For Boys and Girls E D I T E D B Y M A R T H A S . H O O K E R
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*STORY BY MRS. SALLY HAWTHORNE
“ Fool!” an old woman screamed. “We killed the last man who tried to preach in our streets. The Gospel is heretics’ religion and we have no use for it!” Zepita stared at her in bewilder ment as she hinted that he might re ceive the same treatment if people found out he was interested in it. As suring her that he had no desire to become a martyr to a cause about which he was so ignorant, he hurried out of town. Sitting on a rock in the shade of a stunted pepper tree," he asked himself again why he was going to all this bother. Apparently he was only borrowing trouble, for if the semi-educated folk here would have nothing to do with the Gospel, c e r t a i n l y h i s o w n relatives and friends would disown him if he be came one of its followers. He rubbed his aching forehead, re membering the taunts and insulting names thrown at the street preacher. Strange that they had served to in crease his fervor! And he had radiated a joy that Zepita found irresistible. Jumping to his feet he tightened his bundle across his shoulders. Come what may, the matter was settled; he had to learn more. Following the Rio Grande until it veered off on its lonesome course to join the mighty Amazon, Zepita be gan the steep climb up the face of a massive range. With growing excite ment he picked his way past washed- out stretches in the narrow trail, for a friendly passerby had told him he would find some Christian Indians in a hut high above the river. He pushed past o v e r h a n g i n g bushes, inched around outcropping boulders and spotted the hut . . . only to find it abandoned. As he wearily struggled back onto the path Zepita was again plagued by doubts. If only he could under stand this strange impulse that was driving him in search of an elusive Something! He looked down at him self and saw dirty, calloused feet shod in sandals whose soles, made from old automobile tires, were worn nearly through; homespun woolen trousers,
Zepita had never heard anyone in sist that elaborate incense-scented services where candles’ flame danced, creating shifting patterns on the idols lining the walls of the adobe chapel were not enough. Nor that the gift of eternal life was just that; not some thing you paid for in fiestas and ritual. Beneath his mother’s concerned scrutiny, Zepita raised the bowl to his mouth and drank the soup. He duti fully cleaned out the bowl with deft motions of his fingers. As he threw down a goat’s skin on the mud floor and tossed in restless slumber, Zepita knew he had to find out the rest of the story. But, he decided, he wouldn’t tell Mamita. She would only say he was a dreamer. How could a poor Indian boy expect to find peace of heart and hope of an entrance into that fabulous place far beyond the towering Andean peaks? She would shake her head sad ly and advise him to forget it. One could be freed from sin and vice? . . . nonsense! As the weeks passed, bringing with them new moons and the first rains, Zepita puzzled over a logical reason for leaving the village and finally he found it. His family owned a small section of land in the valley and it needed attention. Clearing off rocks and rebuilding walls was something his mother would understand. One evening he mended the tears in his woolen pants and worked late help ing toast the corn kernels he would carry in the square knapsack-blanket, and at daybreak he was off down the mountain. Somewhere along the winding trail that led through river beds, crossed ravines and over towering ranges he would find someone who could tell him how to rid his heart of the load of sin that had been growing so heavy. The next afternoon Zepita saw the tiled roofs of a large town glinting in the distance. A settlement of such size seemed a good place to ask ques tions but he was unprepared for the blaze of anger his inquiry aroused.
bulky shirt and coat he had pain stakingly stitched by the light of a kerosene wick stuck in an old can; hands that were scarred from wield ing crude farming instruments. His sole education consisted of one year in a tiny country school, and he possessed neither money nor name. Supposing God really could forgive his sins and grant him peace in the midst of poverty — would He accept such a simple Indian lad into His family? Zepita wasn’t at all sure and his misgivings mushroomed into suffo cating proportions when three days later he was at last standing at the foot of the path leading up through a com field to a long building where, he had just learned, a group of Chris tians were having a Bible conference here in the home of missionaries. All the tales that he had ever heard of the foreign “ devils” flitted through his mind as he hesitated. Terribly afraid, almost against his will, his feet started up the slope. He pushed open the door realizing belat edly that he wasn’t dressed properly for the occasion; his clothing, soiled and dusty from the road, hung rag gedly on his thin frame. He was cold and bitterly tired and weak with hun ger after five days of nothing but snacks of toasted com. People swarmed about him, their welcoming smiles making him feel at home. He was amazed that they seemed to know, without waiting for him to tell them, that he had come a very long way for a very special rea son. All his tension eased as Zepita’s questions tumbled forth and they eagerly answered them. He suddenly recalled something that in his fear of this place he had forgotten. This was New Year’s day! And this was quite a change from the way he usually celebrated! This was a good time and place for his search to end and for his new life’s begin ning. END. Rev. & Mrs. Jack Hawthorne are former BIOLA students, since 1942 missionaries in Bolivia un der the Bolivian Indian Mission. Their daughter, Sharon, is now a student at the Bible Institute of Los Angeles, Inc.
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JANUARY, 1959
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