Harold trusted His Lord through years of service in the Navy and through years of college, where he was preparing for a career of teaching music. Then a vacation period found him at the Word of Life camp in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. It was campfire night, and hundreds of young people were grouped beneath the starry sky. Harold’s eyes were fixed on the flickering logs, but he was seeing only what a quiet missionary had verbally pictured that afternoon. “I was on a high mountain on the frontiers of Colombia,” he had said. “As I stood on that peak, miles and miles of seemingly endless jungles stretched below me. Beyond what eye could see, these verdant oceans of unexplored forest stretched on and on. I was looking over into Brazil. Those jungles are inhabited by tribes of wild Indians who never yet have heard the name of Jesus Christ.” The embers of the campfire glowed. But the young man’s vision saw Indian campfires instead, and benighted Indians instead of his friends around him. Some of the young people were getting up from their places in the circle and going to stand at the fire’s edge, thus, before earth and heaven, relinquishing their right to their lives, to live henceforth as God should will. When Harold left his place and went to stand, head bowed, at the fireside altar of consecration, hismother’s prayer was answered. Puzzled? Yes, he was. He could not understand that pull, that tugging at his heart. No, he couldn’t understand it, but he could feel it. And how could he understand?
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