Letter to a
bereaved widower
by Archibald Alexander
My Dear Afflicted Friend,
Since I heard of your bereavement, by which "the desire of your eyes" (Ezek
24:21) has been taken away from you by a sudden stroke, I have thought often
of you, and resolved to write you a letter of condolence; but perhaps every
effort to soothe your sorrow at present will prove ineffectual. It is not
improbable that the only relief which I can afford you under the heavy
calamity which a mysterious providence has laid upon you, will arise from
the mere expression of my affectionate sympathy. I know that your loss is
great, and that your heart is more rent and broken than I, who have never
experienced a similar bereavement, can conceive. I admit that your loss is
irreparable. The beloved wife of your youth, and the object of your earliest
affection, whose chaste and reciprocal affection cemented a union which
nothing but death could dissolve, and which made her as necessary to your
comfort as your own heart, is gone. Her worth as an affectionate companion
and most intimate friend could only be fully known to yourself. She was,
indeed, like a guardian angel, who was ever present to aid you; and although
she was careful never to leave her own proper sphere to obtrude her opinion
in matters of which she was no competent judge, yet in innumerable cases,
when your spirit was too much excited, or even exasperated, by the crude
collisions with the world, she has gently and almost imperceptibly kept you
back from rash expressions and precipitate acts, to which your disposition
is, in such circumstances, somewhat inclined. Even when she did not speak a
word, the example of her meekness and gentleness has been the means of
restraining you, or recalling you to a sense of your Christian duty. If I
should attempt to lessen your feeling of the greatness of your loss, I would
but mock your sincere and deep-rooted grief. No, the chasm made in your
earthly enjoyments can never, in any event, be completely filled.
That this is indeed the true state of the case, I cannot
but feel when I think of your dear little motherless children. Their loss
surely cannot be made up. They can never have a second mother. God has
implanted the genuine maternal feeling in no heart but that of the real
mother. I can imagine the desolate feeling of helplessness and wretchedness
which spreads over your soul with an overwhelming weight, whenever you look
on these beloved babes, who are too young to be fully sensible of the
greatness of their bereavement; and especially when you gaze upon the little
one, of whom it can scarcely be said that she ever saw her mother. No one
feels more dependent and helpless in such circumstances than a father, much
occupied with the important concerns of the public. And did not kind female
friends come to his assistance, he would be almost ready to despair. But
these are the occasions in which the interpositions of Providence are most
remarkable. Help comes seasonably, when no helpers seem to be near; and it
comes often from unexpected quarters. I have often wondered at the
tenderness and assiduity of female nurses, and their cheerful performance of
painful services, when their prospect of remuneration was small.
I have little doubt—but that already, although your
affliction is so recent, you have had much cause to adore the kind workings
of a benignant Providence in your behalf. Your cup is not one of unmixed
misery. In the midst of judgment there is mercy. God hitherto has provided
for your necessities, and will still provide. Let your trust in Him be
constant and unwavering. Although the stroke which has laid you low, and
clothed you, as it were, with sackcloth and ashes, must be attended, upon
every reflection, with piercing anguish, yet let one idea be ever prominent
in your mind, while thinking on this mournful subject: "It is my Father's
hand which has inflicted this wound, and caused this pain; and He does not
afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men." (Lam 3:33)
The uninterrupted and uncommon prosperity which has
hitherto attended you makes this stroke doubly distressing. From your youth
you seem to have enjoyed the peculiar care of Providence. Though early
deprived of the watchful care of an excellent father, you found friends who
almost supplied the place of a father; who not only provided for you bodily
needs—but took care of your education; and I do not know that your
advantages could have been greater, had your good father continued to live.
And since you have become a man, and entered into that course of life which
you were permitted to choose for yourself, I know of no one, in the same
line, who has been more successful in his pursuits, or who has been able to
conciliate more effectually the public favor. Indeed, until this sad event
in a moment dashed the cup of worldly prosperity, you might be said to have
been like a favorite child, dandled on the knee, and exposed to no crude
blasts of adversity.
But however pleasing such scenes of prosperity, and
however ardently we cling to worldly comforts, it is a fact confirmed by
general experience, that a long continuance of such a state is not favorable
to the growth of piety. The heart hardens in this continual sunshine.
Imperceptibly we lose the abiding, practical sense of our entire dependence
and weakness, and are prone to say, like the royal psalmist, "My mountain
stands strong, I shall never be moved." (Psalm 30:6-7)
In such a state we not only have a weak impression of our
feebleness and dependence—but a greatly diminished sense of our own
sinfulness. And we know that a deep feeling of our wretched depravity lies
at the foundation of "repentance towards God, and faith toward our Lord
Jesus Christ", (Acts 20:21) and of every lively exercise of piety. It is
then good—it is necessary—to have the blindness of our minds and the
hardness of our hearts removed by some means. Our love of ease would have it
done in some less painful manner.
We are willing to obtain the blessing—but not to endure
the chastisement connected with it. We love health—but utterly dislike the
medicine suited to restore it. But could not God carry on His people's
sanctification without inflicting upon them wounds so deep and painful? What
He can do is not the question. He is a sovereign, and does what He will,
and requires submission on our part. "Be still and know that I am God."
(Psalm 46:10) "Hear the rod, and him who has appointed it." (Mic 6:9) It is
enough for us to be assured that this is God's usual and appointed method of
leading His chosen people to the heavenly Canaan. They must first pass
through the briers and thorns of the wilderness. Through much tribulation
they must enter the kingdom. Although severe afflictions are sometimes sent
principally as a trial of faith, patience and submission—as we learn from
the example of Job—yet most men who know themselves will not be at a loss
for reasons to consider their own afflictions as chastisements.
One of the first beneficial effects of the rod is to stir
up to thorough self-examination. It leads to "great searchings of heart", (Judg
5:16) awakens the sleeping conscience, and dispels the illusion which
worldly prosperity had imperceptibly spread over the mind. The wounded soul
startles and trembles, and takes a retrospect of the course which has been
pursued. If pride or avarice or luxury has been too much indulged, and has
led to unchristian behavior, those indulgences and those actions (the
turpitude of which was concealed) now stand forth in the view of the
awakened mind—and the penitent backslider falls prostrate, confesses the
enormity and ingratitude of his sins, and earnestly cries to God for mercy
and for healing.
Alas! when we are at ease, and living in prosperity, how
cold and careless are we in our devotional exercises! Engrossed with worldly
business, and too well satisfied with creature comforts, we forget God, and
lose sight of heaven. From this state of alienation we are seldom reclaimed
by the Word alone. Indeed, in such a frame, the truth can scarcely be said
to have access to our minds. But when the severe stroke of our Father's rod
is experienced, we begin to feel with keen sensibility, and to pray with
especial fervency and importunity. And the afflicted child of God thus
arrested, convinced and humbled, cannot rest until he obtains some new
evidence of reconciliation, some manifestation of the love and favor of his
offended Father.
My dear sir, this affliction, severe as it is, may
hereafter appear to have been in its consequences a most important blessing.
In the view of it you may cry out, "It was good for me to be afflicted; for
before I was afflicted, I went astray—but now I keep your statutes." (Psalm
119:71; Psalm 119:67) This dispensation may be not only useful but
necessary. It is not extravagant, nor inconsistent with the unchangeableness
of God's purpose of mercy to His people, to say that severe chastisements
may be indispensably necessary to their salvation. His promise of eternal
life to believers is not irrespective of the appropriate means. The apostle
Peter speaks of a 'need be', that some should "be grieved by various
trials"; (1 Pet 1:6) "that the trial of your faith," says he, "being much
more precious than of gold which perishes, though it be tried by fire, might
be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ."
(1 Pet 1:7)
And Paul exalts the value and efficacy of afflictions
above all comparison, when he says, "These light afflictions, which are but
for a moment, work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory." (2 Cor 4:17) But observe, he calls them all light and momentary—that
is, in comparison with eternal blessedness. As he says in another place,
"For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be
compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us." (Rom 8:18) Is not
the fact that we are so cast down and overwhelmed with afflictions, an
evidence of the weakness of our faith? If eternity was in full view—would we
be so deeply affected with our bereavements, especially when we have good
reason to hope that our departed friends are happy in heaven? They are only
gone before to the place where we hope soon to follow them.
I would say then, "Gird up the loins of your mind." (1
Pet 1:13) You are in the vigor of life, and in the midst of your days, and
your Lord has much work for you to do. The talents which he has committed to
you should be most diligently improved. The best cure for grief is unceasing
activity in the cause of the Redeemer. I seem to feel assured that this will
be a new era in your life; and although you have not been idle, nor
unconcerned for the glory of your Master, yet methinks the remainder of your
days will be far more fruitful than the past. I do trust that your light
will burn with a more bright and steady flame. Henceforth you will not be
liable to look for a paradise on this side of heaven. And you will be more
disposed than ever before to concentrate your affections on those things
which are above. And as God's people are a poor and afflicted people, for
the most part, He may be preparing you to be a comforter of the mourners in
Zion; for none are qualified for this office—but such as, having tasted the
bitter cup of sorrow, have been made partakers also of divine consolation—as
Paul says to the Corinthians, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord
Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort,
2Co 1:4
who comforts us in all our affliction, so
that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the
comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God." (2 Cor 1:3-4)
It would be utterly superfluous to dissuade you from
thinking soon of a second marriage. Your own feelings render every such idea
abhorrent to your mind. Perhaps it is indelicate and unkind to mention the
subject at all; but as human feelings undergo a great change in the lapse of
a few months, and I may not have the opportunity of speaking to you again, I
would say—Be not hasty in this matter. Consider long, and pray much over the
subject, before you determine to place a stepmother over your children. I do
not wish to lay any heavy burden on your shoulders.
I do not mean to say that it may not be a duty in due
time to seek another companion; but I do say, proceed cautiously and
conscientiously in this business. I do believe that many make a sad mistake,
in entering a second time into the bonds of wedlock. As a prudent wife comes
from the Lord—ask counsel of Him.