Had God created me for pain? He had raised me up and blessed me that I might fall further. Instead of being bruised, I was broken.
"It would have been better if I had not been born!" I cried to God, "Why did You give me a sister, Lord? To break my heart with? And why did You make me prosper so young? To agitate me with? And why oh why did you bring Sarah into my life? To crush my soul with! God, Your ways are cruel against man.
When I woke up, I felt sick. I sat up in bed, realizing I was already late for work. Then suddenly the memories of the previous night flooded into my recollection and I fell back onto my bed.
My sister was dead, and I would never get to see her get married and become a mother, which was always her wish. But it would never be. My anger again was aroused, and I spoke aloud to God, saying, "Why, Lord, have you taken my sister's life? Do you not have any consideration for human kind?"
"Matilda is very sick."
I couldn't believe my brother's words. Yes she was sick; she'd been sick for the past week, but had been recovering the past couple days. I had been there at noon that day and she had seemed almost ready to get up and walk. I wondered how she could be sick again.
The evening was the fourteenth of December. The year was 1873. It was bitterly cold outside, yet I sat comfortable inside, warmed by a fire, and content and happy. But I could have been outside, chilled by the frosty fingers of the wind, and been just as content and happy. How could anyone not be who was in my place? God had blessed me, immensely. I was not yet twenty-three years of age and I had more than I could ask for.