A Narrative of some of the Lord's Dealings with George Müller. Part 2

In Short

This second volume of a wider narrative documents the years 1837–1841 in the life of a prominent nineteenth-century pastor. It is a chronicle of profound personal struggle, including bouts of severe neurological illness and depression, set against the backdrop of establishing and sustaining a series of orphanages in Bristol, England. The book has endured because it functions as an exhaustive, ledger-like record of the "scriptural principles" of faith. By meticulously recording every penny received and every prayer answered, the author presents a template for absolute reliance upon divine providence.

The Story

The narrative begins in the summer of 1837, immediately following the period covered in the author's initial volume. George Müller, already a respected minister in Bristol, finds himself suddenly incapacitated by a painful and debilitating affliction of the head. This illness dictates the arc of the early chapters; he is forced to step back from active ministry, travel for his health, and endure long periods of mental weakness. Rather than offering a triumphant story of effortless success, he provides a raw, occasionally desperate account of his own spiritual fragility. He writes openly of his irritability, his fears of losing his sanity, and the difficulty of maintaining a prayerful life when his body is in constant pain.

As his health fluctuates, the narrative shifts toward the practical, daily operations of the Orphan-Houses and the "Scriptural Knowledge Institution." The core of the story revolves around the tension between the mounting needs of the orphans—for food, coal, clothing, and rent—and the author’s refusal to solicit donations or go into debt. He operates on a strict principle: he tells only God of his needs. The narrative becomes a recurring cycle of scarcity and deliverance. He recounts days where he has nothing, followed by the arrival of anonymous gifts—a silver teapot, a box of mismatched clothes, or a small sum of money—just as the cupboards run bare. He interprets these arrivals not as charity, but as direct answers to specific, pleaded prayers.

Interspersed with these financial trials are reflections on church order and personal discipline. He travels to Berlin and across England, training missionaries and debating the finer points of biblical governance, yet he is always called back to the precarious reality of his work in Bristol. The narrative is heavily structured by these seasonal cycles; he provides detailed, year-end reviews that list the number of orphans under his care, the exact amount of money received, and the specific spiritual condition of the congregants in his church.

The story does not reach a grand, final resolution, but rather settles into a rhythm of endurance. By the conclusion, the author is deeply entrenched in a life of total dependency. He describes the process of "waiting on the Lord" as a grueling, active labor. He addresses the skeptical or the curious—those who ask how he manages such large institutions without "a good stock of funds"—with a quiet, unwavering confidence. The final pages offer a meticulous audit of his own support and the growth of the church, framing his life as an "Ebenezer"—a stone of help—intended to prove to any reader that the God of the Bible remains an active, listening participant in the trivial, daily details of human life.

How It Unfolds

The onset of illness The author describes a sudden, crushing neurological pain that forces him to abandon his pulpit and seek rest. He struggles to reconcile his physical suffering with his duties to his family and the church, frequently questioning his own patience and temperament.

The search for quiet A significant portion of the early narrative details his travels to Weston, Oxford, and Berlin in search of a remedy for his head. He captures the difficulty of balancing his need for recovery with the responsibility of overseeing the orphanages from afar.

The practice of faith The heart of the book documents the specific, daily financial crises of the Orphan-Houses. He details how he and his colleagues pray over empty treacle casks and coal bins, recording the exact amount of money or goods that arrive in response.

The administrative structure The author provides rigorous statistical appendices and reviews of his work. These sections demonstrate the growth of his schools, the number of Bibles circulated, and the turnover of congregants in his church, grounding his faith in concrete, measurable results.

The conclusion of the period The narrative ends with a reflection on the year 1840, summarizing the lessons learned through trial and the ongoing necessity of total reliance on God. He leaves the reader with a final, earnest appeal to trust in the unseen, using his own experiences as the primary evidence for his argument.

The People

George Müller stands at the center of the narrative, acting as both subject and observer. He is defined by his desire for perfect, scriptural obedience and his struggle against his "wretched evil nature." He is not a static figure; he changes from a man who expects immediate relief to one who recognizes the value of enduring "probation" and delay. He is joined by his colleague, Mr. Craik, who serves as a vital sounding board for his theological and practical decisions. Together, they form a partnership rooted in mutual prayer and shared, austere living. The matrons and laborers who work in the orphanages are also key figures; they are portrayed as silent partners in faith, often giving their own personal money or possessions when the institutional funds fail. Finally, the children themselves, though they appear as the beneficiaries of the system, represent the "Father of the fatherless" for whom Müller acts as a steward; their needs serve as the primary catalyst for every prayer recorded in the text.

In Its Own Voice

Regarding the nature of his suffering and his desire for growth through it:

"I have not been allowed to despise the chastening of the Lord, but I begin, now and then, to feel somewhat weary of His correction."

On the necessity of refusing to use his own resources to shortcut the process of waiting:

"I might take of this money, and say but to the sister--and write but to the brother, that I have taken, in these my straits, 20l., 50l., or 100l., for the Orphans, but this would be a deliverance of my own, not God's deliverance."

On the unpredictable, precise timing of aid:

"Observe here, how the Lord allowed five days to pass away without influencing the hearts of any to send us supplies; but the moment there is real need, the stream runs again."

What It's Really About

The book is an argument for the validity of direct, literal prayer in the modern world. It rejects the idea that faith is a purely internal or abstract experience, positing instead that it is a practical mechanism for survival. The central question is whether a person can live entirely apart from the "arm of flesh"—human planning, traditional fundraising, and worldly security—and still function effectively in society. It is an exploration of the paradox of control: the author gains power over his circumstances precisely by relinquishing it, arguing that his greatest influence and capacity for good come only when he is at his most desperate and dependent.

Why Read It Today

This book is best suited for those interested in the history of religious life, the practicalities of social work in the Victorian era, or the psychology of deep, persistent conviction. The reading experience is idiosyncratic; it is not a traditional memoir but a collection of journal entries and financial reports. Readers may find the repetitive nature of the lists and the stern, dogmatic insistence on "scriptural principles" challenging, as the author frequently critiques those who do not share his specific methods of church governance.

However, the warmth of the author’s voice—despite his rigid exterior—is undeniable. He is remarkably honest about his failures, his irritability, and his physical pain, which prevents the narrative from becoming a mere list of pious anecdotes. The period-specific details, such as the descriptions of the items donated to the orphanage, provide a fascinating, granular look at the material culture of the nineteenth century. For a reader today, the book offers a quiet, slow-paced reflection on what it means to live with absolute consistency. It remains a powerful document of a man who chose to build a life on the belief that he was being heard, and it invites the reader to consider the strength required to sustain such a belief, regardless of one's own spiritual or secular leanings.