Death of Mrs. Sherman 5
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To all the dear friends, whose attentions have been so unremitting to soothe her passage to the tomb, her husband can only offer his grateful acknowledgments. May he who rewards a cup of cold water given to a disciple, in the name of a disciple, return into their bosoms their kindness a thousand-fold! For himself, he asks as the greatest favor, "Dear friends, pray that the grace of Christ may descend on him, and on his now motherless children."
If anything need or can be added to this heart affecting narrative, I would mention the interview which I was privileged myself to hold with Mrs. Sherman, about a week before her dismissal. It was a scene to which I recollect no parallel, and which it is quite impossible for me either to forget or to describe. Her countenance, beautiful even in death, was lighted up with a smile, that looked rather like the joy which we can conceive illuminates the soul emerging from the cold stream of death, and taking her first step into paradise, than the peace of one who was about to step into that stream; in other words, the smile of one who was looking back upon death as a dreaded event that was over, than of one who was looking forward to it as just at hand. It was not only a smile in death—but it was a smile at death. It was the morning of the missionary sermon in this place; when she could catch the sound of the organ, and the chorus of praise rising from the congregated host, which in bygone times she had helped to swell; she could hear the hum of voices, and the sounds of recognition and gratulation beneath her window, of the tribes that had come up to Zion, and there was she, in the chamber of sickness, on the bed of death, contrasting her situation with the gladsome circumstances of multitudes in all the vigor of life and the joyousness of health. If a momentary cloud, a passing gloom, had come over the spirit from such a contrast, who could have wondered? Yes, who does not wonder that it did not? But it did not. The Sun of Righteousness in cloudless splendor shone upon her soul, which reflected his beams in that most heavenly smile that I ever saw upon the countenance of any human being in life or death. She seemed standing within the precincts of glory; and the only thing that reminded me of mortality, was the wasted form and the natural tear she dropped, (but wiped it soon,) which, though it glistened in her eye still sparkling, did not for a moment interrupt the ineffable joy.
I felt, and said to her, "If this be dying, who could not lie down and die with you, if they could die like you?" She would have talked if the strength of her body had been equal to the vigor of her soul; but every syllable she uttered was descriptive of a "peace that passes understanding," a "joy unspeakable and full of glory." Could such a scene as that be witnessed in public, as, to be known, it must be witnessed, for no words can describe it, Christianity would, one should suppose, appear to all men a Divine reality, a heavenly plant, an eternal exsistence; and no man would have power or heart, except he were a demon, to say anything against it. Before that scene the loftiest philosopher must be humbled, infidelity turn pale and silent, and folly and vice, for a brief season, become serious, and disposed to say, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like hers."
It will probably be expected by some, that, in conclusion I should attempt a formal delineation of her character; but I confess myself unequal to the duty. She, who, whether viewed as a daughter, a wife, or a mother; whether as a Christian professor or the wife of a Christian pastor; whether shedding her gracious and gentle influence upon the domestic circle which she adorned and cheered, or in a more public sphere combining and directing the energies of her own gender by the light of her wisdom and the warmth of her zeal, was equally excellent in all; she, in whom the active and the passive virtues were so nicely balanced, in whom all the sweetness of the private character was so well blended with the prudence of the public one, in whom the power of grace elevated and sanctified the loveliest endowments of nature, and whose beautiful and symmetrical character was so well known and so much admired—needs no eulogy from me. Through faith and patience she now inherits the promises. "I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth—Yes, says the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."
To you, my beloved brother, my bereaved friend, "my companion in tribulation," what shall I say? To affirm that I sympathize with you, truly and tenderly sympathize, is an expression too cold and too feeble to utter the emotions of my heart. And yet what more can I say? I can imagine, we all can, what you have lost; but you only can fully know it. Once before now, in similar circumstances, you have "glorified God in the fires;" may it be granted to you, in this second trial of your faith and patience, to repeat the lesson you have already given by your example to the flock, of your submission to the will of God! Honored, my brother, above most of your brethren of the ministry, it may seem necessary in the view of Infinite Wisdom, which better knows us than we know ourselves, that you should be tried more than others; the Savior, your Master, who has redeemed the church, was the deepest sufferer that ever trod our valley of tears, and through suffering was made perfect; and they who come nearest to him and most resemble him in usefulness, must be most like him in suffering. You are the center of universal sympathy. You have no need to say, "Pity me, pity me, O my friends, for the hand of God has touched me;" myriads pour forth the tide of their sympathy into your heart, which may God open to receive it! May it be granted to you, to say with something of the same feeling as the language was originally uttered by its inspired author, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any kind of affliction, through the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For as the sufferings of Christ overflow to us, so our comfort overflows through Christ. If we are afflicted, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which is experienced in the endurance of the same sufferings that we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that as you share in the sufferings, so you will share in the comfort." (2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
You lovely, and now motherless children! all our hearts feel for you. But God, my lambs, will take care of you. With such a father still left to you, incalculable and irreparable as is your loss, you are not orphans. Much is lost; but much is left. We will invoke for you the omnipotent care, the infallible guidance, and the beneficent smile of your mother's God, and your living father's God; and entreat that, although now denied the privilege of her maternal care on earth, you may dwell with her in heaven, and reap in that blessed world the fruit of those prayers which she presented for you before she ascended to glory.
And you, the venerable surviving parent, accept my tenderest condolence on the loss of such a child. She was the evening star of your life, when almost every other had set before your own sun went down. But though that star has set on the hemisphere of grace, it has risen and become a morning star in the skies of glory. Be thankful that you had such a daughter; be thankful that she was so trained for her situation in the church of God. And anticipate, as you well may, at no distant day, the moment of reunion in that world where there shall be no more death.
Members of this Christian church, I do not ask you to sympathize with, and pray for, your bereaved pastor; it is unnecessary for me to do this; for there is not a heart in this whole church that does not bleed for him. Much and justly as you have loved him, you never have loved him as you now do, when you see him lifting up his head, a widower among you. He has been endeared to you by his character, and his labors, and his usefulness; and that endearment is now increased by his heavy loss. But I would tell you, in few sentences, how you can most effectually bind up the wound of his lacerated heart, and how you can even yet sweeten his now bitter cup. Let this bereavement be sanctified for the spiritual benefit of his church. I do not wrong his marital love, and do only justice to his pastoral fidelity, when I say, that if his loss shall promote your good; if you shall be made more earnest in prayer, more spiritual, more consistent; if there should be a revival of genuine religion in this congregation—then heavy as has been his loss, yet standing at the grave of her that was dearest to him on earth, he will unmurmuringly say, "It is well!" nor querulously ask, why some sacrifice less costly to him might not have sufficed to accomplish the end.
And could a messenger be sent after his departed wife to that world of glory on which she has entered, to bring from thence some counsel and admonition bearing the weight and emphasis of a message sent from heaven and eternity, I cannot imagine she would alter one syllable of the solemn words she sent to you from her death-bed. Imagine at this moment you see heaven opened, and her spirit now beaming upon you with the affection which found its habitual dwelling in her heart, and its constant manifestation on her most lovely countenance. Behold, there she is! She is about to speak; her lips move; hearken to her words! "Love Christ and one another; labor for souls; exhibit holiness—and then you must be happy." Oh! let those words from this hour sink deeply into every heart. Let her have a monument in every heart; and be this the inscription.
Consider what an example has been set before you, and has now been withdrawn. It was, indeed, a privilege, to have such a pattern; but what a responsibility rests upon you! You have had in her a real, though not official, minister—the ministry of a holy and useful life. To the glowing eloquence of her husband's pulpit, she has added the silent—but powerful eloquence of her own personal and domestic life. You have lost her example, her activity, and her prayers; and, as a church, you are in spiritual excellence much poorer for the loss; but still you can, by memory, perpetuate the recollection of all she was. I solemnly, I earnestly, entreat you, to be imitators of her faith and patience. I am tremblingly concerned that the influence of such a life and such a death should not be lost upon you. Such a state of things would be a dark sign indeed. If there be in this church a single soul in a state of backsliding—may her death restore that soul! If there be any one sinking into a state of sloth and worldliness—may that soul, by her death, be aroused! If there be any cooling, or cooled down, from the ardor of first love, into a Laodicean lukewarmness—may they, by her death, have the flame of devotion rekindled! If there be signs of declining religion in the church at large—may her death be the blessed means of revival! If the melting voice of ministerial solicitude, habitually heard from this pulpit, has, through the hardness of your hearts, lost any of its power—may her death give it pungency! Over her grave may the fertilizing drops of celestial shower be seen descending in answer to a renewed spirit of wrestling and persevering prayer.
Except in one solitary, and to me mournful instance, I never have been so solicitous as I am at this moment, that the death of an member of the church might be blessed to survivors. The one exception, to which I now refer, had much in it that resembled the case before us. It was that of another minister's wife, not unknown to this congregation—but how much better known to him who now addresses you! She also prayed that her decease might prove to be a dispensation of love to the church of which she was a member, in the way of increasing their spiritual attainments. From her death-bed, she also sent the following message, "Give my love to the church, that church which I so much love, and tell them to be a pattern of holiness to all the churches around." Oh that living professors would think as much of holiness, and long for it as much, as dying ones do! This was the wish of your departed friend. The wishes of dying friends are sacred; let hers be sacred with you. Fulfill her dying request, and be a holy church. You have lost her life; lose not her death. She will never again speak to you with her living voice; listen to her admonition from the tomb, and receive the voice which says, "you also be ready—for in such an hour as you think not the Son of man comes!"
May the female members of the church cherish this bright example of piety in one of their own gender. Mothers! I especially beseech you to recollect, not only her maternal excellence—but her assiduity to promote yours. You have lost her, and will not fail to miss her from the meetings of her Maternal Societies. Her judicious and well-balanced mind will shed its light no more upon yours; and her sweet persuasive voice will no more soften the cares, relieve the anxieties, and guide the efforts of a mother's heart, yearning for the welfare of her children. But remember what she has done. Follow out her counsels; act out her plans; and teach your children to repeat and bless her name and her memory next to your own. When they shall throw their arms about your neck, and weep the thanks they cannot speak, for your wisdom, fidelity, and affection, in guiding their youth and forming their character, then whisper in their ears the name of this dear saint, and tell them it was Mrs. Sherman who inspired you with a resolution, and taught you how to fulfill it, to bring them up in the fear of the Lord.
And now, redeemed, beloved, lamented, and glorified immortal, farewell! until we meet in glory everlasting, where there shall be no more death, and where the sigh and the tear of separation will be exchanged for the smile and the song of mutual recognition and eternal reunion. You are gone to that heaven which is attracting to itself all that is holy upon earth. We could part with you for no other place or society, than you have found there. The voice of Him who has washed you in his blood, clothed you in his righteousness, and "put his loveliness upon you," and who has therefore a deeper interest and a nearer right in you than we have, has called you to himself. To him we resign you; and instead of fretfully, selfishly, fruitlessly wishing that you wert again with us; we will, from this hour, make it our urgent solicitude, our practical endeavor, and our most earnest prayer, to be your followers and your imitators in that faith and patience, by which you do now "inherit the promises."
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