you; you know, one of those five-dollar-a-month pledges. But, well— ” she continued, groping for the right words, “we’ve talked it over and feel that, uh, with our present obligations. . . .” “ I’m afraid we just can't swing it right now,” he put in. There was no doubt about it. I knew they’d have trouble “ swinging a pledge.” First, there was the car payment — a nagging $87.50 a month. That’s a lot even for a $12,000-a-year man. Trans portation, that’s one thing you just can’t do with out. Perhaps, too, he was thinking of the new rug. His wife would have reminded him of that. Acry- lon fabric. Only half paid for. She had grown so weary of the old beige one. Besides, it was wearing in spots, especially at the foot of the over stuffed chair in front of the TV. And the TV. That was another thing. The oily salesman had neglected to mention repair costs on color TV. He was thinking, too, of the bookcase in the den. Custom made, he remembered with exasper ation. It housed a set o f spanking new encyclo pedias, impressively bound in red and gold. “We owe it to the children,” his wife had argued. But somehow Dave and Linda had found the Beatles and that fellow Presley more exciting. She was still sniffing back a tear as they walked out through the carpeted foyer and climbed into a sleek tan Thunderbird. My thoughts flicked back to an evening three years earlier. I had been with a group o f mis sionaries as they discussed the task confronting them in their field—a teeming city in the Orient. That day I had seen the refugees living like animals in makeshift stalls, thrown together in tangled colonies on the barren hillsides. Other shacks were sandwiched together along the clotted thoroughfares. I had seen the beggars with their faces that screamed of hunger. “ I think God wants us to open another Gospel hall and relief center,” one of the missionaries announced. She was a small woman with gray hair and a remarkably soft, even voice.
“ But how?” her colleagues asked, turning to one another, puzzled. One of them expressed what all were thinking: “Our budget hardly meets our present expenses.” “ I know that.” The small lady was talking again. She paused as though uncertain how to continue. Then she said, “ Perhaps we could raise the funds among ourselves.” There was a long moment of silence. I knew well enough what their allowances came to. I also knew that it cost about as much to live decently in that food-scarce city as in any U.S. metropolis. “ I think we can pledge $10 a month,” one of the group offered. “We’ll give the same,” said another. While the missionaries stated their pledges, the small woman with gray hair sat quietly. She was smiling as if to herself. The others had all spoken when she began. “ I have no family now,” she said. Her hus band, a veteran missionary, had died ten years earlier. “ I eat native food twice a day and my needs are few. I have plenty of clothes (about four dresses to be exact), and the mission pro vides me with a home.” The home o f which she spoke was two small rooms furnished with bam boo furniture and located in a downtown building swarming with refugees. “ I have figured it out,” she concluded. “ I can afford to pledge $40 to open a new hall.” “ You mean $40 a year, of course,” we added. “ No, I mean $40 a month.” “ A month! But how can you live on what you’ll have left?” “ I can do it,” she said simply and there was a finality in her voice that ruled out further dis cussion. I stuffed the green bill bearing the image of Lincoln into my suit pocket and reached for my overcoat. I lost sight of the sleek tan Thunder- bird as it swept around the corner. I kept thinking of the tear that crept out of the corner of the lady’s eye and down her perfectly powdered cheek. Reprinted , with permission, from. the M issionary S tandard .
SEPTEMBER, 1966
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