So she stayed at home, married, and day in and out she knew the monotonous routine of cooking, baking, rocking babies, washing clothes, and doing dishes. To others must be given the privilege to go and tell of Him whose blood can wash away the stains of guilt and sin! “Oh, God, grant me one more son. Make this a special child. A different child. A chosen vessel! “Thou knowest my love for these golden-haired little ones, who fill this home with love and laughter. “But I’d like to have a black-haired boy this time. And call him, take him, make him ... a missionary.” The fire burned low, the lamp flickered dimly, but the little mother lingered in the presence of her Lord. There was an atmosphere of expectancy in the humble little farmhouse. Something was astir. The children heard voices of neighbors, and the doctor had come in the early morning hours. “It’s a boy, Mrs. Reimer.” “Does he have black hair?” “Well now, what a question! Who cares what color his hair is so long as he’s a fine, strong boy? Let me see. Yes, ma’am. He’s got black hair, all right. Now, how did you work that - with all those other little towheads you’ve got? Well, congratulations!” Maybe the “dark-haired” part of her prayer was silly, but no one had heard the prayer except God, and the little mother told no one, for “she kept all these things in her heart.” So began Harold Reimer’s life. Two dozen years passed into time. The children in the farmhouse grew and went away.
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