Margaret and Richard Baxter: A Puritan Love Story

Most of what we know of Margaret Baxter, we glean from her husband’s memorial to her, written one month after her death. Baxter published it as A Breviate of the Life of Margaret, The Daughter of Francis Charlton, and Wife of Richard Baxter. Later, John T. Wilkinson reprinted it with the beautiful title Richard Baxter and Margaret Charlton: A Puritan Love Story.

Baxter prefaces his memorializing of Margaret with the candid admission that,

“it was written, I confess, under the power of melting grief.”

Knowing the likely criticism for such openness, Baxter continues,

“. . . and therefore perhaps with the less prudent judgment; but not with the less, but the more truth; for passionate weakness poureth out all, which greater prudence may conceal.”

According to Baxter, Christians, of all people, should be the most honest about pain.

In our grieving, we should not conceal the truth of tears this side of heaven.

In Depths of Grief

It was not simply the shock and nearness of Margaret’s death that left her husband so frank. Years later in his autobiography, Baxter expresses how his wife’s death left him “in depth of grief.”

Interestingly, the original editor of Baxter’s autobiography suppressed this phrase. Fortunately, truer historians have uncovered it—for the benefit of all who dare speak the truth about sorrow.

Richard Baxter understood the truth that it’s normal to hurt—even for “full-time Christian workers.” His entire biography of dear Margaret is a tear-stained tribute to the affection they shared and the sadness he endured.

Mingled Hurt and Hope

Of course, Baxter also understood the truth that it’s possible to hope—for all Christians. Listen to his mingled hurt and hope.

“She is gone after many of my choice friends, who within this one year are gone to Christ, and I am following even at the door. Had I been to enjoy them only here, it would have been but a short comfort, mixed with the many troubles which all our failings and sins, and some degree of unsuitableness between the nearest and dearest, cause. But I am going after them to that blessed society where life, light, and love, and therefore, harmony, concord, and joy, are perfect and everlasting.”

Perhaps one reason why we practice denial is our fear that entering our grief might so consume us that we will be overwhelmed with sorrow. Baxter’s Christian experience reminds us that this doesn’t have to be the case.

We can look fallen life squarely in the eyes, admit the truth that it is a quagmire of pain and problems, and still live hopefully now—if we also look toward life in our heavenly world to come.

By His Wounds We Are Healed 

In the last paragraph of his tribute to Margaret, Richard Baxter succinctly combines these two realities of earthly hurt and heavenly hope.

“Therefore in our greatest straits and sufferings, let us comfort one another with these words: That we shall for ever be with the Lord.”

Shakespeare’s Romeo said, “He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.” Baxter might have added,

“He fears facing scars who never embraces the truth that by Christ’s wounds we are healed.”

Join the Conversation

Like Richard Baxter, do you trust Christ enough to grieve greatly?