bears down upon you. You can think of a dozen different things that could
have happened to the child; he may have been kidnapped, may have been
run over and killed, may have fallen into the water and drowned, may be
weeping his heart out somewhere. At last the whole neighborhood gets out
to search, and you, exhausted, sit impatiently waiting. By and by you
hear some one halloo. Then you hear another. And then some one runs up
excitedly and says, "The child is found, safe." The very moment you
believe that news the load lifts, the heart is light, the soul is happy.
Tears of joy flow freely.

But suppose it proves a premature report, and by and by another comes
and says it is a mistake, that the child was found dead. Then all your
joy is turned immediately to sadness. Faith always works instantaneously.

The quickness with which faith works has been illustrated by this: Suppose
some one rushes into an office of philosophical, higher-critical
professors, and cries, "Fire!" You would see those hard-boiled skeptics,
if they believed the cry, rush unceremoniously and indecorously out of
that building with all speed. People may scoff at faith working with
lightning speed; but every exhibition of it only proves that it does.

Now you mentioned that at times you feel as though you believe strongly,
and at other times you feel as though your faith is leaving you. You are
making a great mistake mixing up your faith with your feelings. They
never did mix; and all who try to mix them only get into trouble; for
faith is one thing and feelings are another.

The only way for you to know that you have faith is to believe something.
Do you believe anything? If so, then you have faith. Do you believe in
God? Then you have faith in God. Faith is believing, just as seeing is