November 1928
665
T h e
K i n g ' s
B u s i n e s s
see your father.” “Oh, you had better not,” she replied. “He may still be .angry and your visit might make him worse.” “But,” said Mr. W., in relating this incident, “I just could not stay away. It seemed as though a force stronger than myself was compelling me to go to see him.” He went to the sick man’s room, and said, “Well, Dad, how are you ?” The old man held out his hand, smiled faintly, and said, “I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Sav iour, and I acknowledge God as my Father.” “Shall we pray about it?” Mr. W. asked. The sick man nodded his head, and kneeling by the bedside, Mr. W. prayed earn estly. In spite of his suffering, a joyous light overspread the dying man’s face. He was saved; and one of Mr. McConkey’s tracts had opened the door through which the love of Jesus Christ entered and saved his soul. The little light-bearers from the pen of James H. Mc- Conkey have penetrated every nook and corner of the globe where the English language is spoken ; and mission aries in foreign lands have translated some of the books and booklets. Letters received tell of faith renewed, of new hopes, of firmer grasps upon the fundamental prin ciples of Christian living as taught by Jesus Christ. Perhaps no letters cause greater rejoicing than those which tell of special guidance into missionary work. From Nigeria, West Africa, there came a letter from a young woman saying that she had been a Christian for seven years, working in the church and Sunday, school, yet all the time yearning to engage in whole-time Christian ser vice. Then someone placed Mr. McConkey’s tract “The God-planned Life” in her hands. She found she had been looking too much to herself, and that she had not learned to “let go and let God.” She was led step by step in preparation for larger service, and after her younger sis ters had been led to the Lord, the way was opened for her to go into the Sudan. A letter from a minister told this interesting story: “While every one of the tracts is a golden gem, may I tell you of the work accomplished by the booklet ‘Give God a Chance’? I was listening to a number of men tell the vile stories of their lives, and one used the expression many times of taking a chance at different things, and that he was ready to take a chance at anything. So I sent him a copy of ‘Give God a Chance’ with a special invitation to come to our services. On his second visit he was hap pily converted, and he- told me that little pamphlet did the job in fine style.” A n A gnostic T ouched Another splendid testimony :' “I would like to tell you that ‘Believing is Seeing’ brought an agnostic to Christ. He chanced to be at my house as an agent. I spoke to him about his soul and gave him this tract. Some months later he wrote me that he was saved.” One from England : “I beg you to send me some of your leaflets, particularly ‘The Sure Shepherd.’ I cannot tell you what a joy it was to me when my landlady gave me a copy to read. It Was nearly a year ago now, and I have read it again and again. I came here a stranger, and was well-nigh penniless and nearly blind. Worst of all was thé feeling that I was abandoned by God, and I began to doubt even if there was one. Since reading that pam phlet, I have had unmistakable proof not only that there is a God, but also that I mean something to Him.” From a.chaplain in a penitentiary in a western state: “I find your tracts very useful and much in demand among the men at :this institution. . . Among our men in the
condemned cells they are treasured and read; and among those who are in solitary confinement they find acceptance and occasion thought to those who read them.” . No tract has been more cordidally received than “The Fifth Sparrow.” It was a little over two years ago that the first “Sparrow” left the home nest, and already more than a quarter of a million of them have winged their way all over the world! F rom F ar A way L ands Some, very unusual letters come from Africa, whose dusky sons are just beginning to learn our language. Their original, piquant expressions flavor the routine of the day. Especially the “everlasting correspondence” which one brother desired. And this one: “With emotions that nearly deprive' me of the power to hold my pen, and with trembling fingers that make words, I write almost illegible. I sit down to discourse to you that I was once reading a news-book of Silver Pub lishing and was very pleased to keep a lovely corres pondence with you and hope your heart is filled with a great deal of ecstasy to deal with me the same. Convey ing to you my pleasant words of greeting and hopeful success which may attain my efforts, I am your lovely friend ——.” To a person who does not know about James H. McConkey and his inspiring little books and tracts, the office of the Silver Publishing Society looks just like any other business office. But to those who know and love Mr, McConkey and his messages, it is a hallowed spot. From the office window there is a fine view of Pitts burgh’s business district with Mount Washington in the background, partly hidden from view by a veil of smoke from the huge steel mills. Many fine large buildings have been erected since Mr. McConkey opened his little office in the Bessemer Building. Could one roll back the scroll of time, and see the hands into which the six million devo tional booklets have fallen that have been sent out from this office; and could one see the transformations that have been wrought in the lives of those reading the God- given messages, then one could estimate the brightness of the light that shines forth so brilliantly from the Silver Publishing Society’s office in the “Workshop of the World.” He Worketh Things Together. “All things work together for good to them that love God”—everything, from the thunder that awakens, to the child’s cry that touches the hard heart. Everything, from the flood taking life with it, to the spring leaving the mountain side and hurrying into the valley to quench the thirst of man and beast; from the dewdrop hanging on the cheek of the rosebud, to the tear on the eyelid, pressed from a grief-stricken heart. Everything, from the cyclone leaving death in its wake, to the breeze blowing through yonder bough, rocking the bird and her young to sleep; or the cooling zephyrs, stealing through the broken window shutter at eventide to kiss the face of a dying child. Every thing, from the boxer’s blade to the surgeon’s knife; from the mountain before which we stand in awe, to the mound in the cemetery near which we stand and feel nearer God. It is ofttimes true that the sweetest hearts are those that bleed, and often sorrow strikes the key for our sweetest songs. Under the alchemy of the grace of Him who spoke order out of chaos, and light out of darkness, your sor row will be turned into joy .—John A. Wray.
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