a way that will catch and hold the interest of the youngsters. The problem is not merely to hold their interest so that they’ll be entertained, but to strike the truth of God’s Word right down to their hearts, so that they’ll build it into their lives. The discipline problem and the occasional bedlam and noise during the class, and even the wear and tear on the furniture wouldn’t bother me too much if I could feel that I was getting anywhere with the boys and girls.” Mrs. Stanley paused for breath after this lengthy speech. “ I didn’t realize how much work it was,” murmured her neighbor. “ It’s only within the last week or two,” went on Mrs. Stanley, “ that I’ve felt that perhaps the boys and girls were getting some understanding of what it means in a practical way to be a follower of Christ.” And the joy of that discovery shone now in her eyes. “ Practical, yes.” Mrs. Addis pounced on the one word that had struck a note in her consciousness. “ I don’t know what there was about those stories you told, but my children got something, I know that. They don’t quarrel as they used to and they’re easier to manage. Mrs. Stan ley, I’m not a praying woman, but I’m going to pray that you have that Story Hour again in the fall. My kids need it bad.” No longer in doubt as to what the Lord would have her do, Mrs. Stanley said earnestly, “ Then I promise you your prayer will be answered, Mrs. Addis, if I’m alive and well.” She went on, after a moment. “ You say you’re not a praying woman. Per haps that’s because you’ve never been introduced to the One who taught us how to pray.” “ Who?” “ I mean the Lord Jesus Christ Wouldn’t ycu like to kneel here with me right now and accept Him as your Saviour?” Mrs. Addis hesitated. “ You have seen the difference in your children since they have let Jesus come into their hearts. Won’t you trust Him to change your life too?” She laid an entreating hand on the other woman’s arm. And Mrs. Addis, with sudden re solve in her face, knelt with Mrs. Stan ley beside the kitchen chair. “ I don’t know a thing about the Bible or religion or anything,” Mrs. Addis confessed, as they arose from their knees. “ I ought to come to your Bible class along with the children.” Mrs. Stanley had a sudden inspira tion. “ All right, you do just that. You can be our secretary and keep the roll; and you can listen to the stories and learn the verses along with the boys and girls.” Then Mrs. Stanley said some thing that astonished herself. “ And so many of the children are anxious for the Story Hour to start that I suppose there’s no real reason for waiting until September. We may as well plan to begin next week!” T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
wouldn’t try so hard to make a Little Lord Fauntleroy of him, he wouldn’t act so tough. His meanness is just his way o f rebelling against a sissy regime.” “ What a psychologist you turned out to be!” Mrs. Stanley laughed. “ I always thought that boy was just naturally a little meanie, but you’re giving me a new slant.” She sat up straight. “ If we can just make Gladwyn see that real, true manhood consists in living for Christ and following Him, we’ll prevent his mother from making a mess of his life.” “ That’s right,” Mr. Stanley agreed soberly. “ If next year you could bring out in your lessons the he-man strength of, say, some of the Old Testament heroes: Daniel, who had what it took even when it meant a lion’s den; David, facing a giant for God; Joseph, when he was reviled, reviling not again.” “ And Moses,” broke in Mrs. Stanley excitedly, “ and Abraham and Elijah and Joshua—” She broke off suddenly in some confusion. “ Oh, you’re going to exercise a wom an’s privilege, as regards the Story Hour?” Mrs. Stanley replied with dignity. “ Even men, I believe, are sometimes confronted with the necessity of recon sidering a decision arrived at under stress.” The next morning Mrs. Stanley had a caller, Mrs. Addis from the next block. “ Go right ahead with your ironing, don’t let me interrupt you,” she said seating herself in a kitchen chair. “ I won’t beat around the bush, and waste your time. I heard you were giving up your Bible Hour next fall, and some of us wondered if we could coax you into changing your mind. It’s only an hour of your time every week, and you don’t know how much good the children get out of it.” “ It’s true, I have considered giving it up,” Mrs. Stanley replied, “ I don’t mind the hours spent in preparation for the lessons—getting the flannelgraphs ready, cutting out the pictures, pasting the flannel on the back, doing the coloring, making up the backgrounds and so on. I don’t mind preparing the object les sons, teaching new choruses, or even thinking up new ways to teach the chil dren their Bible verses. Of course, the main thing is the actual study of the Bible story so that I can present it in
Mrs. Stanley did not reply. She was arranging zinnias in a vase and it seemed as if that task required her uttnost concentration. The next morning Mrs. Stanley was astonished to find on her doorstep Helene Coleman, the ten-year-old daughter of the people who lived in the long low house in the next block, and drove a low car almost as long as their house. “ I miss your Bible stories so much,” the child explained wistfully. “ I thought maybe I could go to your Sunday school with you and hear some more stories about Jesus.” She was enfolded in eager arms and led to the breakfast table by a shining eyed Mrs. Stanley. It did not occur to Helene that she had done anything un usual in getting up by herself on a Sunday morning, dressing in a silent house, and leaving for Sunday school without breakfast. Mother and Daddy seldom got up before noon on Sundays. “ Prom now on, Helene,” Mrs. Stanley declared, putting another piece of bread in the toaster, “ if your folks will let you, you come down here every Sunday morning and have breakfast with us, and we’ll all go to Sunday school to gether.” Helene’s mouth was too full of bacon for her to reply but her eyes sparkled. So it was with a light heart that Mrs. Stanley faced a disagreeable prospect the next morning. “ How good of the Lord to give me these little signs of encouragement just before this ordeal with the dentist,” she said to herself, as she made her way toward the bus stop, “ I hardly mind at all about having that tooth pulled.” Helene, the child of those drinking, partying, cynical worldlings, thirsting for God’s Word to such an extent that she was willing to go without breakfast to hear about Jesus! Mrs. Stanley’s cup was indeed full. But evidently it 'was to be “ good measure, pressed down and shaken together and running over” this time. For as shé went by the Evans house, Isabel the Giggler hailed her from the front steps, where she sat with three smaller children. Mrs. Stanley stared in astonishment. Isabel was wav ing her Bible story book at Mrs. Stan ley. “ I read a Bible story to these kids every morning,” she shouted. “ You don’t have your class any more, so I started this one. I’m thé teacher and I’m gonna teach ’em some Scripture verses too— if they’re not too dumb to learn!” This couldn’t be Isabel, who had had such a struggle herself to learn John 3:16! Now Mrs. Stanley practically forgot her ailing tooth. “ I’ve had the most wonderful day,” she said to her husband that evening, even as she pressed the icepack closer against her jaw. She related the encour aging events, then added. “ Of course I did see Gladwyn fighting with a much smaller boy.” Her husband shrugged his shoulders. “ That kid really isn’t any worse than any of the others. His mother’s at fault,” he said, “ If she Page Fourteen
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