this record, which has been my nearest
companion for so many months. Esther is gone. Is there any friend who cares
enough for me just as I am, to keep it in memory of me? Or had I better bury it
from my own eyes and all others'? It may be good for me to read the record of
myself as I have been, — cheerful or morbid, — and of what I have read,
thought, and done, wisely or unwisely. The "Country Parson" thinks a
diary a good thing; and I do too, in many ways, but I would rather write
for a friend's kindly eyes than for my own: even about myself. Therefore
letters are to me a more genial utterance than a journal, and I would write any
journal as if for some one who could understand me fully, love me, and have
patience with me through all. I do not know if now there is any such friend for
me; yet dear friends I have, and more and more precious to me, every year. If
these were my last words, I would set them down as a testimony to the preciousness
of human friendships; dearer and richer than anything else on earth. By them is
the revelation of the divine in the human; by them heaven is opened, truth is
made clear, and life is worth the living. So have I been blessed, drawn
heavenward by saintly messengers in the garb of mortality. So shall it be
forever, for true love is — eternal, it is life itself.
SOURCE: Daniel
Dulany Addison, Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary, pp. 102-4
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