Chapter IV

Praying for Visions of Heaven

A sturdy young farmer's boy who had inherited a strong body, a clear mind, and a good family name sat under a maple tree in the hayfield at the hot noontide. He was eating a cold lunch and at the same time reading an article in the weekly paper. The editor had written an editorial on the romantic history of the poor country boys who had risen to world-wide fame and to enormous riches. When he had reread the article he tossed the paper aside, lay back on the odorous new-mown grass, looked up at the deep-blue sky, and watched the passing of a pure-white cloud. A vision of what the world might be to him came in a dreamy way. Other boys as poor as he had graduated from college, had made great scientific discoveries, had married rich and beautiful women, had traveled in far countries, had feasted with kings, had held high office, and had written great books. Why could not he follow their example? It seemed impossible, and with a deep sigh he arose and seized his scythe.

But the vision could not be obscured. As his strong muscles drove the sharp blade through the thick grass he kept muttering to himself, debating pro and con the possibility of an ignorant farmer, living far away from city civilization, and too far from a railroad to hear the whistle, to become powerful in national affairs. How did they start? What did they do first? When his return swath brought him again near the shade of the tree where he had eaten his lunch he caught up the weekly paper and read again the editorial. Then he left his scythe in the grass and went into the shade, leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree, and, wholly engrossed in earnest thought, forgot his work. He reviewed his own simple life and examined his own plans and ambitions. He had expected to marry some one of the strong, sensible, country girls and bring her home to live with the old folks, as his father had done. He had a dim idea that he would inherit the old, stony farm some day. He had a latent ambition to raise more corn than his father had raised and to clear a large piece of woodland which for centuries had hidden the mountain side. He would build an addition to the stable and put in a new pair of bars near the brook where the cattle went to drink in winter. He had also a half-formed purpose to join the local church, and perhaps some day he would be an elder.

At last he aroused himself and, with a half-angry impulse, he began to strike the grass with his scythe as if the grass were some sneaking enemy. He could not arouse again the sweet content of the forenoon. He had caught a glimpse of that far-away land, and while he did not hope ever to enter it, yet the thought disturbed him.

The next Sunday the echo of the old church bell, along the narrow, but beautiful, Berkshire valleys, called him to church. The cows were milked and fed, the old horse curried, and the chores hastily finished when he ran down the road to overtake the old folks. But the grand forest, the sheening, cascading brook, and the brown fields were not the same to him that they were the day before. The cows and horses in the pastures near the road had lost their fascination and value. The hills seemed lower and the grain fields more narrow, the cottages seemed shrunken, and the old church was but an awkwardly built bungalow. All had changed. His clothing was coarser woven and the most attractive girls in their Sunday attire were rude specimens of country verdancy.

As if by a preconceived purpose to accelerate his sweeping mental changes the preacher that morning took his text from the Proverbs of Solomon, wherein he stated that wisdom is more valuable than gold or rubies. The speaker illustrated his sermon by showing the value of an education. He mentioned the happiness of the men and women who knew the structure of vegetation, of animals, and the laws which control their life. He mentioned cases of self-made men who had read good books and whose minds could walk with God through his wonderful natural creations. He spoke of the uselessness or curse of possessions which the owner cannot enjoy for lack of knowledge. He said that the discipline of obtaining wisdom was in itself of great value and that God promised riches, and honor to the man who would earn them. He also said that the Lord started many of us into life with nothing for the loving purpose of developing our capacity and inclination to know and enjoy more. The happiest boy is the one who makes his own toys. The application of the sermon brought forth the exhortation to read instructive books, to examine more closely the works of nature and the laws which control our being. "Learn something every day," said the preacher, and he closed with the quotation from Luther, "Not a day without learning another verse" ("_Nulla dies sine versu_").

The young farmer was an only son. But his parents had wisely kept him from selfishness and egotism. He had been taught to work and to be grateful for the necessities of life. He had a loyal disposition and loved his parents with a half-worshipful devotion. He had been contented, industrious, careful, and honest. His only pride seemed to be in the distance he could see and in the large burden he could shoulder or carry. He had left school because his father needed him on the farm and he had abandoned the expectation of further education. But on that Sunday he held a long conference with his mother and father concerning his ambition to be something more than a country farmer. He read to them the editorial which had so moved him, and tearfully said: "I want to be great like them! I must improve my mind. I must increase my skill. I must have more influence and do more good. I must get more wisdom and more understanding. This farm is too small a place for me. I will stay at home if I can, or as long as I can, but I must begin to study to-morrow, and never thereafter lose a day. God helping me, I will be something worth while." His parents, with sad hearts, saw the reasonableness of his ambition and gave their consent to his proposed education. He began to read selected books at home, but he soon saw the great advantage of academic instruction in some well-equipped institution. He attended a high school in a near-by village and an academy in another part of the country. He was the leader of his classes and a close student of languages and natural science. He had obtained a glimpse of the world of knowledge and was fascinated with the idea of a university education. Beyond the university, he occasionally saw himself a multimillionaire with a palace and a brilliant retinue of servants. He had chosen for his life mate a brilliant young woman who was a teacher in a kindergarten school connected with the academy. They were to be married when he should graduate from the university. All seemed hopeful and promised a most noble and notable career.

But while he was spending his vacation at the old home in the Hampshire Highlands of the Berkshire Hills, helping his old father in gathering the usual crops, he received an invitation from a rich uncle living near San Francisco, inviting him to visit his estate. The uncle had not often corresponded with the young man's parents and they had taken no interest in his history. They had heard that he was a wealthy manufacturer and a railroad director. So the brother, and the sister who was the student's mother, had lost all acquaintance with each other in the fifty years of their separation. The young man gladly accepted his uncle's invitation to visit him, and the uncle sent on a railroad pass to bring him to California and return.

The estate of the uncle was on the shore of the Pacific, occupying a gentle slope with wide lawns, evergreen trees fancifully trimmed, and gushing fountains. Hedges of lilies, acres of poppies, roses of every perennial variety, and shade trees in long rows, decorated the great plateau. Orchards of luscious and rare fruits stretched away in great lanes from the back gardens. The house was a mansion built for show, with a front largely Grecian in design, and a rear porch and veranda of the Old Colony style. Carpets, paintings, mirrors, and a hundred curious and costly decorations made an exhibition of lavish wealth. Fine horses and extravagantly furnished carriages in great variety filled the stables. Servants' quarters were really fine cottages and the gatekeeper's lodge cost an extravagant sum. To this New England nephew who had spent his youth in the simplicity and poverty of a back-country farm, all this display of wealth was bewildering. The great library of costly volumes, few of which had ever been opened, seemed to him a great opportunity for his uncle to learn almost everything. The food was so various and so delicious. The wines which he had never tasted were sweetly stimulating and had been made on the estate. His uncle entertained him royally and introduced him to a number of handsome young ladies of fascinating manners, who volunteered to teach him to dance. Every kind of musical invention seemed to be stored in the mansion, and quartets from the university near by came in often to entertain and to be entertained at the uncle's evening socials. The uncle was a widower and childless, and seemed to be most pathetically lonely. He was pleased with his nephew and was proud of his apparently sterling character and manly appearance.

The evening before the nephew's departure on his return journey his uncle talked with him until late in the night and told him frankly that he was going to make the young man his sole heir. But he made his nephew promise repeatedly not to tell any person, not even his parents, what the uncle had decided to do.

The return of that young man, when viewed in the light of subsequent events, must have been a startling experience to his dear, patient, plodding old parents. His manners, his thoughts, his estimation of values had undergone a violent change. The old farmhouse seemed to him to be smaller than ever, the furniture was rude and cheap, the food was coarse and unpalatable, the horse was shamefully old, his father's overalls were disgracefully stained, and his mother's old apron was fit only for rags! The home was lonesome and uncomfortable. He sat by the fire on the cool evenings, silently picturing in his wild imagination what he would do with his millions, and sometimes he admitted, for an instant, the hope that his uncle would die very soon. He abandoned the idea of going on with his college education. He reasoned that money can buy anything and assured himself that he could hire men to think for him if he should need them. Letters from his fiancee became a bore. She was too plain and too unsophisticated to adorn his future mansion. He could not think of marrying a woman of whom he would be ashamed in that fashionable group to which he would be attached. He finally broke the engagement, telling her that he had discovered that he did not love her enough sincerely to marry her. The lady became ill and was suddenly killed in an accident in the sanitarium. The young man would not work. He refused to help his father on the old place and bluntly refused to help his mother when she was about her household tasks alone. All was changed. He was no longer their son. The father felt the impression of mystery about the son's strange behavior and suggested to his wife that the boy showed symptoms of insanity. Not many months passed before the son left his home to take an easy position as a clerk in Boston. But he soon left that and went to sea in a steamer, where he acted as assistant to the steward. At Bordeaux, France, he made the acquaintance of two American young men whose wealthy parents supplied them with funds to travel, but evidently did so to keep the rascals away from home. Then his downward course became a reckless race.

A few years later the uncle heard or read that his nephew was sentenced to three months in the workhouse for drunkenness, and he changed his will, leaving all his estate to benevolent institutions. From that time the unrepentant prodigal disappeared from the knowledge or care of his old neighbors. Both his parents went down to the grave in bitter sorrow before his reform. The death of the mother was only a few weeks later than the death of the father.

God pity them both, God pity us all Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. Of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these, "It might have been." Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply hidden from human eyes, And in the hereafter the angels may Roll the stone from the grave away.

The friend who reads this account of that young man's broken life may ask what this biographical sketch has to do with the subject of "unanswered prayer." It has much to do with it. Such experiences, which must have been seen in millions of cases, show a reasonable explanation why so many prayers for a view of heaven are denied. At almost every funeral the loved ones ask if the departed is still living and why God does not permit them to come back and tell us about their spirit life. "What are they doing in heaven?" is a question on the lips of millions.

But in the letters herein mentioned the records of unanswered prayers included many who prayed for visions of heaven or who wished to see the angels or the face of the Saviour. One brother prayed continually, "Oh, for one view of the holy city!" and another seemed never to leave out of his daily prayer, "Lord, open my eyes to see the faces of the dear ones hovering about me!" But our eyes are still holden. Our pleading hearts are unsatisfied. We are not permitted to see our future home nor catch more than a glimpse of the angels' wings. When, however, we seek an explanation of this divine arrangement, this separation of this life from the other, the faithful believer in God's wisdom and love can easily set up a reasonable theory concerning it. He will see that God has placed us on this earth to grow in knowledge, to get necessary spiritual discipline for his heavenly service. To obtain that training we must keep our attention on the duties of our daily tasks and do them well. We cannot reap rye with heaven in actual view. It is not consistent to think after the Apostle John saw the holy city at Patmos he could devote himself as readily to catching fish. When that California uncle showed his nephew all that luxury, beauty, and wealth, and told him that he would some day own it all, it was a foolish act--almost criminal. The young man's mental and moral development was stopped then and there. The young man lost far more than the estate could be worth. Suddenly acquired riches are ever harmful. Dissatisfaction with this life is a fatal sin. God commands us to be content and toil. He, therefore, does not himself do so destructive and discouraging an act as to show us heaven's glories and fill us with a suicidal anxiety to get out of this world at once and speedily to enter the other where there is no more pain or sorrow or dying. A prayer for a view of heaven seems, therefore, to be an unreasonable request. This conclusion satisfies many who have been denied communication with the departed dear ones, and they take up their toil, content to labor and to wait. God does not interfere with the healthful exercise of our free will by holding bribes before our eyes or by forcing our discipline by awful fears.