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Gypsy
Smith (1860-1947)
His
Life and Work
By Himself
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| Chapter
8. The Dawning Of The Light |
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But, although I was a mischievous
boy, I was not a really bad boy. I knew in my heart what religion meant. I had
seen it in the new lives of my father, sisters, and brother. I had seen the
wonderful change in the gipsy home - the transformation that had taken place
there. I had seen the transformation-scene if I had not felt it, and in my heart
there was a deep longing for the strange experiences which I knew to be my father's.
I remember well a visit that my father paid to Bedford about this time. I shall
never forget my thoughts and feelings while I listened to the people as they
spoke of John Bunyan. They took us to see the church where he used to preach,
and showed us his monument. During our stay in the town, I spent some portion
of every day near the monument. I had heard the people say he had been a tinker
and a great sinner, but had been converted, and that through his goodness he
became great. And oh! I how looked up as he stood on that pedestal, and longed
to be good like him. And I wondered if I should always live in the "waggon"
and spend a life of uselessness. I walked to the village where John Bunyan was
born, and went into the house he had lived in. I stood and wept and longed to
find the same Jesus Christ that had made Bunyan what he was. I never lost sight
in my mind's eye of the bright visions that visited me while I was in Bedford.
I had got it into my mind that religion was a thing which first took hold of
the head of the house, and then stepped down in the order of ages. My heart
was heavy because I felt that I was standing in the way of my sister Tilly,
who was younger than I. I remember one evening sitting on the trunk of an old
tree not far from my father's tent and waggon. Around the fallen trunk grass
had grown about as tall as myself. I had gone there to think, because I was
under the deepest conviction and had an earnest longing to love the Saviour
and to be a good lad. I thought of my mother in heaven, and I thought of the
beautiful life my father, brother, and sisters were living, and I said to myself,
"Rodney, are you going to wander about as a gipsy boy and a gipsy man without
hope, or will you be a Christian and have some definite object to live for?"
Everything was still, and I could almost hear the beating of my heart. For answer
to my question, I found myself startling myself by my own voice "By the
grace of God, I will be a Christian and I will meet my mother in heaven!"
My decision was made. I believe I was as much accepted by the Lord Jesus that
day as I am how, for with all my heart I had decided to live for Him. My choice
was made for ever, and had I at once confessed Christ, I believe that the witness
of the Spirit would have been mine, the witness which gives one the assurance
of acceptance. I knew I had said "I will" to God. I made the mistake
of not declaring my decision publicly, and I believe that thousands do likewise.
The devil tells them to keep it quiet. This is a cunning device by which he
shuts hundreds out of the light and joy of God's salvation.
Still I was not satisfied. A few days afterwards I wandered one evening into
a little Primitive Methodist Chapel in Fitzroy Street, Cambridge, where I heard
a sermon by the Rev. George Warner. Oddly enough, I cannot remember a word of
what Mr. Warner said, but I made up my mind in that service that if there was
a chance I would publicly give myself to Christ. After the sermon a prayer meeting
was held, and Mr. Warner invited all those who desired to give themselves to
the Lord to come forward and kneel at the communion-rail. I was the first to
go forward. I do not know whether anybody else was there or not. I think not.
While I prayed the congregation sang –
"I can but perish
if I go,
I am resolved to try,
For if I stay away I know
I must for ever die."
And –
"I do believe, I will
believe,
That Jesus died for me,
That on the cross He shed His blood
From sin to set me free."
Soon there was a dear old man beside
me, an old man with great flowing locks, who put his arm round me and began to
pray with me and for me. I did not know his name. I do not know it even now. I
told him that I had given myself to Jesus for time and eternity - to be His boy
for ever. He said –
"You must believe that He has saved you. 'To as many as received Him, to
them gave He power to be the sons of God; even to them that believed on His name.'"
"Well," I said to my dear old friend, "I cannot trust myself, for
I am nothing; and I cannot trust in what I have, for I have nothing; and I cannot
trust in what I know, for I know nothing; and so far as I can see my friends are
as badly off as I am."
So there and then I placed myself by simple trust and committal to Jesus Christ.
I knew He died for me; I knew He was able to save me, and I just believed Him
to be as good as His word. And thus the light broke and assurance came. I knew
that if I was not what I ought to be, I never should be again what I had been.
I went home and told my father that his prayers were answered, and he wept tears
of joy with me. Turning to me, he said,
"Tell me how you know you are converted?" That was a poser for a young
convert. I hardly knew what to say, but placing my hand on my heart, I said, "Daddy,
I feel so warm here." I had got a little of the feeling that the disciples
had when they had been talking with Jesus on the way to Emmaus: "Did not
our heart burn within us?" The date of my conversion was the 17th of November,
1876.
How my father rejoiced at my turning to the Lord. He said to me, "I knew
you were such a whole-souled boy that, before the devil spoiled you, I coveted
you for Jesus Christ. I knew that you would be out-and-out one way or the other.
I seemed to see that there were in you great possibilities for Jesus Christ."
Next morning I had, of course, as usual to go out and sell my goods. My first
desire was to see again the little place where I had kneeled the night before
ere I commenced my work for the day. There I stood for some minutes gazing at
the little chapel, almost worshipping the place. As I stood, I heard a shuffling
of feet, and turning round I saw the dear old man who had knelt by my side. I
said to myself, "Now that I have my goods - clothes-pegs and tinware - with
me, he will see that I am a gipsy, and will not take any notice of me. He will
not speak to the gipsy boy. Nobody cares for me but my father." But I was
quite wrong. Seeing me, he remembered me at once, and came over to speak to me,
though he walked with great difficulty and with the aid of two sticks. Taking
my hands in his, he seemed to look right down into my innermost soul. Then he
said to me, "The Lord bless you, my boy. The Lord keep you, my boy."
I wanted to thank him, but the words would not come. There was a lump in my throat,
and my thoughts were deep beyond the power of utterance. My tears contained in
their silver cells the words my tongue could not utter. The dear old man passed
on, and I watched him turning the corner out of sight for ever. I never saw him
again. But when I reach the glory land, I will find out that dear old man, and
while angels shout and applaud, and the multitudes who have been brought to Christ
through the gipsy boy sing for joy, I will thank that grand old saint for his
shake of the hand and for his "God bless you!" For he made me feel that
somebody outside the tent really cared for a gipsy boy's soul. His kindness did
me more good than a thousand sermons would have clone just then. It was an inspiration
that has never left me, and has done more for me than I can describe. Many a young
convert has been lost to the Church of God, who would have been preserved and
kept for it, and made useful in it, all for the want of some such kindness as
that which fell to my lot that day.
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