over and I was appointed to the densely-populated agricultural province of Honan. After six days of travel by boat, train, and bike, I reached the city o f Shenkiu, my first mission station. There I met Mr. Tomkinson, my senior mis sionary. He was an experienced China hand and set a rugged schedule for me — six days o f lan guage study followed by three days of witnessing in some near-by Buddhist village. Before the six days were over, I wanted to scream that I could not look at another Chinese character. Before the sun set in the village on the third day of preach ing, I was eager to get back to the books. I must get the language. I must tell the story. My tongue must be loosed. This was war, but I was slowly winning and in the excitement of the battle loneliness never tempted me. Then came a telegram signed by the mission directors, “ Request Tomkinsons move to Hawai- lien.” Just four days later I accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Tomkinson out through the city gate and waved “Good by” as they rode toward their new assignment. The walk that led back across the moat through the great iron gate down the main street to the mission house seemed longer than usual, and when our cook rang the supper bell I did not feel hungry. As I ate the Chinese noodles, I thought of things I should have asked Mr. Tomkinson. Once I started to say something to him but the sight of his va cant chair stopped me. That night the house felt empty. By ten o’clock my eyes were tired, so I closed my language pri mer and carried the kerosene lantern upstairs. As I walked through the Tomkinsons’ bedroom, I re called that the local Chinese believed our old house was haunted by evil spirits. Right then it seemed hollow and haunted and I felt alone. “ This is nonsense!” I told myself. “God is with me, and tomorrow and every day afterwards I will be surrounded by Chinese friends.” I slept. Busy day followed busy day. At first only the nights were lonely, but as my skill with the Chinese language increased, so did my desire to hear an English word. I tried talking to myself in English, but it made me feel very foolish. Next I tried sing ing but found my own voice difficult to listen to. Reading my Bible aloud in English helped for a time, but soon that too lost its magic. Being alone was getting to me. I began to dream of home. Gradually, my spirit seemed to wither and dry up. Praying became a whirl of thought that swept through my mind but never left my lips. I read the Bible as though it were a superficial popular maga zine. I preached with no inspiration. Now where was my well-placed halo? In four short years loneliness had shackled me and I was ready to concede defeat. Who would even notice if I waved the white flag of surrender?
Then at my lowest hour a telegram arrived, reading, “ Ten-day conference for defeated mis sionaries being held in Shansi.” Who had told the mission I was defeated? How did anyone know? It made little difference to me. Three days of hard bike-riding followed by two days on the train brought me to the conference. I felt a flush of embarrassment as I entered the first gathering. My being there signified I was a defeated man. Comfort came as I realized all were there for the same reason. God must meet us or we would retreat as casualties from the field of battle. We read the Scriptures. We prayed. Sometimes we wept together. One missionary got up from her knees and slipped the engagement ring from her finger. Her engagement was not God’s will, she said. Another admitted spending more time read ing magazines than the Word. A broken-hearted man sobbed out that he did not love China or her people. Then a gray-haired man who was coming to the close of his missionary service asked us to get up from our knees. Sitting in a circle, we listened to his story of barren years . . . years that were wasted, he said, because he had tried to do God’s work in his own strength. It was as if he were talking about me. Afterwards I ran to my room and locked the door. As I knelt by the bed, I saw my halo — big and brilliant and horrid. I saw myself — the fine young hero from California, so committed to the Lord that he was going to win China for Christ. I had worked hard, but it was my work and not God’s . . . so I had been coveting the glory. As the work was mine, so the defeat was mine. The shame of it all melted my heart and unstopped my ears so that God could now speak and I could hear. “ For without me,” Jesus said, “ ye can do noth ing” (John 15:5). Never before had I really be lieved that. I who wore the halo of being a mis sionary — certainly — I could do something. Now for the first time I knew I could do NOTHING. Four years had proved that conclusively. Christ continued, “Walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfil the lust o f the flesh” (Gal. 5:16). That was it! The Holy Spirit was to guide. I was to obey and follow. I responded and turned my heart over to the Holy Spirit that Christ might be Lord and I His servant. I have been alone a great deal since then and sometimes I have been lonely, but I have not been defeated. In that little conference I discovered how common and human missionaries are, and I am one of them. I also discovered that God’s grace and glory are marvelously adequate resources, the only adequate resources, for fallible human beings like me. With that discovery my halo vanished. Dll
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THE KING'S BUSINESS
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