I once had a father and mother that cared more for my soul than for
anything else. At last my father died; and when my father was dead and
gone, my mother was more anxious than ever for me, and sometimes she
would come and put her loving arms around my neck, and she would just
plead with me to go to Christ. She used to tell me, after my father was
dead, that she was lonesome without having me a Christian. I told her I
sympathized with her; but declared I wanted to see a little of the
world. I did not want to become a Christian in early life. Sometimes I
would wake up past midnight, and would hear a voice in my mother's
chamber. I would hear that godly mother crying to God for her boy. I was
her only child. I was very dear to her. At last I felt I must either
become a Christian or go away from that mother's influence; and I ran
away. After I had been gone a long time, I heard from home indirectly. I
heard my mother was sick. I knew what it meant. I knew that she was
pining for me. I knew her heart was broken on account of me and my
wayward life. I thought I would go home and ask my mother to forgive me.
My second thought was, if I did, I would have to go and be a Christian.
I could not stay under the same roof without becoming a Christian. My
rebellious heart said, 'I will not go.' When I heard again, I heard my
mother was much worse. The thought came, supposing my mother should die,
supposing I should never see that mother again, I never could forgive
myself. I started for home. There was no train to my native village. I
took the coach. I got in just after dark. The moon was shining. I had to
go about a mile and a half to my mother's house; and on my way I
thought I would go by the village graveyard, and I thought I would get
over the fence, and go to the grave where my father was buried, to see
if there was a new-made grave. It might be that mother was gone. When I
drew near that grave, my heart began to beat more quickly, as by the
light of the moon I saw the new-made grave. The whole story was told.
The whole story was clear. My sainted mother was gone. It was a
fresh-made grave. It had just been dug. For the first time in my life
this question came stealing over me: Who was going to pray for my lost
soul now? Father and mother both gone now. And, young men, I would have
given the world, if I could have called that mother back and have her
put her arms around my neck, and heard her breathe my name in prayer.
But her voice was silent forever. She was gone. I knelt beside that
grave, crying that God might have mercy on me, and that God would
forgive me. And I did not leave that grave all night till the morning
dawn. But before morning I believed that God, for Christ's sake, had
forgiven my sins, and that my mother's God had become my God. But, young
men, I would never forgive myself. I never can. I killed that mother. I
trampled her prayers and her entreaties under my feet. I broke her
heart, and sent her to her grave. Young man, if you have a godly mother,
treat her kindly."
