Sarah Osborn's World

by Brekus, Catherine A.

  Sarah was so determined to change her life that she cut her ties to former friends. At first she hoped that some might follow her into the evangelical fold, but they resented her attempts to save them. As she remembered, “Almost anything I spoke in their hearing, though ever so innocently and without the Least thought of giving offence, was presently carried about and much game made thereof.” Although she claimed to have treated her friends with “civility,” it is clear that they found her arrogant. When she explained that she could not spend time with them because of more important things to do, such as visiting the sick and praying with people in distress, one of her oldest friends accused her of being a “Pharisee” who was “holier than thou” and “dreadfully puffed up with spiritual pride.” Although Sarah seems to have recorded this argument in order to justify herself, she was clearly hurt. “The trial I met with in this friend and one more who I hope is a Christian,” she lamented, “was more grief to me then all the scoffs and ridicules of those that plainly appear not to be acquainted with spiritual things.” She spent more than four pages insisting that she never meant to appear proud, but she clearly feared that the charge might be fair.68 On some level, she may have realized that she compensated for her feelings of worthlessness by aggrandizing herself, veering between self-loathing and self-righteousness. But when forced to choose between her hard-won faith and her former friends, she refused to look back.

  The Prodigal

  Only one remaining obstacle stood in the way of Sarah’s dream of a new life in Christ: her guilt over the theft from her parents. Despite her reconciliation with them after Samuel’s death she had never confessed to her crime, and her feelings toward them, especially her mother, seem to have been a tangle of love and resentment. Her father had died three years earlier of consumption, but during the last days of his life she had decided that she did not have a religious “duty” to admit her theft. (And indeed, it would have been an act of cruelty to burden him with the confession on his deathbed.) Instead she “begged of him to forgive me for everything I had offended concerning him in from my cradle.” In a touching portrait, she remembered that he had blessed her “with the best of blessings in Christ Jesus” and called her a “dear child.” It was only the second time in her memoir that she recorded her father’s words to her, and unlike the earlier time, when she had noted that he had threatened to give her “nothing” if she married Samuel, she spoke of him with tenderness. Perhaps as she “stood by him and resigned his departing spirit into the hands of God,” she had been able to forgive him, just as she had asked to be forgiven.69

  During the revivals she decided that it was necessary to ask for her mother’s pardon as well, and this time she was determined to make a full confession. For years she had feared that her mother would disown her if she knew the truth, but in the spring of 1742 she became convinced that she would never be able to start a new life unless she confronted her past. “Trembling,” as she described herself, she sat down with pen and paper to reveal the secret that had burdened her for more than ten years. “I do with the prodigal confess I have sinned against thee,” she wrote to her mother, “and am no more worthy to be called thine.” In a remarkably honest letter, she admitted that she had kept her theft a secret out of pride, shame, and fear: pride, because she did not want to humble herself to her parents after their opposition to her marriage; shame, because she knew that she had committed a sin; and fear, because she worried that her parents might reject her if they knew the truth. Although it must have been hard to admit her vulnerability, Sarah told her mother that she had always been afraid of losing her love. “I was afraid it would make a breach between us that would never be made up,” she confessed. If her mother wanted it, she would even sell all her possessions in order to repay the debt. “I throw myself at your mercy,” she pleaded.70

  Sarah’s letter was not only an emotional plea for forgiveness; it was a declaration of her renewed commitment to Christ. As she explained to her mother, she might not have come forward if not for Eleazar Wheelock, who was “meek as a Lamb, but thunders out the awful and evangelical truths of the gospel with the courage of a Lion.” Inspired by his sermon about making restitution for one’s sins, she was ready to follow the biblical examples of “Zacchaeus and Peter” and “to forsake all.” Despite her fear of her mother’s anger, she had decided to tell the truth no matter what the cost. “I am determined to know nothing but Christ,” she testified. At the end of her letter, she begged her mother to remember that they were both Christians who had been called to a life of forgiveness. Echoing the words of the Lord’s Prayer, she concluded, “I do renew my petitions to you, most honored mother, for the forgiveness of my trespass against you, and beg you will be reconciled and at peace with me for the sake of him who has said, ‘if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly father will forgive you your trespasses.’” She signed her letter, “your once rebellious but now obedient daughter till death.”71

  Writing this letter was so cathartic that Sarah “resolved with a great deal of cheerfulness to sell my household goods to make restitution having nothing else in the world.” But when her mother sent her a gift the next day, unaware of the letter that would momentarily arrive on her doorstep, Sarah slipped back into her old feelings of guilt and “unworthiness.” “I was almost ready to conclude I was too vile to be forgiven,” she remembered.72

  Ten days later, when her mother still had not responded to her letter, Sarah’s sense of “vileness” had been replaced by rage, and instead of turning her anger inward against herself (as she had done during the suicidal crisis of her adolescence), she wrote her mother one of the angriest, most passionate letters of her life. “Is there such a breach made by my confessing my sin that it cannot be made up?” she demanded in a second letter. “Has not God said whoso covers his sins shall not prosper, but who confesses and forsakes them shall find mercy? I do with shame confess. I do judge and condemn myself and I hope freely forsake, but oh dear mother, will you shut up your bowels of compassion towards me? Can’t you forgive me? Must I suffer your displeasure now which I have so Long dreaded?” Once again she offered to sell all that she owned in order to repay the money, but this time she reminded her mother that the prodigal in the Bible had been welcomed home unconditionally. “What shall I say or do?” she demanded. “Have I wasted your substance? Did not the prodigal, too? And yet when he returned, his father’s arms was open to embrace him. And when the servant could not pay his Lord without all that he had being sold, his Lord frankly forgave him the debt. But if you desire it, I am still willing to part with all to make restitution.” Without explicitly accusing her mother of betraying her Christian faith, she strongly implied that if her mother were a true Christian she would show mercy to her repentant child.73

  By the end of her letter, though, Sarah had softened. Despite her anger, she could not bear the thought of her mother’s rejection. Besides offering her mother “a thousand thanks” for sending the gift, she admitted that she had been consumed by feelings of “grief” and “unworthiness.” “I do again beg to be forgiven by you,” she wrote, “and earnestly beg an answer that will finish this business forever for I can’t be easy till it is entirely done with.” After signing her letter “your very affectionate and dutiful daughter till death,” she added, “I beg your prayers.”74 In three sentences, she had used the word beg three times.

  On the next day Sarah finally received an answer to her first letter, and as she read it she was deeply ashamed of her “hard thoughts.” “My dear child,” her mother had written, “I long to see you. I beg you would be thoroughly easy, for assure yourself I do as freely forgive you as I pray God shall forgive me all my trespasses.” Even more unexpected, she claimed that her “sweet child” had taught her something about the true meaning of grace, and she pleaded for Sarah’s forgiveness in return. “[I] beg that if I have failed in my duty to you either by temporal or spiritual assistances within my poor capability, that you would forgive it Likewi
se.” Since Sarah had spent the previous days working herself into a fury, she was so “overcome” by her mother’s tenderness that she felt almost faint.75 She wished she had never written the second letter, but it was too late.

  More than a week later, when she finally received a second response, she discovered with relief that her mother had been hurt and shocked by her angry letter but once again forgave her.

  I am, dear child, grieved exceedingly to think that you should entertain such a thought that I could be so cruel, so hardhearted, so barbarous, so far fallen from grace as not to be as ready to forgive you as you to ask it. No, child. I bless God I can truly say, if my heart don’t deceive me, if it had been all I possessed and what had exposed me to work for my bread as I do, I hope I neither could nor durst have denied your forgiveness and should be ready, were I able, to put a ring on your hand and shoes on your foot. Your confession is too much and more than I can well bear and beg you would not mention it anymore nor once think or Endeavor to make me any further recompense. You have done enough and more. I neither expect nor will receive.

  Although she admitted that Sarah’s letter had been “almost too hard,” she left no doubt that she wanted to embrace her “dear child” as a prodigal.76

  Sarah’s relationship with her mother continued to be difficult at times, but she felt that she had finally made peace with a terrible part of her past. “I seemed Like one released from a dreadful burden which I would not have upon my conscience again for all this world,” she remembered. Not only did she feel closer to her mother, she felt nearer to God. Because she had first learned about God as a young child, her understanding of him had always been tangled up with her feelings about her parents, and for years she had felt as though there were a “separating wall between Christ and my soul.” When her mother forgave her, she gained a deeper sense of God’s forgiveness as well. “Now I had peace in my own breast and peace with God,” she rejoiced. “Surely I never lived nearer to God in my whole Life.”77

  By the spring of 1742, a little more than a year after Whitefield and Tennent had preached in Newport, Sarah had carved out a new identity for herself as an evangelical Christian. She was still a schoolteacher, but she no longer spent her spare time with “wicked companions.” Her life was marked by a new sense of mission. Every week she led the women’s society in prayer for the spread of the gospel around the world, and although she did not believe that women should be ministers, she shared her faith with her neighbors and acquaintances. After a friend criticized her for trumpeting her beliefs to the public instead of keeping them to herself, Sarah retorted that she could not possibly keep quiet when God had given her such a priceless gift. Although she had teetered on the brink of hell, God had “snatched” her as “a brand out of the burning.” “Oh amazing grace that God should spare such a wretch as I,” she exulted, “such an abuser of mercy.” (This was a common refrain in the transatlantic evangelical movement even before John Newton wrote his famous hymn, “Amazing Grace,” in 1772.) “Should I altogether hold my peace?” she asked incredulously. “It appeared to me such a monstrous piece of ingratitude that it seemed as if the very stones might cry out against me.” Unlike Christians who saw religion as a private matter “betwixt God and the soul,” evangelicals believed that it should be joyfully proclaimed to the world.78

  Sarah’s sense of self was still fragile, though, and she seems to have compensated for her vulnerability by proclaiming her assurance in extreme language. It was not enough to tell people that she had been born again. She wanted everyone in Newport to know that she did not have a single shred of doubt about her salvation. Not surprisingly, her words caused “offence,” and she admitted that she gained a reputation as a “bold pretender” for supposedly saying that she was as “sure of heaven as if I was there” and that “God must cease to be God if he damned me.” When a minister in Newport preached “very smartly” against evangelicals’ arrogance, many in his congregation suspected that his sermon was about her. “Several that heard it knew who he meant,” she protested in her memoir. Much to her “shock” and embarrassment, she had become a symbol of the excesses of the revivals, but she insisted that her words had been misinterpreted. Invoking the Calvinist doctrine of the perseverance of saints, she explained that after conversion it was impossible to fall from grace. Perhaps someone had heard her say, “those that are once interested in Christ are sure of heaven as if they were there.” (“I firmly believe it still,” she added.) As for claiming that God would cease to be God if he damned her, “I do not remember expressing myself in any such terms to any person on Earth,” but it was possible that she had said that God “could as soon cease to be God” as to forget his covenant promises. Citing Paul’s promise that those who had been “predestinated” would also be “called,” “justified,” and “glorified,” she declared, “I was enabled here to prove my calling.”79

  Was Sarah Osborn as sure about her relationship to God as she claimed to be in her memoir? Although she wanted her future readers to think so, it is possible that she proclaimed her certainty so loudly in order to convince herself. The more she testified to her assurance, the more she may have hoped to believe in it. Assurance was supposed to be God’s gift to the born again, a mark of true grace.

  The Way of Duty

  Shortly after Sarah confessed to her mother, she made another life-changing decision. After eleven years of widowhood, she agreed to marry Henry Osborn, a tailor and member of her church. She had received two marriage proposals after Samuel’s death, but she had refused each time because she did not want to marry someone who was not a Christian. In 1739 a sailor had almost convinced her to say yes, but although he had enough money to support her “comfortably,” he was “not so sober as I wanted.” Nor did she seem to love him. (“I could not get rid of him,” she complained.) Only a week before they were supposed to be married, she changed her mind in order to avoid being “unequally yoked.” (Paul had warned the Corinthians, “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”) In 1741, during the revivals, she seems to have fallen in love for the first time since Samuel’s death, but despite her pleas the man (whom she never named) refused to repent and seek Christ. “I wrestled with God in bitter agonies for him from day to day and from night to night,” she remembered, but finally she said good-bye. “I could not bear the thoughts of being espoused to one that was not for Christ,” she remembered. “This I found to be a great piece of self denial.”80

  In this self-sacrificing spirit, a year later Sarah agreed to marry Henry, a man who was old enough to be her father. A fifty-seven-year-old widower with three sons—Edward, eighteen, Henry, seventeen and John, fourteen—he had recently lost his wife after twenty years of marriage.81 At first she considered refusing his proposal because “my inclination did not much Lead me to it.” Besides being concerned about the almost thirty-year age difference between them—she was only twenty-eight—and the new responsibilities she would have as a stepmother, she feared that she did not have “affections enough to be found in the way of duty.” Since ministers taught that God required husbands and wives to have “a very great and tender love and affection to one another,” she thought that it would be sinful to marry someone she did not love. But the more she prayed about it, the clearer it seemed to her that marrying Henry was God’s will. “The main thing for which I had always prayed, I trusted was in him,” she explained, “namely, a principle of grace, and I found this to be a strong motive.” Like other evangelicals, she believed that marriage should be a path to God, not an end in itself. The Reverend Nicholas Gilman, for example, wrote to his fiancée, “sweet Molly,” urging her to remember their mutual mortality. “Though I hope to enjoy you for a season yet we are not to look upon this as our Abiding place but improve our days on earth in making ready for that happy State, where there is no marrying nor giving in marriage.”82

  Throwing herself into God’s hands, Sarah begged him to send her a sign of his will. If he wanted her to marry Henry
, could he help her feel more affection for him? “The more I prayed, the more I found it so,” she confided, “but one day in particular, when more than ordinarily engaged in this duty of prayer, crying mightily to God for direction, I vehemently begged that God would condescend to give me some token that I might know if it was his will I should go forward. And the very instant while I was pleading, these words was with amazing power and sweetness set home upon my soul: ‘Go forward. Fear not, for I am with thee.’” Convinced that the Holy Spirit had sent the words to comfort her, she picked up her Bible, opened it at random, and immediately found this exact verse in Exodus. This remarkable answer to her prayers took away her doubt about whether to marry Henry, and she found herself growing fonder of him with each passing day. “My regard for his person was greater than before,” she explained, “so that I had no fears but I could Love him so as to be found in the way of my duty to him.”83