by Ruth Gibbs Zwall
our home state, New Jersey. All along the way we would be holding services in churches on our itinerary. The busy, fruitful days of travel were passing: Oregon, Washington, Montana, and on to South Dakota. Night after night as I put our little boy to bed, I thought of the other bunk that looked so empty. In the little Mennonite town of Marion, near Sioux Falls, a week’s mail caught up with us. “What’s this?” my husband asked. It was a thick brown envelope, air-mailed from Creswell, Oregon. In side was the news that read: “Get in touch with your officials at San Francisco immediately and have your Home Study completed.” We looked at each other. It was the twenty-fourth of the month, and the orphan Bill would expire the thir tieth. It was impossible to return to San Francisco with our mobile home in time for officials to OK it and issue our little girl’s visa permit. In such an hour, how the natural mind probes for an answer! Every possible avenue is reviewed. “If only we were in California,” I thought, but the Holy Spirit checked me. We were in the place of His choosing; of that we were confident. “Perhaps . . . our meetings here could be cancelled . . . or at least shortened . . . If we could go on to Chicago . . . see the officials there . . . ” But who could voice such a suggestion? For a year, the pastor and his people at Marion had anticipated our coming. Would we dare sacrifice these meetings on such a slim possibility? “I ’m afraid there’s not much we can do,” my husband said. “At any rate, we can’t do anything till Monday. All offices are closed this afternoon.” How kind our Heavenly Father is! As we struggle to find a solution, He does not force His ways upon us. But as each avenue comes to naught, how gently He draws us to Himself.
“ V"'1 l in k !” w en t the coins , dropped from the chubby hands of our six-year-old. Gary was contributing again. “Honey,” I protested, “there’s no use putting any more money in Lynn Joy’s bank now. We’re leaving California, you know, and she wouldn’t be able to come till we get back. That will be a long, long time.” My son looked at me just a moment. Then he turned again to the container holding the dollars that were to have been part of a little girl’s passage money from Ko rea—a child whom we hoped to make our own. “Clink!” went the rest of his coins. “It’s all for Lynn Joy,” he said solemnly, and went back to his play. Children can be very practical. They pray and expect to receive. But being a “wise” adult, I knew only too well that when we left California it would be next to im possible for Gary’s prayer to be answered. “How can I make him understand?” I thought. For many months we had prayed for Lynn to come. And now the trip with our mobile-home across the country was ready to begin. We had planned this trip carefully, prayerfully, asking only to be in God’s perfect will, that we might expect His blessing. We wouldn’t be returning for eight months, and long before that time the Orphan Bill, allowing adoptive children to come from across the sea, would be outlawed. “Let us see Thy hand in this, Lord,” we had prayed as we made application for Lynn Joy. His hand surely had been in Gary’s coming four years before — our little son of American-Korean parentage — transplanted from Korea to our open arms. But now the adoption papers had waited in Korea almost a year and a half. It seemed it was not God’s time to bring the little sister Gary had dreamed of. For the past eleven years we had been ministering in rural areas of California from the Mexican border through the deserts and valleys and up into the lumber areas of Oregon. Now it was our privilege to return to
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THE KING'S BUSINESS
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