I have already given testimony to my thankfulness for physical healing after twenty years of seemingly unbearable and incurable invalidism, but that freedom is as nothing compared to the spiritual uplifting and the interpretation given thereby to that dearest and best of books—the Bible.
I was always a Bible student, joining the church when but ten years of age and feeling that every Christian must read and love their Bible, but as I reached the age of fourteen, sixteen, and eighteen, I became confused, and filled with doubts at the apparent contradictions found from Genesis to Revelation.
Appealing from time to time to my Bible-class teacher, with some of the most troublesome passages, I was told that I must not question them, as they were part of the mystery of godliness; that now we saw through a glass darkly, and that the clay must not reply to the potter. I was silenced and humiliated, but not satisfied, and for many, many years looked in every direction available for the solution of my problem.
