p. 11 | A Contrast

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 14, 1910

A Contrast

A RETURNED MISSIONARY

While attending the funeral services of a child recently, my mind was carried back to another funeral,—also of a child. The contrast was so great that, for the benefit of those who may think it a rare privilege to go to a foreign mission field, I will call your attention to it.

A young widow with three little children was striving to care for and support her orphans, and do self-supporting missionary work in Mexico. Her parents owned a small farm in the tropics, but had gone to a large port city to engage in ship missionary work. The daughter (I will call her Sister L.), remained upon the farm, and in addition to her own little ones, cared for and taught five orphan American children.

Suddenly Mary, the oldest daughter, was stricken with the dreaded tropical fever, and in twenty-four hours was dead. The little boys had been sent to the Americans living in the settlement for help, and to send some one for a doctor. The natives came in when they heard of the child’s sickness, and began to prepare for a fiesta, as they usually do in case of a death. They could not or would not do anything to help care for the child, but simply shrugged their shoulders, looked pious, and said, “God’s will be done. Perhaps she has the evil eye, and nothing can cure that.”

As Sister L. left the death chamber, she found the yard swept as for a dance, and active preparations going on for a fiesta. On a mat at the door was a group gambling. Going to the leader, she told him kindly that it was not her custom to make feasts; and as her heart was very sad, would he please tell the crowd that she would rather be quiet and alone.

She was obliged to attend to all the arrangements for burial herself, and with her own hands place her child in the rude coffin, and cover it with flowers. The Mexicans crowded in to take a last look at the angelita, and to relate the wonderful stories she had told them of Jesus, and the sweet songs she had sung to them.

The sad mother thought of the precious promises to those who die in the Lord,—of the glorious resurrection, when she would again clasp her darling to her breast; but O, how hard it was to lay her away without a word of sympathy or comfort from one of like faith! “If it were only a song, I could bear it better,” she cried. Later, several American men and an old lady came in to offer their assistance. Our sister asked them each in turn if they would not offer a prayer at the grave, but all refused, saying they had never prayed.

Turning to the orphans for whom she was caring, she said, “Let us sing Mary’s favorite song,” and as their sweet voices rang out in the strains of “Never Alone,” one after another in the room sank to their knees. Kneeling by the coffin, with her hands on the still, white face, Sister L. poured out her heart in prayer to the Father, asking his blessing upon all those present, that they might be ready when their turn came. The rough cattlemen wiped their eyes as the coffin was closed, and placed upon the shoulders of the four Mexicans chosen to carry it to its last resting-place.

Two miles by a foot-path brought them to the little cemetery where was the newly-dug grave. As the clods fell upon the coffin, our brave sister began to sing, “God Be With You Till We Meet Again,” her two little ones clinging to her, awed into silence by the look on her face.

Much more might be said concerning her trouble, though this brief sketch will suffice to bring out the contrast between her affliction and that of those who are bereaved, among friends, with competent medical aid, loving hands to minister, others to carry the responsibility of the last sad hours, and comforting services by a servant of God.

It is indeed a privilege to be a foreign missionary; for we know that these light afflictions are but for a moment, and not worthy to be compared with eternal life with our Saviour. We know, too, that these nations must know of the coming King, and some one must tell them. Let us therefore pray earnestly for the workers in the Master’s vineyard.

Argonia, Kan.