Out of the Abundance of the Heart

\ 'Out of the Abundance of the Heart.

BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF THE "CASTLE BUILDER," "ADDED UPON," ETC., AND EDITOR OF "LIAHONA THE "ELDERS' JOURNAL."

I.

In Camp Near Black Creek, May 15, 190—. Dear Myra: —The sheep are taking their noon rest, and that gives me a little time in which to begin my long-contemplated let- ter to you. I am going to take my time about it, however, and if 1 do not complete it today, I shall take tomorrow, or as many days as are required. The sun is getting hot, and the grass is not so good as it was; so if this dry weather continues very much longer, I shall have to drive the sheep to the hills. I think that you told me you have never been out here on the desert; therefore you can hardly real- ize what a peculiar place it is. Before I went on my mission, I could see in this region nothing but a dreary waste, but now cer- tain aspects of the country appeal strongly to me. I am reminded that our ancient forefathers, when they were called Israelites,

wandered about in a desert for forty years. In fact, those lands

that we read about in the Bible were very much like this; and many of the prophets and warriors of olden time spent much of their time amid dry and lonely wildernesses. And then I am re- minded that many of them were shepherds that sounds better — than sheep-herders. Moses wandered with his sheep among the hills of Arabia, and there he drew near to God. David, also, was a tender of sheep. He had no such large flocks as the modern herder has to care for, because he had time, it seems, to compose songs, and then to sing them to the music of his harp. And then I recall that some thousand years after David, "there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night," when there came to them that wonderful

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proclamation of the birth of Christ — but there, I am talking Bible, and I fear that is tiresome to you. I hope, however, that you will be patient with me this once, no matter how much I ser- monize, as this, very likely, will be the last time I shall tax your patience in this manner. Let me make a little review. I had been a sheep-herder for two years prior to my receiving my call to go on a mission. I had saved a little money, and we had planned what school I should at- tend, and then what we should do after that. When the call came, our immediate plans had to be changed; but we purposed, you remember, to carry them to a completion after I should return. Well, I went away, taking you and your love with me. And, Myra, you and that love remained with me during the twenty-six months of my mission, and proved a source of strength and comfort to me all the time.The memory of those days just previous to my leav- ing for my mission was with me always, is with me yet— I fear I can never forget them. * * * *

May 16. There was some disturbance among the sheep yesterday as I

was writing, so I had to stop. It was nothing serious, however. Today they are unusually quiet, so I shall write a little more. Out in the mission field we boys used to tease each other about "our girls" at home. Every now and then one of the missionaries would get a letter telling him that it was "all off" with him. His girl had become tired waiting for him, and was keeping company

with somebody else. One poor fellow, I remember, received word that his young lady, whom he had trusted implicitly, was about to get married. It broke him all up for a t'me. I said to myself:

how thankful I am that my girl wouldn't do that— and she didn't either —no; and have been wondering I lately whether it was not best for me that she kept me in entire ignorance of what I sus- pect was going on within her heart all the time. I had no worries on her account, so I went about my work cheerfully and finished my mission. And then when I came home! The steamer was so slow, it

seemed to me, and the train dragged along, making aggravatingly long stops. When the mountains came into view, I felt that I was at last nearing home— and you. I saw the snow glistening on

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the highest peaks, and then I thought again of you— not because of its coldness, but because of its constancy. The evening I came home I was eager to call on you, but my mother told me not to be in such a hurry. She, dear soul, had a hint of the truth, but only a hint. You had been away from home much, and she did not know. Well, you tried your best to let me down easy. There was no need of your saying much, as I could feel the change in your spirit— I hope,Myra, you will pardon my blunt words; am going this once to be plain and open and tell I

you what is in my heart. You tried at first to act as if everything wa3 all right, bit you could not deceive me— your true self shone through every de^d and word of yours, and when I saw that true self, and came to realize what it meant to me, my heart ached as I

hope it will never ache again. * * * I can't write any more

today. May 18. I tried to add another chapter to this epistle yesterday, but it was a failure. I tore up what I wrote. It is now ten o'clock

in the evening. I have been sitting for an hour on the wagon tongue, looking at the stars and listening to the night noises. The sheep are still, and save for an occasional clang of a bell, they are very quiet. Out on the desert to the north, some coyotes are yelp- ing. Yesterday I shot one that came audaciously near. The stars are uncommonly bright tonight, and the breeze is cool and soft. I can't say that it plays with the tree tops, because there is no growth out here larger than sage-brush and grease-wood. I am writing this by the light of a lantern in my wagon. You

would be interested in a sheep wagon, I know, as it contains all the comforts of home in miniature. Our friend, Jack Thompson, visited with me yesterday and remained to dinner. He praised my cooking, but I rather think that it was his "sage-brush appetite" that furnished the sauce. Well, Myra— but I don't think lean write any more this evening. I'll go out again and look at the stars. May 20. I am moving my sheep towards the mountains. We traveled nearly all day yesterday, and today we are on the foothills from which I can see the desert stretch, broad and silent, to the hori-

"OUT OF THE ABUNDANCE OF THE HEART." 359

zon. Usually, I am glad enough to leave the desert, but some- thing holds me to it this time. Is there not something sacred in the places where we lay our grievous burdens down? While I am a sheep-herder I am trying to be a good one, and care for my sheep. So far this season I have not lost many. Yes- terday, one poor, little lamb fell so far behind that it became lost in the brush. I heard it bleating, and went back for it; and as I

my arms, I remembered the Savior's parable of the lifted it into

one sheep that went estray. "And when he [the shepherd] hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbors, say- ing unto them, Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost." * * * Well, some sheep are never found, much to the sorrow of the shepherd — sheep-herder. I have been home now nearly a year. It has been a year of ups and downs wiih me, and especially the latter as regards our affairs. I thought once that time would readjust us to the con- dition of heart and mind that we were in three years ago, but I have about given up hope of that now. I have struggled for a whole year to let you go, and now I find that I must give up my illusions and get them from me, and face the stern, heart-break- ing reality. I have been nearly a week in coming to this point in

— my letter that which I started out to tell you— and now when I have come to it— well, I shall try to tell just what is in my heart-. You might think it strange that I should pray to God about my love affairs; but I have done so continually. The fervor of my soul has gone out to God for you; I have asked him to touch your heart and to make you love me as I love you. I have pleaded with

him night and day to do this, because it has seemed to me that I could not endure life without you. Last week, as I sat watching the sheep, with my heart like lead, I had a peculiar experience: the desert and the sheep faded from my sight, and I was again in the mission field. I thought I was holding a cottage meeting, and

I was speaking to the Saints on the subject of prayer, telling them, as I have often done, that Jesus should be the great ex- ample in our supplications to the Father. When he was in the sorest straights, pouring out in anguish his soul to God, pleading witn his Father to let the cup fif bitterness pass from him, he yet always added, "nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done."

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And so we should always do, I was saying — do the best, and leave the rest with God. Then, suddenly, the vision vanished and be- fore me were the desert and the sheep. Then I knew what it all meant. I had not practiced what I had preached. Not once had I "Thy will be done,*' when pleading for you, because I felt said,

that I could not give you up. I wanted my will, and was not will-

i.ig that God should decide for me. As my true condition came to me, I had the biggest struggle of my life. Night and day the fight went on. Oh, the agony and stress and awfulness of those days and nights! I wonder the sheep did not all scatter to the four winds. * * * With the Lord's help I have conquered my stub- born self so far that now I have placed myself entirely in God's hands and am willing, if it is his will, to let you go. Yes, Myra, go your way in peace, and I shall go mine. You are released from all bonds which any promise of yours might have made binding. She who becomes my wife must do so without any reservations. There must be no danger of change or regret. My wife must be as constant as the stars; yes, more, for they say that stars sometimes pass away. The sun may cease to shine someday, but not so the light of love. And the love that binds husband and wife together must be of the kind that reaches to the uttermost of time and space, beyond the sun or stars or worlds yet uncreated. The husbands and wives who are sealed by the Holy Spirit of promise will come forth in the morning of the first resurrection, and begin again the journey where they left it off. Hand in hand, they will travel on from truth to truth, from light to light, from power to power, increasing in the knowledge of the Lord, and clothed with a glory which shall be their passport into the limit- less realms of celestial worlds. To live with you forever! How I had planned, how I had lived in the spirit: with you, Myra, I have trod the sweet paths of Paradise, and eaten of its fruits; with you I have gone on to con- quer all heights, and to share with our Eternal Father '"all things." Nothing was withheld from us, Myra, whether "things present or things to come*' — all were ours. Oh, how I have lived and loved in the spirit! * * * But, Father, "not as I will, but as thou wilt." May 22. The stage which carries the mail will shortly go past my camp.

''OUT OF THE ABUNDANCE OF THE HEART." 361

I shall, therefore, close this long letter, and send it off. God bless you. * * * The sky is full of gathering clouds. There is a storm coming, and I must be out looking after my sheep. Goodby. Sincerely yours, Winslow James. II.

June 1, 190—. — Dear Winslow: I am sending you by this mail a package of papers and a box of candy. The candy is home-made one of my — "girl friends" helped mc make it. She brought her skill from the domestic science department of the college. I hope you will like the candy. * * * And now that I have told you the "gossipy" news, I am strongly impressed to write you something about Myra. I am not doing this on the impulse of the moment, nor because I like to tell unpleasant tales, but because I think you ought to know. You have not told me much of what has taken place between you and Myra, but I have seen enough to know that your feelings for each other are not the same as they were before you went on your mis- sion. And Myra is not the same girl— but I shall not pre-judge her. The other evening I had an errand over to Myra's house. As usual, I went into the kitchen to see her mother, but I did not find her there. The house was open, but there was no one at home. I sat by the kitchen window to wait a few minutes, when, pres- ently, I heard voices, and Myra and Tom Cuttman came into the parlor by the front door. They were talking and laughing so loudly that I couldn't help hearing what they said. Perhaps I should not have heard, but the fact is that I was so rooted to the spot by their very first words that I could not get away. Myra read to Tom from a letter which she said she had received from you, and as they read, they laughed uproariously over its contents. I

listened attentively after that, because I wanted to be sure I was not deceived. It was true enough, Winslow, though I could hardly believe my senses. They made fun of something you had written about praying to God about your love affairs. "Quite a preacher, yet, isn't he?" I heard her say; and he replied, "Yes, and he a sheep- herder — he ought to be in the pulpit,'" then they laughed again. I slipped out unseen, unheard, and sped homeward without completing my errand.

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Now I have told you. You may think it a small thing, but it did not impress me as being unimportant. If what is said, and especially the spirit which is used in the saying, is any indication of the heart's condition, then Myra is not the girl for you. But I do not wish to be the judge, and so I shall say no more about it. May the Lord bless you and give you wisdom to know and strength to bear all that the Lord has for you. Your loving Mother. III.

Near Pine Ridge, June 5, 190 — My Dear Mother: — I received your letter, papers, and candy today. Thank you for them all. The candy was delicious— I should have said is because I have not eaten it all; I shall nibble at it

each day for a week. * * * *

As for Myra, dear mother, I am not so surprised as you might think. No; don't you worry about her and me. I wrote that

letter, all right, that you heard ridiculed, aud there is nothing in it that I am ashamed of, even if it were to be read from the house- tops. am glad you told me what you did, for, though it made I

my heart ache, it cleared my head, and drove from me the last, lingering hope which persisted in clinging to me. Myra is not for me— that is now settled for good, and there is some comfort even in that definiteness. I am drilling myself to get used to the thought, and for practice in this disciplinary process I sing to the desert and the sheep, "All is well, all is well." After all, the Lord has been good to me; for how splendid it is to be able to ac- knowledge his hand even in pain and suffering. This mcrning we had a glorious rain. While the clouds were clearing away, a mist lay spread over the plain, and as I looked down on it from the hill-side, it appeared as a sea of shining water, stretching away to the horizon. The great valley was covered — the valley of doubt and despair out of which I had just come; and the peace of God lay as a coverlet over it, and I above it all, still looking upward and able to return the smiling greeting of the sun. Your loving son, WlNSLOW.