VESSELS OF HONOR / by Ruth Samarin Crocodiles andSpirits
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bing of a small child. Running on, the searchers found the small boy where he had fallen among the rocks at the far side of the island. His leg was twisted painfully to one side but he was alive. The boy’s story was not clear, but they were able to gather that he had seen some crocodiles and had ran away in fright. He had run the wrong direction and had fallen on the rocks. He still clung to his small basket of crabs. Small boys were not allowed to eat crabs. The father, to whom the boy’s gift was intended, picked up his son and car ried him tenderly to the village. Sara and mother lingered to inspect the little island. “ Do you think we could find some croco dile eggs in the sand?” asked her mother. Then with a glance at her daughter she added: “ But if we linger too long we will be in danger of the spirits ourselves.” Sara’s mother knew what her daughter’s answer would be since her oldest child had become a Christian she did not fear the spirits. Wondering why this was true, the mother had visited the little grass roofed chapel. She had gone faithfully for the last two moons. She sat at the back and always left quickly and so Sara had not seen her. The words from God that the pastor preached tasted good to her soul. Weary years of worrying about death and facing the life beyond made God’s promise as sweet as honey to her soul. She had found rest in Jesus. She had decided to go foward next Sunday to become a part of the small group of Christians. The older woman had sought ways of telling her daughter but mother and daughter were not used to talking about personal things, so she opened the conversation about spirits. But before Sara could assure her mother that she need have no fear, the older woman added: “ But then I no longer fear the spirits.” Sara knew her mother would never tease about such a serious subject. “Are you a believer in Jesus then?” she asked hopefully. “ Yes, I believe,” was the quiet answer. Neither mother nor daughter knew quite how to reach each other. Nothing serious or personal had ever been discussed be tween them before, but their joy overcame their reserve and they hugged each other. Retracing their steps, they searched the warm damp sand. Near the water’s edge they found their treasure, sixty crocodile eggs. “ The old men of the village will eat well tonight,” said Sara’s mother. “ Perhaps it will help soften your father’s heart for the news we have to give him,” she added smiling. Wrapping the eggs in their head scarfs, they carefully crossed the rock bridge. Night came quickly as it always does on the equator. Brush grass fires glowed warmly against the black sky. The family of hippos snorted and splashed in the privacy of the darkness. “ Let us sing. I have learned one song,” said the mother over her shoulder. They sang and walked. “ Ga na Jesus, ga na Jesus, ga na Jesus laso.” (Come to Jesus, come to Jesus, come to Jesus today). Join us next month.
E ditor ’ s N ote : W e continue in this issue of the K ing’s Business, w ith a series of articles on missions for young people. T h ey are printed b y perm ission of the Brethren M issionary Herald. Ruth Custer Samarin and her husband are graduates of BIOLA. T h ey are laboring in A frica under the Brethren M issionary organization. I t was just a four o’clock sun but it was as red as the sunset. Its light drifted through the haze of smoke and dust to make a bloody streak across the rippling river. Sara knew that when one more moon grew large that the rains would come and wash the sky clean. Then the four o’clock sun would be hot and yellow and the women would still be in their village. But for sev eral months now the trip to the river had not been all work. The women and the girls went early to bathe and play in the cool water. With strong arms, the girls from Sara’s tiny village beat the water in play. Some beat near the surface, others deep in the blue-green current. Out of the splashing and flaying of arms came the sound of many drums, all keeping perfect time. On and on played the drums until the village girls fell into the swirling water to rest. The older girls then played a more strenuous game. The rhythmic beat began again but between each beat each girl would quickly wash. Beat, wash, wash; beat, wash arms; beat, wash waist and on they played with amazing strength. Arms that pound grain find “ water drum” child’s play. Sara’s mother tapped her daughter on the shoulder, “ Did you hear someone call?” Sara mumbled a sleepy “ No.” “ Sh-h-h!” hissed Sara’s mother to the other women, “ I hear someone calling.” The crowd of women quieted. Faintly down the river they heard the cry of a frightened child. One horrified woman dashed toward the sound. Stumbling, crashing, pushing toward the sound they tried to travel the tangled river’s edge. Some gave up and sought an inland path that led in the general direc tion of the cry. Men who had come to the river to fish joined the search. Sara noticed one of the mothers crying: “A river spirit has gotten my son. He said he was going to hunt near the bird island and I warned him not to go because of the spirits that we know live in the water. He only laughed and said he would not be eaten.” Sara knew that there were no spirits in the river, but she did know that on the sandy banks of this small island basked many crocodiles. She joined a part of the searchers who ran down the bank of the river toward the island. The river was low. Large rocks protruded irregularly to pro vide a precarious bridge out to the island. The wet feet of the villagers made the rocks slippery. Some of the men found it easier to wade through the swift shallow current. Once on the shore the group stood quietly listening for the child’s cry. Someone shivered, “ I hear the spirits.” “ Be still,” snapped one of the men. Then they all heard the sound. It was the sob
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