327
T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
September, 1940
faithfulness and partial consecration on the part of those who profess to be guardians of the true faith. Don’t think the devil is so busy in Europe that he is not watching to slip something over on the American preacher who talks about defending the “fundamental doctrines.” The nearer one gets to the cross, the hotter the battle becomes. Take heed lest you fall (1 Cor. 10:12). The desires of the flesh are the angleworms on the devil’s hook, and many a half-consecrated preacher has had a tough time trying to get loose from that hook. I KNOW!
all the wounds I have inflicted on others. I cannot repair the wreckage strewn all along life’s way. But henceforth I am His and He is mine. The Plea of One Who Suffered Oh, friend in Christ’s' service today, be warned that Satan is concentrating his efforts in these last days upon de stroying the work of Christ from within. The chief danger to the church today is not from outside assailants of the faith, or even from modernists who steal/ the livery of heaven to hold pulpit jobs. The greatest danger is from inward un-
I finally returned to Los Angeles and took a job in a hash house, living with my aged mother. My faithful mother had followed me to many places, con stantly pouring out her prayers for me and continuing her ministries of love to me whenever she found it possible to establish something resembling a home. Many times by my abuse and ridicule, I tried to rob her of her last hope, for her faith in the old Book was a thorn in my conscience. One night I went down to Main Street to attend a dime movie. I got into a wild bunch. I awoke the next morning a wretched liquor-benumbed mess, leam- . ing that I was in the Lincoln Heights jail. Three months I was to spend sur rounded by moral driftwood, walking about in the cage like the circus lions I had so often watched. Who could help me now? I resolved to utilize some of the promises made to me by wealthy showmen, that if ever I found myself in a tight place a mere notification would bring them running to my help. I wrote letters to:men of in fluence and means. In many cases there was moral obligation, for I had served them well in their difficulties. Not an answer came. Help That Was Not Spurned One Sunday afternoon a student from the Bible Institute of Los Angeles vis ited the tank and passed in to me a lit tle tract entitled, “Here’s Your Answer.” As I began to read the Bible passages attractively arranged in this tiny tract, I knew I had my only answer. Further more, I knew that God would not be speaking to me again. Imagine my surprise when I discov ered that this tract was compiled by Keith L. Brooks, whom I had known as a teacher. I wrote to him at the address given, telling him of my plight and asking his prayers. I fully ex pected my letter would be disregarded as all my letters to others had been. But back came a heart-searching reply, with other literature, that went to the bottom of my needs. I was told that the writer had gathered the workers of his Christian institution to pray for me. Tears began to flow down my cheeks for the first time in years. I knew the Holy Spirit had triumphed. I felt Christ’s presence and said "yes” to Him. The joy of my salvation returned. A few days later I was called before the judge to be told that my sentence had been modified. There was but one explanation. I knew prayer had been answered, and that God was giving me a new chance. I went home to do what I could to heal the wounds I had brought to my praying mother. Now again “for me to live is Christ.” I went back to the old tank to confess Christ before the men. I cannot recall these manv misspent vears, cannot heal
MY P I LOT By E. MARGARET CLARKSON
But sometimes I grow fearful, And gaze upon the deep, While storm-clouds ’round me gather, And dark’ning shadows creep; Through all that waste of waters, Of trackless sea and foam. Can I be sure my Pilot Will guide me safely home? I turn, and look behind me, Through all the tossing sea; As far as eye can follow. One long, straight track I see. Thus far across life’s ocean His love has led aright— And I can trust His wisdom Till faith be lost in sight!
Ev’n as an ocean vessel Ploughs through the pathless deep. Through days of glowing sunshine Or nights of starry sleep. So I my way am wending Toward Eternity, To far, desired haven. Across life’s trackless sea. I cannot guide my vessel— The way I do not knovy; But I can trust my Pilot— He knows which way to go. For all the long, strange pathway, He’s traveled o’er before; So I can trust Him fully, To guide me to the shore.
Made with FlippingBook - Online Brochure Maker