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THE K I N G ’ S BU S I NES S
G o sp e l Records Go
Mildred M. Olson
Then one day the man stopped and took us off his back. At the same time I heard an eager voice shouting in English, “Oh how wonderful, Jack, our records have, come!” Surely now I would see what this new world was lik ! Soon all the cords that bound us were cut, and the heavy cardboard packing removed. Now I could see daylight again. What a joy it was after so many days in the dark! There on the table in the mission ary’s home was a little Victrola. Lov ing hands placed me on its cylinder. Oh, what happiness! I started to whirl around in the sheer joy of living! Then came the hymns and the message in the Tarascan dialect. As I looked around, I saw the room was full of Indians in strange costumes. They were all listening spellbound to what I had to say. This was marvelous!
"Their words to the end of the world" (Psa. 19:4) T HERE are hundreds of us Gos carefully wrapped; we were going to travel thousands of miles. At the post office, we were separated. One big bundle went to the Bulu tribe in dark Africa, another to the Cantonese in China. A large package also set out for the Urdus of India. We said good- by and wished each other God’s bless ing. This is what happened to four of us: I. I was one of those going to Mexico. There were some going to each of many tribes. But my package was go ing to the Tarascan Indians. It was hard to leave my companions. I felt so lonely; the days on the train passed very slowly. Still tightly wrapped, I couldn’t see anything of the beautiful world around me. But finally one day we reached the first lap of our destina tion. I thought then I could look around and take off that heavy cardboard jacket that stifled me. At last we were again lifted up by somebody. Soon we were jolting along a tortuous moun tain trail on the back of a little don key. We bumped so much I thought my heart would surely break. The miles seemed endless. I wondered if it were only for this that I had suffered at the factory all that pressure in a machine like a giant waffle iron. Fi nally, the donkey stopped in front of a tiny post office and we were lifted from his back. I heard a man talking in a strange dialect. He took our pack age and I felt myself sink down in a mesh bag on his back. So we started out again. While he didn’t bump me as much as had the donkey, the moun tain path seemed very steep.
pel records. One day some of our number took a journey to a big stone building, where we were
Tzotzil Indian keep on working hard until the day when I am entirely worn out in the service of the Lord. II. I was in a package of radio tran scriptions! These were needed in a hurry so we flew on silver wings to Central America. Then we had a nice ride by automobile from the airport. I was glad I would soon be realizing my fondest dreams of reaching a large radio audience with the Gospel. One day I found myself in the stu dios of HRN, in Tegucigalpa (hills of silver), the capital of Honduras. It was thrilling to be starting my life’s work. In one of the large central parks there is a loud speaker that carried my mes sage to the many p:ople gathered there. How they listened to the beau tiful hymns and the earnest messages! I found my way by radio transcription into homes large and beautiful, small and humble, some of which were miles away from the studio. I heard many listeners say, “That’s a beautiful pro gram, I want to tune in again.” Even some of the government officials and schoolteachers seemed as much inter ested as the humble day laborers. Let ters came in from other towns telling of blessings received through the pro gram. One man wrote in, desiring to have God’s Word that he might learn more of the Way of Eternal Life. It’s a great ministry: “Singing, I go along life’s road.” I go to so many places and reach so many hearts that I wouldn’t have time to go to individu ally; no, not if the days and nights were twice as long. I really have wings now and I use them. Besides I know that, back home, friends early me on wings of prayer.
Tino, Christian Mazateco lad, makes records for his tribe. The opportunity for which I had waited so long was mine at last. When I had sung and spoken till I was tired, the Indians said, “Play it again, play it again.” The next day I went to a little thatched hut of one of the Indians. There an old grandmother, who was sick in bed, listened to me and I saw her smile. She couldn’t read or write but how she did listen! My supreme moment came one day when out of a little group of Indians listening in the yard, two opened their hearts to the Saviour. I had caught a glimpse of the beautiful mountains near by, and of the lovely flowers in the missionary’s garden. But that beauty was but a reflection of the radiant look on the faces of those Indians who had just believed. It was hard work, whirling around on the Victrola hour after hour, but it paid eternal divi dends. I was glad I had com» I’ll
Mountain homes into which Gospel records go.
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