How Tom Won a Soul

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Dec 15, 1909

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 36, No. 49.

How Tom Won a Soul

Tom said, “It won’t do to keep all this blessed news to myself,” so he thought how he could bless others with it. His bed stood close by the window-sill, which was low; and somehow he got a pencil and paper and wrote out different texts, which he would fold and pray over and drop into the noisy street below, directed, “To the passer-by—please read.”

He hoped that by this means some might hear of Jesus and His salvation. This service of love faithfully rendered, went on for some weeks, when one evening he heard a strange footstep, and immediately afterward a tall, well-dressed gentleman entered the room and took his seat by the lad’s bedside.

“So you are the lad who drops texts from the window, are you?” he asked kindly.

“Yes,” said Tom, brightening up. “Have yer heard as some one has got hold of one?”

“Plenty, lad, plenty. Would you believe it if I told you that I picked up one last evening, and God blessed it to my soul?”

“I can believe in God’s Word doing anything, sir,” said the lad humbly.

“And I am come,” said the gentleman, “to thank you personally.”

“Not me, sir. I only does the writin’; He does the blessin’.”

“And you are happy in this work for Christ?” said the visitor.

“Couldn’t be happier, sir. I don’t think nothin’ of the pain in my back, for shan’t I be glad when I see Him, to tell Him that as soon as I know’d about Him I did all as I could to serve Him? I suppose yer gets lots of chances, don’t yer, sir?”

“Ah, lad, but I have neglected them; but, God helping me, I mean to begin afresh! At home in the country I have a sick lad dying. I had come to town on pressing business. When I kissed him good-by, he said, ‘Father, I wish I had done some work for Jesus; I can not bear to meet Him empty-handed;’ and the words stuck to me all day long, and the next day, too, until the evening, when I was passing down the street, your little paper fell on my hat. I opened it and read, ‘I must work the works of Him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.’ John 9:4. It seemed like a command from heaven. “I have professed to be a Christian for twenty-five years, my lad; and when I made inquiries, and found out who dropped these tracts into the street, and why it was done, it so shamed and humbled me that I determined to go home and work for the same Master that you are serving so faithfully.”

Tears of joy were rolling down the lad’s face. “It’s too much, sir,” he said, “altogether too much!”

“Tell me how you managed to get the paper to start it, my lad.”

“That warn’t hard, sir. I jest had a talk with granny, and offered to give up my ha’porth o’ milk she gives me most days, if she would buy me paper instead. You know, sir, I can’t last long. The parish doctor says a few months of cold weather may finish me off, and a drop of milk ain’t much to give up for my blessed Jesus. Are people happy as has lots to give Him, sir?”

The visitor sighed a deep sigh. “Ah, lad, you are a great deal happier in this wretched room, making sacrifices for Jesus, than thousands who profess to belong to Him, and who have time, talents, and money, and do little or nothing for Him!”

“They don’t know Him, sir. Knowin’ is lovin’, and lovin’ is doin’. It ain’t love without.”—Selected.