When the Arrow Flies

When the Arrow Flies

WHEN THE ARROW FLIES A THRILLING STORY OF ESCAPE, ENCOUNTER AND TRIUMPH

ROSEMARY CUNNINGHAM

WHEN THE ARROW FLIES

by Rosemary Cunningham

Word of Life Edition Reprinted by Permission of Prairie Bible Institute

Dedicated to all who pray for Missionaries.

Copyright 1966 by Prairie Bible Institute

Reprinted 1989, 2021 by Word of Life Fellowship, Inc.

ISBN 88846-034-1

................................................................................................ I I’LL KEEP THEE ................................................................ 1 THE CALL............................................................................ 5 THERE’S MUSIC IN THE AIR..........................................7 IT’S A BOY.......................................................................... 13 LIFE’S WORST MOMENT.............................................. 17 HAVE NOT I SENT THEE?. ............................................ 21 DEBORAH. ......................................................................... 25 I LOVE, YOU LOVE..........................................................29 WHAT ARE MISSIONARIES MADE OF? ..................... 33 A CHANGED MAN. .......................................................... 39 A HERO AT ZERO............................................................. 43 THE CRUCIBLE OF THE COMMON THINGS.......... 51 VISIONS MUST WEAR BOOTS..................................... 55 FLASH OF FIRE................................................................ 59 SLOWLY TICKS THE CLOCK. ......................................65 THEY’RE OFF!. .................................................................69 THE UNBRILLIANT VIRTUES...................................... 73 A NIGHTMARE.................................................................77 JUST WHAT I SUSPECTED............................................ 81 WHY DID GOD LET THEM DIE?.................................. 85 CONTENTS

FOREWORD I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII

XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX

XXI XXII

THE INDIANS ARE HERE! . ..................................... 89 AMBUSHED!.................................................................93 THE ESCAPE. .............................................................. 99 ENCOUNTER WITH XAVANTES.......................... 103 THE HEDGE.............................................................. 109 THE GREASIEST GREASE........................................113 LOST IN THE JUNGLE............................................ 117 THEN IT HAPPENED!.............................................. 119 DADDY’S HOME........................................................ 123 GIVE UP THY TREASURE....................................... 127 WHO’LL TAKE THE BABY?......................................131 WHEN THE ROLL IS CALLED UP YONDER. ..... 137 A VISITOR FOR YOU................................................ 141 LOVE IS FOREVER.................................................... 145 A MOTHER’S PART................................................... 147 A NEW MISSIONARY FRONTIER. .........................151 ....................................................................................... 157

XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII

XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI EPILOGUE

Foreword

As I read the manuscript of this book, I am reminded that when God grows an oak tree He always starts with an acorn. It takes the warmth of many summers and the blast of many winters to grow it into a mighty oak. As you read this thrilling account of the acts of the Holy Spirit through the lives of these young men, you realize that God was preparing Harry and Harold in their early years so that He could entrust them today with city-wide evangelism, radio programs, television, and a camping ministry in Brazil. Trials still go on, for the trial of faith goes on through all our earthly pilgrimage in order to purge out the dross and impurity until it is as pure gold. I trust that as you read this book, God will stir you to launch out by faith for Jesus Christ, our lovely Lord and soon-coming King.

On the victory side, Jack Wyrtzen

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I

I’LL KEEP THEE

THE S.S. Pan America cast a foamy white spray on either side of its bow as it pushed on through the expanse of the gray Atlantic. On the deck stood a slender, blonde young woman cradling a small infant in her arms. Many hours ago, the Statue of Liberty had faded in the distance, and now, as night shadows began to fall, there was nothing but a vast liquid expanse on every side of the small freighter, valiantly forging through the waves. The young woman turned from the darkening dusk and stepped from the deck into a narrow, dingy little passageway. Her husband was in the corridor, jovial as usual.

“Well, Millie, we’re on our way. Is baby enjoying it? Why the serious face? Smile! Aren’t you happy?”

Yes, they were indeed on their way to a new life in a strange land. The last tie had been cut, and the rocking and lurching of the small ship over the great ocean swells were proof that home, friends, and the old familiar life were all behind them. Brazil lies ahead.

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Harry was always full of enthusiasm and plans. Millie tried to hide the uncertainties and fears which were now trooping into her mind. The vague apprehensions that she had been pushing away for weeks crowded into her thoughts. She and Harry had been so sure that God had called them to the wild Indian tribes in the jungles of Brazil. But what of this wee, helpless thing in her arms? What did the call to a strong young man and wife have to do with a babe unable to choose for itself? What of the jungle perils, tropical diseases, unsanitary conditions, primitive environment, violence from savage tribes, dangers of river travel? What right had they to submit any infant born in highly civilized America to such a prospect? The exciting atmosphere of kind wishes of encouraging friends, the enthusiasm of churches, and plans for travel had all been uplifting. Now there was only the lurch, rise, fall, tilt of the ship and nothing to hush the formidable troop of fears. She was one of these women endowed (fortunately or unfortunately) with a vivid imagination. Imagination can be a great asset when prospects are bright. It may be anything but an asset when a gloomy mood is the order of the day. ‘’I’ll be in the cabin with baby awhile, Harry. Come and call me for supper.” She laid Linda down and then, sitting on the hard edge of the berth, she prayed. The admiring group of Christian friends were now far behind. True enabling must come from God Himself. It was not time for fancy prayers. “Lord, I am afraid. Not so much for myself as for my baby. Have I any right to bring her to the unknown and to the prospect

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of jungles and danger? Have we made a mistake? Have Harry and I been carried away by all the enthusiasm? Have we been foolish? Help me!” Into her mind came the strong words that God speaks to His true people: “I the Lord thy God Will hold thy right hand, Saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee. Fear not ... I will help thee, Saith the Lord.” Isaiah 41:13, 14 “Have I not sent thee? Be strong! Have good courage! Don’t be afraid! Or dismayed [nervous] Because I, the Lord Thy God,

Am with thee To keep thee Wherever thou goest.” Joshua 1:9

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II

THE CALL

THE whole thing had begun one night when Harry Bollback had taken his old place as pianist on the platform of a large auditorium in New York Times Square. He had recently returned from foreign service with the Marines in Okinawa, Pelalu, and China. It was a great youth rally. The man at the microphone had also just returned from foreign service, a different kind. As Harry listened to the older missionary describing the front lines of battle with the hosts of spiritual darkness, his pulse began to throb, and his heart pounded. He determined that Jesus Christ should henceforth have all of his life, too, and everything he had. The missionary’s words rang through the vast hall: “He who said, ‘Come unto Me’ is saying, ‘Who will go for Me?’” The musical background supplied by the piano ceased. Jack Wyrtzen, leader of the meeting, lifted his eyes from the missionary to the piano bench. It was vacant. Then he saw Harry standing at the altar at the front of the vast auditorium, head bowed. The “call” had come to him, and he had answered.

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“What did you mean when you went to the altar last night, Harry?” Jack Wyrtzen asked. “Were you making a rededication of your life?” “No. I was giving my life to go to the foreign field.” Jack looked thoughtful. Pianists like him were hard to come by. “I just thought, Jack, why did God bring me back from the war, when fellows died all around me? He must have spared me because He had more for me to do than just play a piano.” What did it matter that people thought youthful enthusiasm had this time outweighed discretion? “You’ll look fine hiking through the Amazonian forest with a grand piano on your back. Whom are you going to play for - the jaguars? Going to throw your talent away? You’d better think twice before you make all your years of study and preparation a loss. Others who don’t have this gift of music can go to preach to those Indians. We’re expected to use our common sense, you know.” They were well-meaning people. The only thing wrong in their reasoning was that they were reasoning from man’s point of view - not God’s. The only answer was - “Christ gave His all. I cannot give Him as much as He has given me, but I’m certainly not going to give Him less than my all. Whether it’s to live, or whether it’s to die, I am His. His claim on my life is first.” The glowing flame had been kindled in Harry’s heart.

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III

THERE’S MUSIC IN THE AIR

As far back as Harry could remember, the only really important thing in his life was music. Father and Mother had sacrificed to the point of gnawing hardship to give each of their children a musical education. Mother worked to supplement the family income. Father called his boys at dawn each day to help carry the big trash tins out of the five-story apartment house where they lived, so the extra money could pay for good teachers. Mediocre teachers wouldn’t do. When the little children came to sit on Daddy’s knee, he would slide with them onto the piano stool, place their chubby fingers on the keyboard and say, “See this key below these two black fellows? Well, it’s C.” Later on, when Harry lost himself for seven hours a day in his world of music, and the everlasting piano practice threatened peaceful relations with the neighbors, the family moved to another housing project and put an extra piano in the basement. The family frequented a small mission hall directed by two elderly ladies. It was a day when life’s true values were slipping.

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Much of the religion in beautiful churches was an empty form without power. But these two uncompromising women preached righteousness, shunned the world, and, at all costs, avoidedmodern dress. In a day of short skirts, short sleeves, and short hair, they consistently dressed like someone in an 18th-century photo. Their necks were encased in high lace collars, circled with black velvet ribbon, and beneath their long skirts peeped high-buttoned shoes. From their vantage point of two straight-backed chairs on the platform of the dull little city mission, they yearned over each wanderer who entered. They loved Christ supremely; therefore, their love for people was well mixed with courage to be true. In the course of sermons it was quite in keeping to give pointed counsel. Once Miss Van Dyke pointed her finger directly at Mrs. Brown, seated in the second row, and firmly pronounced: “If you stayed home more with your children, Sister Brown, instead of gadding to every street and mission meeting, you’d be a better testimony.” The young Bollbacks had a rigorous church diet, year in and year out, at the mission: Tuesday night - Prayer meeting Wednesday night - Children’s service Thursday night - Young people’s group Saturday night - Open-air meeting Sunday afternoon - Sunday School Sunday night - Evangelistic service Sometimes the children rebelled, but Father was not a weak character. As Mother Bollback once declared: “If Father says that a

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cup of tea is a cup of coffee - well, a cup of coffee it has to be.” So the church diet was adhered to. Father had himself strayed away from church as a young man. He was then married and had a family but was not following the Lord. One day his former Sunday School teacher had met him on the street. She influenced him to come back to church. He had come, and there would be no more turning back. “As for me and my house,” he affirmed, “we will serve the Lord.” One Sunday evening as the sermon droned on, Harry became restless. He crossed from Mother’s knee to Daddy’s chair. He stood in the aisle. He perambulated to various locations. Mother tried inconspicuously to restrain his movements, but he slipped skillfully from her grasp to pursue his interesting pilgrimage. The lady preacher stopped the sermon, pointed this time to Harry’s mother, and said, “Do you realize, sister, that your boy is disturbing people’s attention so they can’t listen to the Gospel?” After that, a firm pressure restrained the restless child, and when the family reached home a firm hand was applied to the seat of the difficulty. Besides the regular diet of church attendance, there was the yearly “vacation” trip to the C&MA Bible Conference at Old Orchard Grove. Although musically educating each child kept the parents poor, the advantages of soap and water were never spared. One night at the conference grounds Harry was dressed impeccably in a white suit for the evening service. The other children entered the tabernacle with their mother, but he “lingered awhile” on the outside.

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Where was the child? It was time for the meeting to begin. In fact the opening strains of music were sounding. The leader was on the platform. That boy knew he had to be in the meeting! Mother glanced around nervously to see if he was somewhere in the audience. The famous evangelistic singer, Carlton Booth, was announced. As his song rang out, the audience sat enthralled by the old Gospel truth glowing with the power of music. At the close of one chorus he said quietly, “I am going to sing the next verse, but I am going to ask those little boys standing in the aisle at the back of the auditorium to come up and sing the chorus with me.” Something in the boys’ faces as they stood at the door had caught the singer’s attention. They self-consciously mounted the platform. Mother Bollback’s eyes were glued to the last figure! Once it had worn a white suit. It was now wet, crumpled, and mud-stained. The buttons had burst off the shirt, and the round little stomach protruded conspicuously. Even the boy’s hair had not escaped contact with the mud puddle and was standing on end. As the boys sang, Harry’s mother shrank lower and lower in her seat. Then, before the audience, Mr. Booth turned to Harry, “Young man, where is your mother? Is she here tonight?” This time it was the boy’s turn to point to the audience. “There she is, right down there.” Mr. Booth put his loving hand on the tousled head:

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“Lady, take care of this boy’s voice. He will be a great singer of the Gospel some day.” The great singer did not then know that the boy one day would travel with him throughout America and Great Britain as his accompanist. (He never became a great singer.) At one Bible conference, Harry and three friends decided to enjoy themselves by staying away from every meeting. They broke one of the dormitory doors entirely off its hinges and made a general disturbance. On the fourth day two of the preachers sought out the lads. “Boys, either you come to the meetings, or you go home fast. What is it to be? Meetings or home?” “We’ll come to the meetings.” “All right. There will be four seats reserved for you in the front row. If you’re not there, we’ll be after you, and don’t think we won’t find you. And, by the way, Harry, you’ll play a hymn at the service. I understand you play the piano.” That night four pairs of knees bowed at the altar, and four young hearts were opened to the Savior!

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IV

IT’S A BOY!

As a boy of 14, Harry had given a concert in the New York Symphony Hall. He was playing now in weekly youth meetings to large audiences in Times Square, Madison Square Garden, and before 40,000 in Yankee Stadium. • • • Far from New York, in the State of Minnesota, God laid His hand on another life. A little mother sat in her rocker one winter evening. The light of a kerosene lamp cast flickering shadows on her head, bowed in prayer. Minnesota is cold in the wintertime. Tonight the wind was whirling snow across hills and vales. Life was not easy. The work was never done, and there would soon be another little one in the family. Thoughts of the unfulfilled longings of her youth filled her heart. In those days she had wanted to go as a missionary to the dark places of the earth. But times were hard. To go to school one needed shoes and books.

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So she stayed at home, married, and day in and out she knew the monotonous routine of cooking, baking, rocking babies, washing clothes, and doing dishes. To others must be given the privilege to go and tell of Him whose blood can wash away the stains of guilt and sin! “Oh, God, grant me one more son. Make this a special child. A different child. A chosen vessel! “Thou knowest my love for these golden-haired little ones, who fill this home with love and laughter. “But I’d like to have a black-haired boy this time. And call him, take him, make him ... a missionary.” The fire burned low, the lamp flickered dimly, but the little mother lingered in the presence of her Lord. There was an atmosphere of expectancy in the humble little farmhouse. Something was astir. The children heard voices of neighbors, and the doctor had come in the early morning hours. “It’s a boy, Mrs. Reimer.” “Does he have black hair?” “Well now, what a question! Who cares what color his hair is so long as he’s a fine, strong boy? Let me see. Yes, ma’am. He’s got black hair, all right. Now, how did you work that - with all those other little towheads you’ve got? Well, congratulations!” Maybe the “dark-haired” part of her prayer was silly, but no one had heard the prayer except God, and the little mother told no one, for “she kept all these things in her heart.” So began Harold Reimer’s life. Two dozen years passed into time. The children in the farmhouse grew and went away.

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Harold trusted His Lord through years of service in the Navy and through years of college, where he was preparing for a career of teaching music. Then a vacation period found him at the Word of Life camp in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. It was campfire night, and hundreds of young people were grouped beneath the starry sky. Harold’s eyes were fixed on the flickering logs, but he was seeing only what a quiet missionary had verbally pictured that afternoon. “I was on a high mountain on the frontiers of Colombia,” he had said. “As I stood on that peak, miles and miles of seemingly endless jungles stretched below me. Beyond what eye could see, these verdant oceans of unexplored forest stretched on and on. I was looking over into Brazil. Those jungles are inhabited by tribes of wild Indians who never yet have heard the name of Jesus Christ.” The embers of the campfire glowed. But the young man’s vision saw Indian campfires instead, and benighted Indians instead of his friends around him. Some of the young people were getting up from their places in the circle and going to stand at the fire’s edge, thus, before earth and heaven, relinquishing their right to their lives, to live henceforth as God should will. When Harold left his place and went to stand, head bowed, at the fireside altar of consecration, hismother’s prayer was answered. Puzzled? Yes, he was. He could not understand that pull, that tugging at his heart. No, he couldn’t understand it, but he could feel it. And how could he understand?

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How could he presume to be a missionary? So he reasoned. What qualification did he have? None that he knew of. What could he do? Play a trombone? Work? What was a missionary supposed to do, anyway? What was he supposed to do? Was he puzzled? Yes, he was. Was he called? What was a call? Seeking the help of the missionary, he said, “I’d like to be a missionary. But I am not worthy, and I have no qualifications.” “If God has put in your heart the will to be, then ‘It is God that worketh in you - Both to will And to do of His good pleasure’ (Philippians 2:13), go forward.” The need for missionaries may be published, but the real key of missions is what the little mother used: prayer. It is the key the Lord of the harvest gave: “Pray ye the LORD of the harvest that He send forth laborers into the harvest.” (Matthew 9:38) To both Harry and Harold the “Call” had come, not as an order to a specific place, but to follow the Savior where He should lead.

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V

LIFE’S WORST MOMENT

HARRY walked into the Word of Life office one morning and noticed a new receptionist. He looked again, having the sudden impression that he was seeing the girl of his dreams. His impression proved true. Courtship and marriage followed. They were still in Bible school when their first baby was on its way. It had been announced so often that the chapel pianist had played from coast to coast, that “coast-to-coast Bollback” was the inevitable nickname. As the event drew near, Harry wore a very large pink-headed safety pin on one coat lapel and a matching blue-headed one on the other. He advised his classmates that when the blessed event should occur two pins of the same color would appear on one lapel to indicate a girl or boy. Onemorning, the beaming young father walked into chapel with two large pink-headed pins on his left lapel. At this moment the chapel hour song leader reached into his pocket with a grandiose gesture, and held up one of the long chocolate cigars, which Harry had bestowed on his colleagues. Enthusiasm ran high. Life was full.

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Before graduation from Bible school, each senior had to give a sermon in the chapel service. In spite of the fact that the aspiring preachers were there to learn how to deliver mighty sermons, this was for most of them “life’s worst moment.” With fellow students arrayed before them to catch every slip of the lip and later turn it into a public pun, and the august body of faculty and others forming a solemn background, most of the seniors were victims of nervousness and fear. In keeping with the importance of the occasion of the trial sermon, the students were accustomed to dress in their best dark suits and ties. The day came for Harry to pass his trial. He stood up and walked to the pulpit, Bible in hand, to face the student body in a flashy yellow sport shirt. Sleek ducks winged their way across the front of it.

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The reverent silence was broken by ripples of laughter, which spread across the auditorium in waves. The nonconformist had dressed to fit his optimistic feelings. (“Well,” thought one somber faculty member, “what could be expected from one who at high school graduation had been elected the class clown?”) That morning the young Mrs. Bollback was as embarrassed for her husband as Mother Bollback had been for her son the night he stood dripping wet on the tabernacle platform. Oswald Chambers in his earthy, practical approach to spiritual things counsels: “Never take anyone seriously but God.” “The question is not what do people think about me, BUT what does God think?” “If we take people seriously, we will forget that God alone is our Judge.” “If we take ourselves seriously, the burden of self will be intolerable.” “If we take seriously every will and wish of our God, we shall walk in Light.” What if Harry’s joyous Christianity was sometimes a bit irrepressible?

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VI

HAVE NOT I SENT THEE?

THE S.S. Pan America on a brilliant morning docked off Brazil’s beautiful shoreline where the lush green palm trees lifted fronds against an azure sky. The boat travel must be changed to that of a small plane, which swooped and circled over the jungle of Cuiaba. This was an old mining town built on the banks of a river where at one time gold had weighted the riverbed. The vast Brazilian jungle formed a dense and luscious green curtain around the other three sides. From the airstrip they bounced over the cobblestones in an antiquated taxi through the quaint old-world city to the South American Indian Mission home, where they were to enter language study. Millie, who had prepared herself for the worst, found her fears soon dispelled. The South American Indian Mission home was an unbelievable surprise. It was a “home” in every sense of the word, with an older missionary couple there to take a personal and loving interest in each younger worker. It was an old-style house: large, bright, and airy. Beautiful

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hanging plants, suspended in brightly painted pots, shaded the length of the veranda, which stretched along three sides of the building. The missionary hostess cared for her guests in the same motherly fashion that a hen keeps vigil over her brood. Homegrown food was prepared in delicious ways, and there was plenty. For some mysterious reason, Millie had imagined that, as soon as her feet were on Brazilian soil, she would suffer a scarcity of food. She found herself sitting down to meals of fluffy rice, juicy beans boiled with plantains, fried bananas sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, sauteed pumpkin, and many such treats. Of course, economy was practiced, but there is a way of making the best of a very little. The first day, as the new recruits sat down at the dinner table, they were introduced to a hearty littleWelshman in from the tribes. Beneath the shock of hair, which stood on end, were two deep- set blue eyes, holding in them something of the sorrows as well as the compensations of long contact with primitiveness. He was the embodiment of what inspires newcomers to the mission field: simplicity ( his luggage was one wooden trunk and a hammock sack), quiet, humble zeal, a sense of humor, and deep spirituality. He looked earnestly at Harry, sitting across the table, and said, “I have seen you before. Are you from England?” “No.” “That is odd. Your face is very distinct in my memory. I feel sure I have seen you somewhere, and that it was in my own country of Wales.”

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Harry thought: “I went to Great Britain and visited Wales when I was travelling as a pianist.” “Young man, I remember now. You were sitting at the piano in the Congregational church in Cardiff, Wales, and I was sitting in the audience. I remember looking well at your face and thinking in my heart: If only this young man were a missionary in Brazil! This is very distinct in my memory. God has a work for you to do!” These words were to encourage Harry through many trying hours.

The new couple completed study and prepared for the journey to their Indian post. Tom and Betty Young, a couple with many years of experience in the South American Indian Mission, were to initiate them into the work. The three-day trip to Paranatinga was made in two trucks. One carried the passengers; the other was heavily freighted

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with baggage and a six-month’s supply of stores for themselves, for the Bacuri Indians, and for the anticipated first journey in search of the wild Xavantes. In the journey from Cuiaba to Paranatinga there were some thirty rickety bridges over winding rivers and tributaries. Through dusty plains, over dirt roads, and past primitive dwellings they jolted. The final bridge was still some distance from their destination, and all gave a sigh of relief to know that this would be the last. As the first truck and passengers started across the bridge, the beams and boards cracked and groaned in protest. The young mothers held their children tightly. Then something seemed to be cracking beneath them as the vehicle inched its way to the other side, where the passengers signaled to the second truck not to proceed; but the second vehicle was following so closely the signal was in vain. As it inched forward, the underneath scaffolding began to crumble. The hind wheels of the truck just pulled onto the bank when there was the crashing and splintering of wood, and the bridge collapsed into the river. The missionaries stood at the side of the trucks thanking God for His deliverance. The driver of the second truck was ashen from the scare. When he could finally speak, he said, “Senhores, there is only one reason why we were saved. Your God travels along with you.”

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VII

DEBORAH

DEEP in the heart of the greatest jungle in the world, many tribes await the telling of God’s love. The young man who, in answer to his mother’s prayers, had committed his life to Christ at a camp fireside meeting, setting his face to reach these tribes. Harold Reimer was soon in Brazil and enrolled in a language school in one of the large cities. Although he couldn’t yet speak Portuguese, he accepted an invitation to go along to a street meeting, give out tracts, and sing. For this first meeting he was to meet a group of Brazilian young people. The hot tropical sun bathed the streets, and the group sought the inviting shade of a mango tree which spread its branches in a great wide canopy. Harold couldn’t understand the conversation, but just to be with these radiant Brazilians was a joy. At one side of the group a fair-skinned young girl with a Bible and hymnbook in her hand stood talking. She wore a white dress with a full skirt tied with a sash of blue. A blue ribbon held up a wealth of shining lightbrown hair.

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Harold had always liked blue. It reminded him of the bachelor buttons in his mother’s little flower garden. He wondered if her eyes were blue, too. He didn’t want to stare, but during the hymn- singing, between his efforts to follow the Portuguese words in the songbook, he verified his guess that the eyes matched the ribbons. There was preaching, more singing, talking, and then a Gospel distribution. Harold promised to help again. The following week Harold decided he would try out a bit of the new language he was learning. Deborah was standing again with the group beneath the mango tree. He attempted a few words in Portuguese, and it didn’t seem very hard at all when she encouraged his humble attempts with a sympathetic smile. The young people of the church found the Christian “Americano” to be a happy addition to their spiritual fellowship, as well as their social gatherings. His newly-acquired, unwieldy Portuguese brought many a hearty laugh, and they often teased him without mercy. Harold was observant, a good mimic, a not-poor student and, all in all, held his own. One evening, however, in retort to the good-natured ribbing, he used a Portuguese expression he had repeatedly heard the young men in the boardinghouse use. Unfortunately, the expression was a shady one whose implication he didn’t understand. There was a shocked silence from the young people, then a good-natured drubbing for his ignorance.

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That night Deborah reached the conclusion that for the sake of the reputation of missions in general she must dedicate herself to assisting a certain missionary. He must by no means bring reproach on what Christians stood for by an unwitting repetition of unacceptable language. Who could be as qualified as she, a trained Brazilian normal schoolteacher, to give him the help he needed! That the missionary in particular happened to be the one whose warm eyes followed her whenever she was present was mere “happenstance.” Or was it?

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VIII

I LOVE, YOU LOVE

IT was a sweltering evening. The language students sat in their room, perspiration dripping off their foreheads onto Portuguese grammar books. Harold looked up. “These verb forms are getting easier all the time. Let me see! Eu amo, Tu amas, Ela ama; Nos amamos, vos amaes, eles amam.

I love, you love, she loves; We love, you love, they love. Now for the subjunctive mood: That I may love,

That you may love, That she may love, That we may love.”

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Harold’s roommate looked disgusted. “Whatever’s the matter with you? These verb forms are terrible. They get me more confused all the time. I’d like to know what the past perfect tense has got to do with evangelizing Indian tribes? As for the subjunctive mood; I don’t even like to describe it.” Harold’s enthusiasm wasn’t dampened. “Let me try the perfect tense. This implies continuing action. Amava, amavas, amava. I was loving, you were loving, he, she, or it was loving. We were loving.” His companion groaned and reached for a magazine to fan himself. “Listen, fella. When a person can conjugate Portuguese verbs with a heavenly light on his brow, something’s wrong somewhere. Whatever’s got into you, anyway?” Yes, Harold had found in Deborah the sweet, intelligent spiritually-minded girl of his dreams. Brazil is a land with a distinct class system. There are Indians, primitive river dwellers, and the social mixtures resulting from slaves, Indians, and Portuguese traders. But there is also the fine upperclass Latin American, mostly of European descent. They may be fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and fine featured. They have high culture and education. The social rules are rigid, and there is more dignity and grace than observed in easy-going American ways. They may smile at the American’s shocking informality, and moviegoers may copy it; but the cultured classes still retain

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their standard of gracious culture and dignified courtesy. This was Deborah’s background. In Harold’s mind there was no doubt that she was the girl for him, yet he could not feel free to declare his feelings. He was soon to leave language school on a mission to contact a savage tribe. Separation was imminent. Both young people knew their own hearts, but said nothing. Brazilian born, Deborah had been appointed by the Brazilian Caiawa Mission to teach in a Christian mission school. As Deborah said goodbye, Harold could only say that he would visit the Caiawa mission station before he flew to his own appointed field. · Many months later, Harold flew to the Brazilian mission where Deborah was teaching Indian children. How to ignore the depth of their friendship? It was no longer possible. A great silver tropical moon rose over the top of the jungle and bathed the world in enchantment, as they sat together on the steps of the mission building. He took her hand and told her of his love. He told her also that in his position he could not consider marriage, that there was no hope for an engagement. Both young people were beginning their life of service. The trial was a fiery one. But what was to have first place - carrying the Gospel to the tribes or personal desire? Having put a hand to the plow, could he turn back? On the morning of Harold’s departure, every blade of grass glistened in the sun; the dewdrops were like diamonds. But two hearts were like lead.

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Deborah waved good-bye from the porch of the mission house. “Impossible to consider marriage!” The verdict repeated itself over and over in her thoughts as she stood at the front of the classroom. “Look, Ginny dear, forty-nine divided by seven is nine. You’ve made a mistake.” “No, I haven’t, teacher, forty-nine divided by seven is seven, really!” “Oh, I seem to be kind of mixed up today.” “Impossible to consider marriage!” “Look, Jose, pick up the paper you just dropped by my desk.” “That’s not paper, teacher, it’s your handkerchief. You look as though you had been crying, teacher. Are you sick? Shall I call Dona Loide? You are sick.” “No, no, I’m all right. Thank you, Jose. Now you may sit down.” It was a long day until the hour came when, in the privacy of her room, she could fling herself onto her knees and let the tempest of her soul dissolve itself into scalding tears.

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IX

WHAT ARE MISSIONARIES MADE OF?

THE two missionary couples on the Paranatinga Indian station were planning an advance to unreached tribes. Government restrictions prohibited their living on the Indian post, so it meant keeping horses to cross the Red River between the territory allotted to them and where the Bacuri tribe was settled. There were cows and chickens to be cared for, and the houses needed repair. As the missionaries established a program of visiting the village, the indifference of the Indians to spiritual things began to change. The government restrictions did chafe, for they longed to make their home in the tribe; but they had to make the best of it. In July the river dried so that a child could jump across it. With the rainy season, however, it became a swollen, swirling torrent. Each Sunday morning Harry, Millie, Tom, and Betty mounted the horses that would swim them across the swiftly flowing river. After spending all day in the village, they at night again mounted the horses and, with the children in their arms, they made the return trip across the river.

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In that part of Amazonia every green leaf and blade of grass is covered with chiggers - tiny red insects which burrow under the skin and set up an unbearable itch. The more the victim scratches, the deeper the pest burrows. Scratching inevitably causes inflammation; fingernails carry germs deeper into the flesh. What spots the chiggers may scorn, the wood ticks choose for lodging. They also burrow into the flesh, become engorged with blood, and set up an itching that persists for days after the intruder has been removed. These were things that made the flesh uncomfortable sometimes, but really they were not what changed a young missionary’s spirit. Harry had been used to playing in large evangelistic campaigns, travelling and preaching over the weekends, attending Bible college at the same time. So, the slow pace of life in the isolated interior made time seem heavy on his hands, in spite of the work among the Bacuris. This was the last thing he had expected. Every missionary during the important first years on the field receives frequent visits from the devil of discouragement. He settles at the elbow of God’s whispers subtle suggestions in his ear. “Oh, I say now, old chap, what did you come out here for? What you’re doing here you could have done at home. You didn’t have to cross the ocean to do this kind of thing!” “Pardon me, but maybe you have made a fool of yourself!”

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“Look at the way people made over you at home! What do you think they’d say if they could see you now? Look at your hands! Fine, tapering fingers made for the piano.” “And here you were all day today plastering a house with mud and manure. Just look at that mess caked under your fingernails! Quite a job for a missionary!” “Thought you were going to be preaching to hundreds of eager nationals! Holding savages spellbound with the Gospel!” “Excuse me, my dear, if I appear to sneer, but how many hours did you spend this week repairing the fences to keep the cows out of the vegetable gardens?” “Well, I must be going. It’s time for you to sing the doxology at your Sunday morning service, and I can’t stand that - never could. But don’t worry! I’ll be back. Yes, I’ll be back, you may be sure!” A missionary’s temptations never come in the way he had anticipated. The wily tempter sees that they come in a form which is unexpected and usually for which the novice is unprepared. It is good to remember that temptations come from the tempter - never from God! God tests; but Satan tempts. To pray is not enough. To watch is not enough. It must be both. If only the worker could at this time remember that he is in the making, that Jesus said, “Follow Me, and I will make you...” He often thinks of the final clause - “fishers of men” - and forgets that there is a process involved. Every useful servant of God has his wilderness experience.

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Moses alone in the wilderness watched the stars. David in the night watches kept his sheep. God’s greatness filled their hearts. They both tended the sheep, cuddled the baby lambs, cared for the heavy ewes, and learned patience, humility, and gentleness. Then they said, “Thy gentleness hath made me great .” This is a critical time. Anyone whomay have picturedmissionary life as a “step up” will be disappointed. He will find he is now living only unto the Lord, for there is no congregation to appreciate his efforts, no one to congratulate him on his consecration, nobody to commend his zeal. This is the time when he can be faithful in the so-called “little things” and learn that God is “the God of patience.” (Romans 15:5) He can bandage up his tropical ulcers and “offer up the sacrifice of praise” (Jeremiah 33:11; Hebrews 13:15). Or, he can bog down in the rut of monotony, take up a few hobbies to kill time, listen to the tempter’s sneers, and eventually give up. Away from the sham and show of society, this first period of frustration is meant to be a “making” period, for a geographical location doesn’t make a missionary. Faith, vision, fruitfulness - these things are not products of going to live in a foreign country. “If my circumstances were different, I would be more consecrated.” “If my environment were more conducive to a prayer life, I’d be more spiritual.”

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If, if, if! Such a small word to hide behind! Men tossed Saint John onto the isle of Patmos and said, “We’ll see now whether you’ll keep preaching and teaching about this man you call Lord. Barren rocks make a poor audience.” From that bleak and barren island came the book of Revelation. John Bunyan shivered in the gloom of a prison cell, and the hunger pangs gnawed his stomach, but out of that dungeon came the book of Pilgrim’s Progress to bless the world. “Two men looked out through prison bars. One saw mud; the other saw stars.”* So long as Christ fills the vision, no wave of life can swamp His own. “Follow Me, and I will make you.”

* Author unknown

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X

A CHANGED MAN

THE self-esteeming Bacuri chief, Manoel, was the one barrier to the Gospel among the Bacuris. In the first place, he considered himself above all others by virtue of his position. In second place, his possessions spelled out wealth. He had a bed for one thing. It was a wooden framework with twine bottom. Then, instead of eating his food on a banana leaf, he ate from a tin plate. Of course, he couldn’t deign to attend a meeting. Tom and Harry had remodeled a large open barracks into an inviting place for the Indians to come. Brazilians as well as Indians always found a welcome there, a delicious cup of savory, black coffee, and simple, medical treatments. Although officials, unsympathetic to evangelization, hindered the movements of the Bacuris, the Indians managed more and more to visit the mission compound. Often they spilled over the bounds of the barracks into the home where they enjoyed teasing little Linda and Larry.

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Harry and Tom initiated daily special meetings for the Indian children. They left the station early each morning, crossed the river on horses, then rode another four miles to the village. The trip home at night was long. By the time they reached the bank of the Red River opposite the compound, it was very late, and they would stand in the dark at the riverside, cup their hands, and call across: “He-yo, Siiiiilver!” If the wind was blowing the right way, Millie and Betty would realize it was time to get something ready for the hungry men. Now that the barracks had become a kind of recreation and meeting place for the Indians on Saturday night, Chief Manoel would come, drink the sweet black coffee, enjoy the prestige and attention shown him, then go home. He showed no interest in the welfare of his soul. He had never listened to preaching. Why should he, of course? He was the chief. Let others listen to him! “We’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting, Captain,” the missionaries would say when he left their house on Saturday night. He always replied, “I’ll be there.” But he never was. One Saturday night, having enjoyed his coffee, the company, and the missionaries’ hospitality, he rose to go. “See you tomorrow in the meeting, Captain,” reminded Harry. “Yes, of course, I’ll be there.” “Listen, Captain! You’ve told me that before. If you don’t come to church tomorrow to the meeting when the bell rings, I’m going to your home after you. How about that?”

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The old chief was enjoying the fuss these missionaries made over him. “I’ll be there, I’ll be there.” As usual, themissionaries with the childrenmounted the horses, crossed the river, and rode through the forest to the meeting place. The bell rang. Practically the whole village was already there. But no chief! Harry made his way to the low, grass-covered mud hut where the Captain was crouching on his heels in the doorway, sucking on his pipe. “Well, Chief, here I am. Everybody’s waiting for you. Let’s go.” The hard lines in the weather-beaten old face crinkled a bit. This was some attention he was getting! “Oh, I don’t think I can go along today,” he muttered. “Oh, yes, you can. The whole show is held up waiting for you. Come on now, Chief, you promised you’d come. I’m going to stay right here and wait for you.” While the congregation sang, various members would stand up to peer out the windows to see what the developments were. Sure enough, in a little while they saw two men coming down the beaten path. The word was noisily passed around. This was unheard of. The chief had always kept aloof from this “News” of the Gospel. As the two men entered the door at the back of the hall, the whole congregation turned to look. Step by step he was ushered up the length of the hall to one of the front rows. This was prestige, indeed!

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A hush settled over the humble little church, and the Gospel message began. “I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God unto salvation.” That steady gaze from the old Indian’s eyes never left the face of the messenger. My Word is “sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of the... heart,” saith the Lord. When the service was over, the old leather-skinned warrior looked like a man just awakening from a long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten his preoccupation with prestige. Unassumingly, he moved toward the door with the others, a humbled, an impressed, and, everyone said, a changed man.

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XI

A HERO AT ZERO

IF we only had some eggs, I’d make a cake. We sifted a liter and a half of bugs out of that tin of flour,” Millie declared at the dinner table. Several exploratory trips had been made into the jungle. Now the missionaries were again together on the station, while they made preparations for another journey in search of the Xavantes. Harold had come to join them. There was no separate house available for a single fellow, so he had a room in the Bollback’s home. Harold’s even temperament, ready sense of humor, and lack of affectation made him a welcome addition on the station. Some nights, after a game of Rook and a cup of hot chocolate, he would look at the floor rather glumly then find a remedy for his heart ailment by picking up the guitar to strum a bit. Am I worried ? Am I blue? Can’t you guess, dear,

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I love you? His song, floating out through the door of the mud hut into the tropical night, inspired the cows in the corral to add “Moo,” and out of the night rose the song of hundreds of frogs on the steep banks of the Red River. “Did you say bugs?” Her husband looked at her skeptically. “There couldn’t have been any bugs in that flour. I soldered those tins up myself.” “Well, my dear, did you think that your magic touch could discourage them? I said we took a liter and a half of bugs out, and we did.” Millie stuck to her point. “How could bugs multiply without any air?” “We didn’t learn that in biology or anything else that I ever studied, so I don’t know. I only wish we had some eggs so that I could make a cake for a change.” “Why don’t we have eggs? We’ve got chickens. Do you mean those hens are lazy?” Harry looked indignant. His wife looked a bit exasperated. “How do I know if they’re lazy, or tired out, or undernourished, or bored, or on strike? I give them plenty of food.” Betty offered her suggestion, “I think they are laying eggs and eating them all.” “I think they lack calcium,” Tom remarked. “Hmmmm.” Harry stroked his imaginary beard. “I’ll have to look into this. I have it! I have it!” “What do you have?”

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“An idea!” “Well, let us have it, too.” “I will undertake to make those hens produce. You’ll soon have so many eggs you won’t know what to do with them.” Linda laughed so much she choked on the grated manioc she had mixed with her beans and rice. Someone made a joking remark about city slickers not knowing much about poultry. “You shall see what a city slicker can do with a bunch of old hens,” affirmed Harry, and calling his wee son, Larry, to be his helper, he finished off his dinner and marched out to the chicken yard. Millie’s unshakable faith in her husband’s capabilities already envisioned a beautiful, fluffy golden cake. She went through the trunks in search of Betty Crocker’s cookbook to plan her culinary triumph. In the weeks that followed there seemed to be quite a bit of activity around the chicken house, and the hens were enjoying the fuss. “Come on, Larry boy, we’ve got an appointment with those old hens. Bring all the scraps from the table, and let’s go out and see what’s happening. I’ve got a hunch that Mamma’s going to make us something special today.” Larry and Daddy went out the back door. Daddy still limped a bit these days. During a trek through the jungle the tropical sores on his feet had become worse, and then

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infection had set in. Some of the toenails had fallen off but were just starting to grow in again. “Larry, just look into this nest. Just cast your eyes in there, boy.” In one of the nests alone lay three beautiful white eggs. “Let’s look in the other nests.” “Here’s some more.” The wee boy’s eyes shone as he reached in for those beautiful prizes. As he did so, the heavy plank in front of the nests slipped off the wooden pin that held it. Down it came. The eggs weren’t hurt, but Millie, looking out the door, saw Harry sitting on the ground rocking back and forth, clutching his sore, swollen feet mashed again by the falling plank. She hurried out with the dish towel still in her hand. “What happened, Harry?” Harry’s face was distorted with pain. “A hero at zero”, he muttered. “My brand new toenails! That plank came right down on my feet.” “I’m sorry, Daddy,” the dear little boy said. “That’s all right, son. Don’t worry about that. We’ve got those eggs, anyway. Go ahead and gather them up. Mummy’ll have to make something real good to pay for this.” The basin was over half full of eggs. “Harry, I do appreciate the eggs, but I wish you’d wear shoes

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