Last night my husband closed his sermon with a story that I’d heard many times before, but I was just as moved as the rest of the congregation by his fervent, gripping manner of speaking. I was nervous at first, since he had already preached a long time, while I willed him to condense his narrative and stop digressing into stories within a story. Nevertheless, he was determined to give every dramatic detail of the true experience of two young missionaries many years ago.
They had gone as naïve Christian workers from Stockholm, Sweden, to a remote area in the wilds of Africa. Another couple went with them, but when they had hacked their way through the undergrowth to arrive at a settlement, they were rebuffed by the natives. Again they hacked through the treacherous terrain, erected flimsy shelters, and attempted to reach the people with the gospel. After 6 months of exhausting and seemingly futile efforts, the second couple despaired and went back to the mission station to return home. The first couple would have gone back with them, but by this time the wife was 6 months pregnant and couldn’t travel.
Day after day, they struggled. They had learned Swahili and tried to win the people over, but their efforts were met with disinterest and hostility. All except for one young boy who came to their hut every week to sell them fresh fruit or an occasional live chicken. The young missionary wife befriended him and told him stories from the Bible. Though somewhat interested, he did not accept the Lord.
Before long, a baby girl was born in these discouraging circumstances, joining a two-year-old brother. A few weeks later, the mother became seriously ill. A searing infection reached its peak and left the husband a widower with a crying newborn in his arms and a toddler hanging on to his trouser legs. Standing over the grave of his beloved wife and destroyed by grief, the missionary declared he was through. He gave the little girl to the missionaries at the mission station, took the small child, and returned to Sweden.
Years passed, and the baby, who was adopted by another missionary couple, grew up and was sent to the U.S. for college. She married a man who would become prominent in the national leadership of their denomination. Many years later, the opportunity arose to go to a church conference overseas. The keynote speaker and organizer of the event attended by thousands was a striking black man with a commanding presence, the president of his denomination. As he spoke, he mentioned living in the area where the baby girl was born. She later talked to him and asked if he remembered the young missionaries she described, giving their names. “Why yes,” he said, “I used to sell them chickens and fruit. The missionary’s wife told me Bible stories. I heard her husband left when she died after their baby girl was born.”
“I am that little girl,” she replied. She subsequently located her father and convinced him that their labor had not been in vain. One small boy reached with the gospel had resulted in uncounted thousands for the Lord. The father, who had lived a life of bitterness and rebellion, found a place of repentance and forgiveness and was able to return once again to see his beloved Africa, this time seen through tears, not of defiance, but of gratefulness to God.
The rapt silence in the sanctuary was broken by a single slow, deliberate clapping behind me, which, as others joined in, became a steady applause from the congregation.
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