6. Extinguished Tapers
CHAPTER SIX
EXTINGUISHED TAPERS
Till they hail the rising sun?
Who discards the garb of winter
Till the summer has begun?
—Anonymous
IT WILL DOUBTLESS ASTONISH some adult readers and perhaps make them shake their heads dubiously to learn that all this time I was still indulging in theaters, dances, and other worldly things. My father had long years before urged me to separate myself from these amusements, but my mother felt he was narrow in his views on such matters, and that they did no harm if indulged in discriminately. So I had gone along with her viewpoint as the easier and more pleasant.
Occasionally I had wondered about it, but had always been sharply conscious of that old taunt, “You do this, or believe this, because your papa told you so.” I was not going to give up any habit just because some human being told me to! If God told me to stop them I would obey. Otherwise I would continue as I had been.
These amusements were like the taper of our verse. They formed the light moments of my life, and I wasn’t going to give up any fun just because some old religious fogey was prejudiced against it!
The first taper that I extinguished was card-playing. In McMillan’s boardinghouse the young folk often played until past midnight, and if they had the wherewithal they put up some small stakes. I suppose the sailors thought a game inane if it did not have the element of gain or loss to stimulate them. Of course, they called me in to play with them. I hesitated—more from reluctance to waste time and my precious pennies than for any other reason.
“Maybe Isobel doesn’t think she should play cards, because she is religious,” offered Jack gravely. Jack was one of the sailors, but very open to counsel. He even asked me to teach him the Bible at one time, and I believe he would have accepted the Lord if his wife and the others had not pulled him away. I grabbed at this offer of a legitimate excuse in order to get out of such invitations easily.
“Well, to tell the truth, Jack, I would prefer not to,” I answered.
“Then we’re not going to tease her into it,” Jack informed everybody. “You play the piano for us, Isobel! We’d like some music while we play cards.”
I loved to play the piano and preferred hymns above everything else. Those young people did not object to my religious selections, so the strange anomaly took place night after night. They played cards and gambled while I played from my hymn-book. Of course, this left me free to go to bed as early as I liked and the arrangement pleased me well. But having given up card-playing, supposedly for religious reasons, I must in consistency hold to it on other occasions. So I did just that. It cost me nothing. I always thought cards were a tiresome waste of good mental energy—they achieved nothing but amusement, and I did not find them very amusing. So out went the taper of card-playing.
It was during the summer of 1923, perhaps before I went to The Firs, that I had to extinguish a second taper. This was quite a different affair and one concerning which no human being had ever spoken to me.
I was a voracious reader of romantic fiction. Novels gripped me and were my favorite mental escape from trials and difficulties, or from an evening which had to be spent alone. With a good love story I was immediately transported into another world, and if the plot was exciting I could not put the book down until I finished it.
We were living with my brother on his ranch for the summer, and as there were no other young people around I had to occupy many evenings and found a good novel was my first resort. This particular time, it was an exciting story that I could not lay down. I never did read the modern sexy novels, but chose clean, exciting love stories. Very often these were not really true to life. Life does contain moments of adventure, but these times are interspersed with long periods of plain, unvarnished hard work. The real things of life are attained at these monotonous level periods, so to speak, more than they are at the high peaks of excitement. People who in their reading feed on the lurid and melodramatic are not prepared for the long stretches of routine work which fill every life. I believe this is partly responsible for many broken marriages today. Young people think married life should be all moonlight and thrills, and they balk when they find themselves on the level stretches of plain, ordinary working together, which actually are the real life and backbone of a home.
Anyway, I was deep in the excitement of the book. Midnight came and I was so near the end that I could not stop. In fact, it was one o’clock in the morning before I finished the book and took up my Bible for evening devotions. But I got no blessing from it. Never had the Bible seemed so drab and dull. When I tried to pray, the Lord seemed far away. It’s just sleepiness, I told myself, and curled up for slumber.
But the next morning things were little better. God still seemed far away and the Bible stuffy and uninteresting. Before the Teachers’ Summer Institute opened I was clerking in a Bible Depot which belonged to my father. He had felt that Victoria lacked a Christian bookstore so, supported by Christian friends, he had opened this Bible Depot as a sideline. I substituted for the clerk while she was on summer vacation, and traveling into town by bus gave me time to think. What had happened to me, that the Lord seemed no longer real? And why had the Bible, which I had begun to read through from Genesis to Revelation for the first time in my life— why had the Bible become insipid? I was alarmed. Sitting in the bus, I talked to the Lord about it in my heart.
“Oh Lord, what is wrong with me?” I prayed. “Why can’t I sense Your Presence now as I have lately? Why has the Bible become dry?”
“When a child fills her stomach with ice cream and soda pop,” the Lord seemed to answer, “why does she lose her appetite for meat and potatoes?”
“Lord, do You mean the novel did that to me?”
“It excited all the fleshly part of your nature, didn’t it? Did it do anything to help you spiritually?”
“Nothing, Lord. It kept me up so late. I’m tired this morning. Lord, if I promise to give up novel reading, will You come back to me? Will the Bible come alive to me again?”
“Try it and see.”
From that moment, the Lord was real and present once more and the Word took on new meaning. My spiritual growth could have been traced by the markings in that Bible as I read it from cover to cover. I discovered verses that seemed to spring out of the page as His voice to meet my need at the moment. One verse I remember particularly: “For the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee” (Isa. 54:10). I have claimed this verse through the years and it has been fulfilled to me.
I hardly need say that the taper of novel reading, which included magazine stories, was extinguished from that day on. For about fifteen years I never permitted myself to read a love story. After that, when I had to be alone in Lisuland so often, with problems pressing upon me, I used to read a bit at mealtimes, usually the old classics of Dickens, Thackeray, Bronte, and Barrie. These I had read before so they had no hold on me to continue reading past mealtime, and they did give me a wholesome mental holiday for an hour, lifting me out of the canyon-world back into life among my own race.
Did I find it hard to make this self-denial? Does one miss candlelight when morning sunshine is pouring in the window? No, I was richly repaid for this self-discipline.
The next taper that the Lord touched was my dancing. Mac continued to invite me to the university big dances, and to some of the smaller ones occasionally. It was at one of the latter—probably a fraternity dance—that I ran into Marion A―in the dressing room. Marion was a Christian girl in our year who had abstained all through her course from worldly amusements. We had both graduated now and here we met at a dance!
“Why, Marion!” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Well, you are to blame, Isobel Miller,” she said with her merry frankness. “You are the reason I am here tonight. You are a Christian too, aren’t you? And all through our four years you danced and had a good time while I got left out of everything. People say you are a good Christian, but you dance, so I decided to dance, too. This is my first dance.”
I did not know it at the moment, but this was my last dance. I do not know how Marion ended up, but I fear she drifted from the Lord.
For one memorable dance I had as partner a science major named Keith whom I had known since high school days. As we were waltzing around he made some contemptuous remark about “old-fashioned fogies who believe in God.” Ah, said I to myself, here is my chance to witness. I always felt that if I kept in touch with the dancing crowd, it would afford me contacts for Christ with people who would not be contacted otherwise. So I started in eagerly, “Keith, why do you say that? I believe in God, and you used to.”
“Oh, that was before I met Dr. Sedgewick or studied science,” he replied impatiently. “No one with a scientific approach to life believes that old stuff any more.”
“Oh, but they do!” I cried eagerly. “I have been investigating God and have indubitable proof that He exists!”
“What proof?” he scoffed. Then I tried to tell him, but he refused to believe. He got angry and we were arguing together hotly when a ripple of laughter brought us to ourselves. The orchestra had stopped playing, the dancers had taken their seats. Only Keith and I were left on the floor. Unconscious that the number had ended, we were waltzing round and round in the center of the room obviously fighting over something.
“Better give up, Keith!” called out a pal from the sidelines. “A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still. They never give in and they don’t know how to reason!”
When Keith saw what a laughingstock we had made of ourselves he swore angrily, marched me to a seat and stalked off in high dudgeon. If there is one thing a man can’t forgive, it is a wound to his pride. I had caused Keith a public humiliation and he cut me dead from that hour. My testimony to him had not only been a failure, it had left him more antagonistic than ever.
It was a very subdued and thoughtful Isobel whom Mac saw home that night. Was this the Lord speaking to me? I had led Marion A——astray. I had further antagonized Keith. Was dancing worth all this?
A few nights later Mac telephoned to me and asked me to the Agricultural Ball—in April, I think it was to be. “Mac, I’m not sure,” I parried. “That is so far ahead. Call me a little later, will you?” I would need to pray about it before going to another dance. Was this only an accident or was the Lord speaking to me about giving up this amusement?
I was in the throes of indecision when the telephone rang again and a cherry voice with a rippling laugh called me from the other end. “Guess who is speaking, Isobel!” Only one person had such a contagious, delightful approach.
“Mrs. Whipple!” I cried in joy, almost trying to jump into the receiver. ‘Are you in town? Can I get to see you?”
“That you may,” was the answer. “We are here on some business for a day or two and staying with Mrs. Ernest Walsh. Can you come out, or shall we come to you?”
McMillan’s boardinghouse was no place for a quiet discussion. “Oh, I’ll come to you,” I cried. “Tell me how to get there.” Inside of an hour I was in the parlor of Mrs. Walsh’s home, seated on a stool at Mrs. Whipple’s feet. Oh, it was the most wonderful feeling just to be near her again! Mr. Whipple was one with her, but had a shy silent disposition which took time and experience to appreciate. She often appealed to him for his opinion, however, and it was always worth waiting for.
“Well, tell me what you have been doing since the conference,” she said gaily.
“That is just what I want to do,” I answered, “for I have a pressing problem. Just before you called, a boy friend phoned to ask me to the Aggie dance and I put him off but told him I’d tell him definitely a little later. I’m all in a stew about it.” Then I told her of my adventure with Keith. Mrs. Whipple probably was scandalized to see that the girl she thought had been led into full consecration was still deep in worldly amusements, but she didn’t show it. To have looked shocked at my doings would have made me resentful—for wasn’t I honestly, seeking the Lord and His will? I was merely refusing to act on Your papa and your mama told you so.
Mrs. Whipple gave a significant glance at her husband, then answered me sweetly: “I can quite see that you are in a mess, Isobel. You are trying to serve two masters at one time, and it always has painful results. Let’s see what the Word of God says.” She opened her Bible to I Corinthians 6:12 and read: “ ‘All things are lawful unto me, but all things are not expedient.’ You are compromising, Isobel, and that is fatal whatever realm it occurs in. Have you ever told Mac that you have become a Christian?”
“Oh, no,” answered this product of the twentieth century. “Our set doesn’t do that. It is a point of honor among us not to thrust our religious opinions upon the other fellow. I’ve never told anyone! It is my private life with God.”
Poor Mrs. Whipple! What a warped little human being she had to deal with! But she was full of faith and of the Holy Ghost.
“Those are standards of your old life, Isobel,” she said gently. “II Corinthians 5:17 says that ‘if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold all things are become new.’”
What a lovely verse! It sounded as if it had been written just for me. Then and there I marked it in my Bible.
“But look at II Corinthians 6:14-17, Isobel,” went on my dear spiritual mother. “ ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers…. What communion hath light with darkness? … Wherefore come out from among them and be ye separate, saith the Lord.’ That is the basis of our separation from things of the world and standards of the world. I Peter 3:15 says that we should be ready always to give a reason of the hope that is in you. I think it is your duty, under the standards of your new life with God, to tell your friends about Christ and what He has done for you. You will be surprised at the spiritual blessing it will bring.”
“But I did try to tell Keith,” I wailed, simply terrified at this idea of witnessing.
“But look at the place you were in when you told him,” went on Mrs. Whipple. “You stood in the place of compromise and worldliness and then expected him to respect your testimony. No wonder he despised it. But now if you take your stand against dancing as belonging to your old life and unsuitable to the new, I believe you will find Mac showing a different reaction.”
“Well, I’ll try,” I said dully. Young people always think that the older folk don’t understand their generation. Inwardly I felt this way at the moment and dreaded speaking plainly to Mac. He had been so kind to me. I shrank from offending him or rendering myself odious in his eyes as I had done to Keith.
All the next day I dreaded that evening phone call, and when the moment came I went cold all over and was nearly paralyzed with fright. But I gritted my teeth and took up the receiver. It was Mac, all right.
“Well, Isobel,” he said, “what is the decision about the Aggie ball?”
My throat was so dry I could hardly get the words out.
“Mac,” I answered, “I hope you will forgive me. But I have become a Christian lately and have decided to give up dancing altogether. I do not criticize the gang in this matter, but I have had some experiences which make me feel that God would not have me continue to dance. I’m sorry not to have told you before—I was just undecided.”
There was a long silence at the other end, during which my heart beat so violently I was afraid he could hear it. I was trembling from head to foot.
At length Mac’s voice came over the wire: “Thank you, Isobel, for being so straightforward with me. I honor you for not playing with me about this. May I have the pleasure of your company to the baccalaureate service on Sunday instead?”
“Oh, thank you, Mac!” I said. “Yes, indeed. I would be delighted to go with you.”
“It’s a date, then. I’ll call for you at nine-thirty. Good-by.”
I staggered to my room and fell across my bed in the weakness of relief. Mrs. Whipple had been right after all. Mac had said he honored me for being straightforward! And to prove it he had asked for another date immediately! Oh, how good of the Lord to let it happen that way. How did Mrs. Whipple know? She knew the general principles of life—that compromise wins respect from no one, but a straightforward testimony does. Clean-cut action does, too. The older generation may not understand all the new scientific terms of the young generation, but they know the principles of life which never change. And it is a wise youngster who will not discard the inheritance of wisdom and experience from those who have gone before.
So the taper of dancing was extinguished, and forgotten very quickly as the Rising Sun flooded my life with new and fascinating interests.
There remained but one taper now, the theater. I had gone only to good movies, an occasional classic opera, or wholesome family theater acts. There could be no harm in such, I thought, and they taught one much of human nature.
The last one I went to was a sweet, harmless story—I think it was Smilin’ Thro’. I enjoyed it very much, but as I went home, once more all the old longings for romance and storybook experiences flooded me. The music, too, had stirred up the emotional side of me and once more prayer was a blank and the Bible had lost its savor. In vain I tried to push through to the Lord’s presence. “My Beloved had withdrawn Himself and was gone” was as true of me as of the little bride in the Song of Solomon. “I sought Him but I could not find Him: I called Him, but He gave me no answer.” Later, when I read the Song of Solomon and came to this incident, I knew what it meant, perfectly. I had been there myself—this, for the second time.
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed, “if You will but return to me I will never go to the theater again. You may have that also.”
“It was but a little that … I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him and would not let him go“(S.S. 3:4).
Nothing was worth the loss of fellowship with Him. Then did the Sun of Righteousness arise in my heart with healing in His wings.
I remember only once being tempted to relight this last taper. Remember how alone I was, how young, how accustomed to having many friends of my own age. It was an evening, perhaps in May, when everything in youth was calling for companionship and fun. The McMillan young folk were all going out together to see a movie and I would be left alone in the house.
“Oh, come on, Isobel,” they teased, catching me by the hand. “It’s a good clean movie tonight— can’t possibly do you any harm. What does a young girl like you want to mope in the house for on such a lovely evening? Be companionable—come on with us!” They were a kindhearted group and I was sorely tempted to go. The perfumed May air called to me from the open doorway. I was about to yield when I saw a doubtful look in Jack’s eyes.
“Don’t press her to do what she doesn’t feel is right,” he said quietly. That settled it.
“No, thank you,” I returned. “Have a good time!” and waved them gaily off, then turned to go upstairs with a heavy heart. I entered my room, drab, rather dark, with its cheap furniture, and cried into the silence of the empty house, “Oh, Lord, is it to be so dull always? And I’m still young! A girl looks her nicest at twenty-one or two. Nobody to go with! Nothing to do but Bible study! Oh Lord, speak to me!” And I pulled over my Bible and opened it at random.
The words on the page sprang up before me: “Then said Jesus unto the twelve, Will ye also go away? Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life” (John 6:67-68).
I sat there reading and re-reading that quiet, potent question. God did not refuse to let me go back to my earthly tapers. He just wanted me to think well before I did. Did I really prefer them? Would I change places with any one of the three girls who had just left the house? God forbid—I shrank from such a thought. Did I want to go back to Ben’s world of loose loyalties? Again I shuddered. Lord, to whom shall we go? There was no other road. The low road? Not for a moment. The Misty Flats? God deliver me from ever again drifting around there! Then there remained only The High Way.
“Forgive me, Lord,” I bowed my head in contrition. “There is no one I want but Thee. Please comfort me.” Then the sense of His Presence so filled the room that it is too sacred to talk about. Suffice it to say, that I never again looked back, but more and more learned the value of communion alone with Himself.
Dr. Tozer has pointed out how our generation is in danger of missing this sacred joy. He says: “We have been trying to apply machine-age methods to our relations with God … our thought habits are those of the scientist, not those of the worshiper. We are more likely to explain than to adore.” Searching is a scientific procedure, but we want to beware that it does not get into mechanical ruts. “We read our chapter, have our short devotions, and rush away, hoping to make up for our deep inward bankruptcy by attending another Gospel meeting, or listening to another thrilling story told by a religious adventurer lately returned from afar.”
We need to worship and to adore as well as to analyze and explain. Mary of Bethany learned much by just sitting at Jesus’ feet, listening to Him and loving Him. Our generation’s greatest lack is just here.
By the summer of 1924, unknown to me, my year in Arabia was over. Mac had gone out of the city on a summer job. When he returned I was in Chicago at Moody Bible Institute. We have never seen one another since. My Rising Sun had planned many things to fill the place of my extinguished tapers, but each was to be a separate and delightful discovery. Next on God’s program for me was a contact which changed the whole course of my life.