at we perish?" they cry.

Every man who has been accustomed to take God for granted has used
almost the same words at some time in his life. The hour of tempest,
when the uncontrollable waves of trouble and winds of adversity seemed
ready to overwhelm him, when he had done all that mortal might do, then
it seemed as though this God to whom he had prayed so often, of whom he
had learned to think as part of his life, was absent or indifferent.

It is the question of every soul in sorrow or testing, "Does God care
anything about me?" It is more than a speculative inquiry then.
Theologians may have drawn up their specifications of the Most High,
and, in the peaceful ways of their lives, they may be satisfied with
their handiwork. But when, even into their cloistered walks, some
great sorrow or grim death has come stalking, then, with dry lips and
moist brow they cry, "Master, are you asleep? Do you not care?"

What is there at the helm of this great ship of life? Is there any one
or is it steered automatically, blindly holding its way and heeding
neither waves nor rocks nor other craft? Has this universe a heart or
only an engine at its centre? The inquiry becomes pressing and
pertinent, indeed, when inexplicable distress and anguish that seem all
unnecessary break down all the man's strength and courage.

A man can no more content himself with a far off being, sitting in the
heavens in royal state, winning reverence by remoteness, than his own
children would be satisfied to know him only as a sovereign. He craves
the friendship of that one; he longs for compassion, sympathy,
assistance such as friend gives to friend; in a word, he looks for
love. You cannot love an absentee God any more than you can love an
abstraction or a theory.

But the need of one who will come close into our lives, who aids in the
hour of extremity, does not meet itself. The fact remains that often
we seem to be left to the mercy of the tempest; the elements do their
worst and no hand is lifted and no voice is heard that still the waves.
Full often the storm seems to finish its work and only clinging to the
wreckage or swept on the waves do we come into port.

Is there any answer to the great question, Does any greater one care
for our lives? If we are looking for an answer as susceptible to
demonstration as a mathematical proposition we are doomed to
disappointment. It is possible to believe in providence without being
able either