December, 1933
T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
412
By MILDRED M. COOK
a s the crisp coolness o f the De cember night swept in from the old and weatherbeaten, looked out with feebly blinking eyes upon their sur roundings— a monotonous stretch of unyielding alkaline soil. Twelve miles away, the highway traffic, like a fast- moving stream, flowed into the Califor nia coast towns from points East, quite oblivious of its one narrow tributary which cut a way bravely into this for gotten region. In a day or two, it would be Christ mas. But there was no sign of it here— unless, perhaps, the lights from flicker ing candles and kerosene lamps that burned every night in the year could be called such a sign. This was a commun ity of men and women grown old in
Grandmother. She wrote* me she was keeping house for you.” He paused and looked around expectantly for a glimpse of the silver-haired saint whom he loved. “ She ain’t here.” The answer was brief, but not rude, “ Gone North for a spell. But you’re welcome, same as if she was here. Come in and eat, and stay the night, if you ain’t got other plans.” A great wave o f disappointment swept over the boys, but so quickly did they rise above it, that no one would have guessed that it had ever appeared. They had planned to tell Grandmother all about their work at the Insti tute, about the richness of the Word that the class instruc tion had imparted, about the opportunities for soul-winning that opened up every day, about the experiences (pleasant and otherwise) that had been theirs in meeting the prac tical requirements for board and room in a school where tuition is always free. Grandmother would have beamed approval. She would have wanted to know about the groups o f Institute students—both of men and of women —who were choosing to forego the pleasure of being with family and friends during the holidays in order to witness for Christ in neglected communities. She would have asked how many students the Institute had recently en rolled, and would have breathed, “ Praise G od !” when told that the number was steadily mounting. As these thoughts raced through five young minds, the man o f the house removed his coat methodically and hung it on a nail. He drew up to the table the few chairs the house afforded, and augmented the number with a packing
desert, a half-dozen shacks, squat and
the struggle with the soil for a livelihood, a generation that took life as they found it and had long ago forgotten to be gay. For years, the grey dust of the desert had covered their dwellings, and with it, the dust o f indifference had sifted in. And so it was that when, in the gathering night, an old touring car drove up before one of the shabbiest of the houses and five young men-—released for a two-weeks’ holi day from their studies— climbed out, no one but themselves seemed to be particularly glad or even surprised. As they
box or two. He removed the red-checked table cloth that covered the L eft — “ The dust of indifference had sifted in.” B elow — Where prayer was an~ swered and a costly gift was found.
approached the house, its lone occupant, a stolid man of per haps sixty summers, saw them coming, put down his milk pail and his lantern, and wait ed. He did not know any of the boys. It did not occur to him to ask or even to wonder why they had come; and if he had asked, he would not have believed their answer, that they felt God had led them here, contrary to their pre vious plan, to find, perhaps, a Christmas gift for Him. Their host lifted the lan tern, and, “Come in,” he said.
One of the hoys spoke up cheerily, “ I’m Donald Pratt,* and these are four other fellows from the Bible Institute of Los Angeles. You ’re Mr. Beckett, aren’t.you?” The answer was merely a nod. “ Well, we’re on a vacation (having a grand time, too) — speaking in churches and schoolhouses— wherever the old gospel of the Word of God is wanted, you know— singing and playing our instruments; that is,” he added, twinkling, “ wherever folk can stand that!” Not waiting for comment, he rushed on. “ Our sched ule’s pretty full, but somehow we felt we just had to see *Inasmuch as this is not fiction, but a description of actual occur rences, kindness demands that other names be substituted for those of. the real characters and places.
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foodstuffs left from noon, moved the lamp to allow the milk pail to become the centerpiece, and climaxed the action with the command, “ Set, lads.” They sat—and wondered that they felt so strangely and happily at ease in the presence of this silent man. God was with them—the One to whom they looked for moment- by-moment direction, and who had never failed to guide aright. Surely God had led them here, for had
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