Helen has been spending the whole day with me, as she often does, helping me with her skillful needle, and with the children, in a very sweet way. I am almost ashamed to indulge in writing down how dearly she seems to love me, and how disposed she is to sit at my feet as a learner at the very moment I am longing to possess her sweet, gentle temper. But one thing puzzles me, in her, and that is the difficulty she finds in getting hold of these simple truths her father used to grope after but never found till just as he was passing out of the world. It seems as if God had compensated such turbulent, fiery natures as mine, by revealing Himself to them, for the terrible hours of shame and sorrow through which their sins and follies cause them to pass. I suffer far more than Helen does, suffer bitterly, painfully, but I enjoy tenfold more. For I know whom I have believed, and I cannot doubt that I am truly united to Him. Helen is naturally very reserved, but by degrees she has come talk with me quite frankly.
Is the italicized bit accurate, or is it just cleverly disguised excuse-making and romanticism? Part of me -- the turbulent, fiery-natured part -- is nodding vigorously. Another part of me is saying, "Don't kid yourself, sister. You cannot judge God's revelation of Himself to you by your feelings about it." And another part is willing to believe that I've misunderstood the point of the passage altogether. What think ye? Posted by Valerie (Kyriosity) at 7/02/2004 05:05:00 PM
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