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Can we ever thank Him enough for the spirit of happiness? “Not taking upon us, by feigning, more than we have in feeling”—but the spirit of happiness cannot be feigned. That spirit is genuine, or it is not there at all. There is something in the continuance of happiness in untoward circumstances that is like the power of rejuvenescence in the rotifer. This little creature, which we find sometimes by scores in a drop of water, is a thing so delicate that a slip of the cover glass on the slide will destroy the pinpoint of life in its crystal vase. And yet, when the pond dries up, it can gather itself into a ball within which are the forces of life. Then after being blown about by the wind perhaps for years, in a state of utter dustiness; when the rotifer finds itself in its own element the ball will revive, and put forth foot and head and silver wheel, and be as it was before, a minute marvel of activity and apparent enjoyment.
The spirit of happiness is sheer miracle. It is the gift of the happy God, as Paul names our heavenly Father in writing to Timothy. It is the gift of the God of love. He pours it out of His own fountains, through unseen channels, as He poured it upon Paul and Silas before their feet were taken out of the stocks and their stripes washed; for “no created powers in hell, or out of hell, can mar the music of our Lord Jesus, nor spoil our song of joy.” But it often pleases Him to give it through the hands of His Ebed-melechs (Servant of the King, a good name for those who bring alleviations to suffering people). And when they bring sprays of cherry blossoms too, surprises of love, then Another comes into the room, and our heart runs out to meet Him.
O Love Divine, if we can see
In our beloved so dear a grace,
When Love unveils, what will it be
To see Thee face to face?
There are some for whom illness is made more difficult than it need be. Boswell shivers on the chilly boat journey from Greenwich to London, “for the night air was so cold that it made me shiver. I was the more sensible of it from having sat up all the night before, recollecting and writing in my journal what I thought worthy of preservation” (of the sayings and doings of his friend). But Johnson, who “was not in the least affected by the cold, scolded me as if my shivering had been a paltry effeminacy.” Another unfortunate is rebuked for a headache: “At your age, Sir, I had no head-ach.” There is one simple way to achieve serenity when (if ever) we meet Dr. Samuel Johnson: It is to be glad that he has never known “shivering” or “head-ach.” And also to remember that he is probably like a Spanish chestnut, rather prickly outside, but inside very good.
One of the great secrets of happiness is to think of happy things. There were many unhappy things in Philippi, things false, dishonorable, unjust, impure, hideous and of very bad report; the air of Philippi was darkened by these things. The Christians of that town might easily have had their lives stained by continually letting their thoughts dwell on what they could not help seeing and hearing and feeling, the evil which they must often have met and fought in their striving together for the faith of the gospel. But they were definitely told to think of things true, honorable, just, pure, lovely and of good report. “And if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
There is a temptation of thought which can torment the ill: the temptation to compare the past with the present. Stephen Phillips’ A Poet’s Prayer seizes this nettle, and it turns into an herb of healing in his hands:
That I have felt the rushing wind of Thee;
That I have run before Thy blast to sea;
That my one moment of transcendent strife
Is more than many years of listless life;
Beautiful Power, I praise Thee.
And now that he is not “rapt in hurry to the stars,” but instead of the great freedom of the skies must quietly front the life that lingers after zest, he turns to his God:
‘Tis not in flesh so swiftly to descend,
And sudden from the spheres with earth to blend;
Sustain me in that hour with Thy left hand,
And aid me, when I cease to soar, to stand;
Make me Thy athlete even in my bed,
Thy girded runner, though the course be sped.
What is my heart’s desire? Relief from the fatigue of the race? the peace that is the dearth of pain? the cherry flowers of earth? Those blossoms may be given, but if not (and if so) there remains the prayer, Make me Thy athlete even in my bed.
And to His athlete the Lord presently gives something better than the crown of wild olive cut with the golden sickle. He gives His calm which “is that white where all the colors are.” And then He gives the crown of Lombardy—the crown which has iron set under the gold. It is the iron that gives significance to that crown. Without the iron, which men thought of as beaten out of one of the nails that pierced our Saviour’s flesh, it would have been as other crowns, a trivial matter of gold and gems. The iron does not show; it is not meant to show. The Iron Crown is a private matter between lover and Beloved.
The supreme thing is to wear that crown courageously; and thankfully too, for it is a wonderful thing to be asked to wear it. One of our Indian viceroys, perhaps the most dazzling figure of them all, could not stand to face an audience without the support of a steel device. “I, at times, suffer terribly from my back,” he wrote from out of the blaze of public life, “and one day it will finish me. But so long as one is marching, I say, let the drums beat and the flags fly.” (Not many knew of that gnawing pain. Perhaps if it were remembered that often there is sackcloth under royal robes, the judgment of the world would be kinder.)
Whatever the Iron Crown may be, so long as one is marching let the drums beat and the flags fly. What does it matter that no one knows the cost of those brave words? He whose crown was of thorn knows all that is covered from casual glance of man. Where others see merely a decorous exterior, He sees a soul, sometimes a tortured soul, looking up into His eyes for courage and grace to live triumphantly a moment at a time. And if we could hear spiritual voices speak, we should hear something like this: “Thy flesh and thy heart faileth? I know, My child, I know. But I am the strength of thy heart and thy portion forever. Thou shalt not be forgotten of Me.”