WHAT SHALL WE LEAVE OUT? by Evangeline Bell

Seventh-Day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Thursday, May 20, 1880

FromThe Review and Herald, Vol. 55, No. 21

WHAT SHALL WE LEAVE OUT?

By Evangeline Bell

BY EVANGELINE BELL.

Who has ever found a day long enough in which to accomplish all that he desired to do? We may rise early and toil late; yet the close of each day finds unaccomplished much that we would fain have done. As the poet says,—

“Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone; Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.”

Days make up our lives; and so it is that from almost every life something is crowded out,—much that we must sadly leave undone; and we comfort ourselves with the thought that one cannot do everything, and go on our way. Since this is true, it becomes very important what things we leave out. Some writer has said, “The things which are crowded out of a life are the test of that life;” and in its broadest sense, is not this true? As a rule, we manage in some way to find time for those things for which we care most. We may flatter ourselves into the belief that we are obliged to omit such and such duties; but if we put the question honestly and fairly to our own conscience, must we not all admit that we do find time for many unimportant, and I had almost said, foolish, things, which crowd out those of vastly greater importance?

While a few give almost their whole time, strength, and energy to the accomplishment of good in the world, the many excuse themselves for their habitual or total neglect of the finer and better work of life, by declaring that they have no time to devote to it. Others, say they, may read the world’s best books, or store their minds with useful knowledge; others may engage in various kinds of missionary labor,—visit the sick, care for the needy, comfort the weary and discouraged, raise up the fallen; others may work for the church and the Sabbath-school; others may be home missionaries if they will; but for all such good works they have no time. The daily routine of life is, for them, so constant and pressing that they cannot think of adding to it those other tasks which they would greatly like to undertake, but for want of time.

Now, it is proved by the whole experience of the world, in whatsoever department of labor, that the best work does not come from those who have nothing else to do, and whose whole time is free to devote to a single purpose. It is simply impossible in this work-day world for a person to declare that he will do but one thing, and, failing to give his whole time to that, he will do nothing. It is doubtless true that every one should have a plan in life,—a leading ambition, an overmastering purpose; but it is not true that he should sacrifice everything to it.

The world’s best laborers,—those who have had the highest purpose in life, who have achieved the noblest work, and have made the truest success, whether in religion, politics, literature, or philanthropy,—have been men and women who have not spent their God-given moments in bemoaning a lack of time, and the difficulties in their way, but who have done whatever thing was duty; and though busy with humdrum toils, or otherwise hindered, made success by taking what little time they had for higher labors, instead of refusing to take it because it was little.

Take literature, for instance,—a pursuit which seemingly, more than any other, requires the undivided time and ability of its servants. The intellectual history of the world shows that the majority of its writers have been men employed in pursuits which must not only have taken a large share of their time, but also have made large demands upon their mental forces. To mention renowned American authors, we find that Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, and others have filled professors’ chairs for many long years; Bryant, Whittier, Aldrich, Bayard Taylor, have done much of their best writing in hours after their routine of newspaper work had been performed; Hawthorne, Irving, Bancroft, and others have filled responsible positions of public trust.

By using the odds and ends of time,—that which others devote to pleasure-seeking,—these men have enriched our literature by productions which every day are making thousands better and happier, in foreign lands as well as in our own, and which, for breadth of learning, purity of expression, and refinement of taste, have rarely been excelled.

Others have labored through great physical infirmities. Think of Milton, the grand old hero, whose name will live through all time, and, we may hope, throughout eternity! The work upon which his fame chiefly rests was accomplished after he had become totally blind. Says Mr. Shaw, “There is no spectacle in the history of literature more touching and sublime than Milton, blind, poor, persecuted, and alone, ‘fallen upon evil days and evil tongues, in darkness, and with dangers compassed round,’ retiring into obscurity to compose those immortal epics, Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained.”

There, too, was Alexander Pope, whose life, as he himself expresses it, was “that long disease.” Crippled, deformed, and almost helpless, he was a passionate student; and though we cannot enter into the keen, satirical spirit which pervades many of his writings, we must still admit that his was no idle life.

And there is our own Prescott, the historian, who lost his sight by the careless toss of a crust of bread in the college dining-hall. By this misfortune he was compelled, after completing his course at college, to relinquish his cherished design of following the profession of law, and travel abroad in search of medical relief. Though disappointed in this, and obliged to give up the hope of having his sight restored, he did not give up the hope of benefiting the world. Ten years of the most systematic and persevering study prepared him for his work as historian, and though experiencing intense pain from his eyes, and obliged to depend on the friendly service of other eyes, “his industry never flagged, his courage never faltered; his spirits never sank under the burden imposed upon them.” His work lies before the world; it needs no comment. Says an eminent American critic, “The character of Prescott was of singular worth. With a profound modesty, it united a remarkable self-denial and lofty perseverance in duty. Possessed of wealth, with a deprivation of sight so nearly entire that it might have seemed to justify any self-indulgence, with elegant tastes, which are apt to draw men from earnest labors, he yet devoted his life to one of the most onerous departments of literary research.”

So we might multiply examples.

Thus it is, not only in literature, but in every department of good and helpful work, that those who have succeeded have not usually been those who could give their undivided time and strength to one thing; but ofttimes those who, loving that work, and giving to it but the remnants of their time, have done what they could. There is often more in the spirit in which one labors than in the amount of time given. There is a great deal in having the heart in the work. Some way, it does not seem nearly so hard to find time for those things we love to do. They are not so apt to get crowded out. How often we find time for things which were better undone, and leave out those things which afterward we would give anything to have the privilege of doing. Oh, the pain and bitter tears which these things we allow to be crowded out sometimes cost us! We can see when it is too late; but we cannot go back,—we cannot undo the past, but from it only learn lessons for the future.

Let us be sure that in our eagerness to excel, we do not leave out of our lives those things which in the great day shall prove to have been the most important.