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So the day wore on. Usually, doña Maria played a little game while she worked. Whenever a bus came by, she would quickly pat her hair into place and then look up with a smile on her face—just in case the bus stopped and Roger got off. But today the game seemed empty, and she told herself it was just a foolish old woman’s dream. People were right! She wanted to cry. But holding her lips firm, she moved one of the straight wood-and-leather chairs outside and set it down in a shaded spot. From the pocket of her faded cotton dress she pulled out her treasure: a Scripture cal endar one of the missionaries had given her, and set it up on the chair. As she worked, she looked through the pictures and repeated the verses she knew from memory. “ All things work together for good to them that love God.” It was true. The Lord had proved it so many times in her own life. “ The heavens declare the glory of God.” She looked up. Brilliant blue sky, clouds as delicate as the lace on the missionaries’ nicest clothes, and some where, God Himself. Suddenly the words of a Christian song came into her mind: “ Why should I be discouraged?” She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not notice the approaching footsteps. When she looked up he was standing in front of her. “ Roger!” Could it be? Oh, the wondrous good ness of God! He was taller, and very dirty. As doña Mariá took him in her arms, unaccount ably she began to cry. It was a few minutes before she could control herself enough to listen to his story. “ I guess I just had itching feet, Mother,” he told her huskily. “ And I made out pretty well.” He began to pour out his story. Arriving in the big city, he had se cured a job selling tickets to the weekly lottery, and had been so successful that he was able to pay for a decent sleeping room, food, good clothes and a suitcase. He began to enjoy the pleasures that the big city had to offer. ( Continued on Page 28)
answered. Not a trace of Roger had been found. And from then on, neat, tiny, illiterate doña Maria had passed her days in an agony of mixed hope and despair. When she finally saved enough money to buy her own thatched-roof house on the edge of town, she thought of how proud Roger would have been to live in it. And as Rita developed and showed signs of being a real beauty some day, doña Maria knew Roger would have loved his little sister and surely would have helped her to be a sweet-tempered child. Then when they began having the annual young people’s conferences at the missionary farm just outside of town, doña Maria told the señorita Aimee how much her son would have enjoyed them and perhaps would have even dedicated his life to Jesus Christ. But Roger did not come back. People told doña Maria she was foolish to hope any longer. Foolish? She wondered her self. But a mother never loses hope, and hadn’t God promised? Today, as she with skillful fingers laundered the pretty North American clothes, she was almost tempted to believe they were right. Maybe God had some reason for denying her her son. Perhaps this was payment for her years of sin before she knew the Lord. Oh, how she wished she could read the Bible for herself and find there the comfort and teachings she needed to fill this gap In her heart!
T HE day dawned like any other. Dona Maria sent Rita off to school— pretty little Rita, but such a disagreeable child she could be!—and then she began to sort out the clothes for her day’s work. There was no song in her heart today. Sometimes she could almost convince her self that she was happy, that she didn’t have this heaviness inside. Sometimes she could feel the same old pride in ob serving how nice the missionaries looked Decause she was their washerwoman. Then she could forget her burden. But after five whole years of wonder ing, and longing, and praying— ! It was just about five years ago today that Roger had disappeared. Her alert, happy little twelve-year-old son had simply walked out of the house one day and never came back. She remembered how it had been. Everyone in town had offered sugges tions; there had been special prayer meetings in the church; she had made fruitless searches in all the pueblos near by. The missionaries had even written letters for her, trying to locate Roger in some of the larger cities of Colombia where they had friends. But all the prayers had not been * Missionary from Bolivia
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T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
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