Charles Spurgeon confessed that if the man is the head of the home, then the woman is the neck that turns the head. And he should have known, because there was a woman who definitely turned his head. Susanna (Thompson) Spurgeon (1832-1903) was little different from many young people who are raised in Christian homes and who regularly sit under the sound of the Gospel. We could well learn from her perception of the pious goings on around her young mind. If only we could step inside these minds, we might take ourselves a bit less seriously and be less critical of the young person who is trying hard to hold back smirks and giggles. She wrote, “I can recall the old-fashioned dapper figure of the senior deacon, of whom I stood very much in awe. He was a lawyer and wore the silk stockings and knee-breeches dear to a former generation. When the time came to give out the hymns, he mounted an open desk immediately beneath the pulpit; and from where I sat, I had a side view of him. To the best of my remembrance he was a short, stout man, and his rotund body, perched on his undraped legs and clothed in a long-tailed coat, gave him an unmistakable resemblance to a gigantic robin; and when he chirped out the verses of the hymn in a piping, twittering voice, I thought the likeness was complete!”
Carefree youth can still have serious moments. As a teenager, listening to S. B. Bergne expound Romans 10:8, “The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart,” she said, “From that service I date the dawning of the true light in my soul. The Lord said to me, through His servant, ‘Give Me thine heart,’ and, constrained by His love, that night witnessed my solemn resolution of entire surrender to Him.”
Susanna’s pilgrimage was not a perpetual mountaintop. She remembered “Seasons of darkness, despondency, and doubt.” While she was in this sickly and sleepy condition, C. H. Spurgeon came to London to preach. At first, the nineteen year old country preacher was an “amusement” by the way he dressed. His sayings were “quaint.” But seeing past the oddity of his mannerisms, Susanna began to drink in his Christ-exalting message. In this way she emerged from her Slough of Despond.
As Susanna grew, Spurgeon took notice of her. Giving her an illustrated copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress, he wrote, “Miss Thompson, with desires for her progress in the blessed pilgrimage, from C. H. Spurgeon, April 20th, 1854.” Two months later they were sitting together at the opening of the Crystal Palace with some friends. Charles handed Susanna a book he had been dipping into. He pointed to some lines, “What do you think of the poet’s suggestion in those verses?” The book was Martin Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy. The pointing finger guided her to the lines:
Seek a good wife of thy God, for she is the
best gift of His providence;
Yet ask not in bold confidence that which
He hath not promised:
Thou knowest not His good will;
Be thy prayer then submissive thereunto;
And leave thy petition to His mercy
Assured that He will deal well with thee.
If thou art to have a wife of thy youth,
she is now living on the earth;
Therefore think of her and pray for her weal!
Looking up from that tortured poetry, Spurgeon leaned over and, in a soft voice, he whispered, “Do you pray for him who is to be your husband?” Though Spurgeon advised, “Marry in haste, and repent at leisure,” he would also add that it is a happy man who can say after twenty years:
“I did commit no act of folly,
When I married my sweet Molly.”
It is apparent that Charles had committed no folly. His Susie was the quiet woman who steadied the eccentric, bombastic phenomenon who moved from one spectacle to another, one firestorm to another. Without her depth and giftedness, would he have maintained equilibrium?
In October 1856, a month after the birth of their twins, Charles and Thomas, the young preacher had prayer with his wife before leaving to preach for the first time at the Surrey Gardens Music Hall. He wrote, “I was exceedingly surprised to find the streets thronged for a long distance. With difficulty I reached the door. There was a long, private road from the entrance of the Gardens to the Music Hall itself, and this appeared to be filled up with a solid block of people, who were unable to get into the building. I felt overawed, and was taken with that faintness which was, in my youth, the usual forerunner of every sermon. Still, I rallied, and was duly escorted to my pulpit in the midst of a dense throng. Here I was to pass through the greatest ordeal of my life.”
Twelve thousand filled the hall, thousands more stood in the gardens, and more waited outside on the street. They sang a hymn, and then while Spurgeon offered prayer, “all of a sudden there were cries simultaneously, doubtless preconcerted, from all parts of the building, of ‘Fire!’ ‘The galleries are giving way.’ ‘The place is falling!'” Hundreds rushed the exit. Spurgeon immediately saw that there was no fire, and in a firm, clear voice tried to calm the throng. But in the confusion, some jumped or fell from the balcony, the railing of the stairs broke and bodies spilled down. Some were trampled or suffocated. To compound the confusion, as fast as some exited, those from outside were pushing in at the entrance. Seven died and many were seriously injured. The meeting closed after Spurgeon failed to recover order and finally he had to be led from the platform, emotionally overcome, in “a state of apparent insensibility.”
Susanna tells the rest. “When my beloved was brought home, he looked a wreck of his former self. An hour’s agony of mind had changed his whole appearance. The night that ensued was one of weeping and wailing and indescribable sorrow. He refused to be comforted. I thought the morning would never break; and when it did come, it brought no relief.” In fact, the daylight did not break through for months.
Susanna witnessed that deliverence. Charles suddenly “turned to me, and with the old, sweet light in his eyes (how grievous had been its absence!) he said, ‘Dearest, how foolish I have been! Why, what does it matter what becomes of me, if the Lord shall but be glorified? . . . let Him do as He pleases with me; my one prayer shall be, that I may die to self and live wholly for Him and for His honor; Oh, wifey, I see it all now! Praise the Lord with me!'”
This shy girl was more than a housekeeper and hostess, more than an editor and writer, (she was the true pen behind Spurgeon’s Autobiography). She was more than a philanthropist (she engineered the free distribution of about 200,000 valuable study books), and a generous supporter of Christian workers. From her sickbed, she did more than most dream of doing. But her great contribution was in that feminine modesty, that anonymous servitude, that shared the burdens and bliss of an earthen vessel like Charles — two vessels fit for the Master’s use.