Children’s Story – The Shoemaker of Hackleton

“Willie, we can’t send you to school next year,” said Mr. Carey. “We have your four brothers and sisters to take care of. And since you’re the oldest, you’ll have to find a job and go to work. We need the money you can earn.”

Now, you may think it would be fun not to have to go to school. But Willie loved school. He loved to study and learn new things. He looked up into his father’s face and knew that he had heard right. He would not be able to go back to school the next year! He knew his father wouldn’t change his mind.

Willie glanced down at his shoes. He kicked the dust along the path as he and his father walked along. He pretended to be looking for something over by the edge of the trees along the path. He wanted to hide his tears of disappointment. He was so unhappy he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You’ll be fourteen years old next week,” Father went on. “I think I can get you a job with the shoemaker in town. You can learn to cut leather and make shoes.”

“I guess I could study in the evenings,” Willie managed to say at last. “There are so many things I want to know! I can borrow books and read and learn things even if I can’t go to school.”

So, Willie went to work for the town shoemaker, a man named Clarke Nichols, in the town of Hackleton. As soon as he walked into the shoe shop on the very first day, Willie knew that he was going to like his new job. He saw a few books on a shelf in one corner of the shop. Willie could hardly wait to read the titles to see what they were about. He didn’t have time to look at them all morning, but when lunchtime came and he could stop work for a few minutes, he quickly began to look at the books.

One of the books looked especially interesting. It was about the Bible. It had a lot of strange words in Greek that Willie didn’t understand. But they were exciting anyway. They were like a mysterious puzzle just waiting to be solved.

Willie carefully copied the Greek words on a piece of paper. He put the paper in his pocket. At the end of the week, when he went home, he took the paper with him. Then he took the paper with the strange Greek words to a friend who could read Greek. With the help of his friend, Willie slowly learned what each word meant. Then he found some Latin words in the book, and he copied these words, as well. He did the same with some Hebrew words. Willie loved to study, and after a few months, he could read Greek, Latin, and Hebrew!

Willie also enjoyed studying his Bible, and he liked to pray. One day he decided he wanted to be a Christian and give his heart to Jesus. Afterward, he was so happy that he began to tell everyone about Jesus. He wanted to be a preacher, but he had to keep on working making shoes to earn money for food and clothes and to help his family.

One day Willie found a book written by a famous explorer, Captain James Cook, who had traveled to many faraway places around the world. In this book, Willie learned about people who lived in other parts of the world. Then he had an idea.

Willie came to work a few days later carrying a roll of paper under his arm. He got some tacks and a hammer and carefully unrolled the paper. The other workers in the shoe shop came over to see what Willie was doing with the tacks and the roll of paper.

Willie held up the paper so they could see. It was covered with different colored shapes. “This is a map of the world,” he told them. “Now we can see what countries Captain Cook visited during his travels.”

One of the workmen helped Willie hold up the map against the wall. Willie tacked it in place so all the workers could see it. Then he got a black pencil and began marking the map. He marked each place Captain Cook had been to. He also wrote down things he had learned about each country—things he had learned from books he had read. But while he was writing, he got another idea. He wondered if the people in these faraway places knew anything about Jesus.

“We should send someone across the ocean to teach these people about Jesus,” Willie said to his pastor.

“When God wants them to know about Jesus and the Bible, He will take care of it,” the pastor told Willie.

But the pastor didn’t forget what Willie had said. He talked to other pastors. A few years later there was a movement to send someone to India. “I’ll go,” Willie offered. “The people in India may not be happy to see me, and my friends here at home may forget about me, but God will be with me.” So, Willie sailed for India.

For more than a year after he left for India, no one heard from Willie at all. Finally, a letter arrived. It was from Willie to the pastors who had sent him to India. They read it and passed it around to many other people to read. The letter said that Willie was building a church. He needed help. All his friends began collecting money, which they sent to him to help him build the church in that distant land.

Meanwhile, in India, Willie was having trouble. He didn’t know how to speak the Bengali language, so he couldn’t talk to the people there. But Willie had always enjoyed learning new things. He decided to get a job so he could have some money to pay someone to teach him Bengali. Willie got a job in a factory making indigo. Indigo is a blue dye that is used to make ink.

As soon as he got a job and began earning some money, Willie hired a teacher. He was a good student, and before long he could speak and understand Bengali. Once he knew the language, Willie started to translate the Bible into Bengali. He knew the people in India would want to read the Bible in their own language. But many of the people couldn’t read—even in Bengali. So, Willie held classes to teach them to read. It took a long time, but as the people learned to read and as they began reading the Bible, they wanted to learn more about God.

Willie built a church and a school. He helped many, many people in India to love God and have a better life. From the time he was a boy, Willie had worked hard. He worked hard in the shoemaker’s shop. And he worked hard in India as a missionary for God. Today, William Carey is known as the “Father of Modern Christian Missions.”

Storytime, Character-building Stories for Children, 86–89.

Children’s Story — The Strength of Clinton

When Clinton Stevens was eleven years old, he was taken very sick with pneumonia. During convalescence, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

“It is ten to one if he gets well,” Said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. “If he does, he will never be very strong.”

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton’s pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor Clinton! Who had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced before Clinton could sit at the window, and watch the grass grow green on the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a troublesome “bark,” that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Why, Ma Stevens!” he said, after a moment, “just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl’s, and they used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for Mr. Carter this summer, does it?”

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. “Never mind, dearie,” she said, “they will grow plump and brown again, I hope.” A group of schoolchildren were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved their caps but he did not seem elated.

“Mother,” he said, presently, “I believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I—I guess I am not quite so—strong—now as I used to be.”

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around with the milkman, and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which helped him to mend. One morning in July he surprised the village by riding out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the schoolroom would be a good place to test Clinton’s strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young person’s strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honor or dishonor. Or course, the doctor had referred to physical strength; but moral strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad for his years; and, although he had not looked into his books during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had left when taken sick. He did not find much difficulty in keeping up with any of his studies except spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on that subject, he felt that a real victory had been won.

About Christmas time the regular examinations were held. The teacher offered a prize to each grade, the pupil receiving the highest average in all studies to receive the prize. Much excitement, no little speculation, and a great deal of studying ensued. Clinton felt fairly confident over all his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling book home every night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wrestling with the long and difficult words.

Examination day came at length, and the afternoon for the seventh grade spelling was at hand. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when the teacher pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly down into the palm of his hand. Clinton watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at the others. Many of them had some dishonest device for copying the words. Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Billy Matthews, who pursed up his lips and nodded, as if to say that he understood.

The papers were handed in, and school was dismissed. On Monday, after the morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades under her care. “I have now to award the prize for the highest average to the seventh grade,” she said. “But first I wish to say a few words on your conduct during the recent examination in spelling. I shall censure no one in particular, although there is one boy who must set no more bad examples. No one spelled all the words correctly—Clinton Stevens the least of any—making his average quite low; yet, the prize goes to him. I will tell you why” as a chorus of Oh! Oh! greeted her ears. “Spelling is Clinton’s hardest subject, but he could easily have spelled more words right had he not possessed sufficient strength to prevent him from falling into the way followed by some of you.”

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the schoolhouse to the road; now the teacher had said he was strong!

Clinton’s Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her little daughter Grace with her. Now Grace had a mania for pulling other people’s hair, but there was no one in the Stevens family upon whom she dared operate except Clinton. She began on him cautiously, then aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while, and then asked her, politely but firmly, to stop. She stopped for half a day.

One night Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys had been taunting him on his spare frame, and imitating his cough, which had grown worse as the winter advanced. Sitting down by the window, he looked out at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him, and gave his hair a sharp tweak. He struck out, hastily, and hit her. She was not hurt—only very much surprised —but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt Jennie came hurrying in, and took the child in her arms.

That night after supper Clinton went into the sitting room, and called Grace to him. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “I am sorry that I hit you, and I ask your pardon. Will you forgive me, dear?” Grace agreed quickly, and said shyly, “Next time I want to pull any one’s hair, I will pull my own.”

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. “It strikes me, Sarah, she said to Mrs. Stevens later, “that Clinton is a remarkably strong boy for one who is not strong. Most boys would not have taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive them, even if they were very much in the wrong. But Clinton has a strong character.”

The year Clinton was thirteen the boys planned to have a corn roast, one August night. “We will get the corn in old Carter’s lot,” said Harry Meyers. “He has just acres of it, and can spare a bushel or so as well as not. I suppose you will go with us, Clint?”

Clinton hesitated, “No,” said he, “I guess not; and I should think if you want to roast corn, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr. Carter’s corn is better than any other, why can you not ask him—” “Oh, come now,” retorted Harry, “do not let it worry you! Half the fun of roasting corn is in—in taking it. And don’t you come, Clinton. We wouldn’t have you for the world. You are too nice, Mr. Coughin.”

Clinton’s cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr. Carter quizzed Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made very happy by the old man’s words: “It is not every chap that will take the stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say No.”

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably, and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine “to build him up.”

“Mother,” said the boy, after thinking it over, “I am not going to touch any wine. I can get well without it, I know I can. I do not want liquor.” He continued. ” ‘Wine is a mocker,’ you know. Did you not tell me once that Zike Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine when he was sick?”

“Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so.” “Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen Zike Hastings too many times.” In December, Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came Uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.

“My boy,” said he one day, placing a big hand on the lad’s shoulder, “early in the new year Aunt Jennie and I start for the Pacific Coast. Should you like to go with us?”

“Well, I rather guess I should!” gasped the surprised boy, clasping his hands joyfully. “Very well, then, you shall go,” returned Uncle Jonathan, “and your mother, too.”

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were sparkling with excitement. The mountains fairly put new life in him. Uncle Jonathan watched him with pleasure. “Tell me,” he said one day, when they were winding in and out among the Rockies, “what has given you so much strength of character?”

“Why, it was this way,” said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from a chasm some hundreds of feet below: “one day when I was beginning to recover from that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys romping along, and I felt pretty bad because I could not romp and play, too. Then I thought that if I could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right; so I began to try, and—”

“Succeeded admirably,” said Uncle Jonathan, approvingly. “And, really, my boy, I see no reason why you should not shout and play to your heart’s content in a few months.”

And Uncle Jonathan’s words proved true; for Clinton, in a sun-kissed California valley, grew well and strong in a few months. But through all his life he will have cause to be glad that he learned the value of the strength that is gained by resisting temptation, controlling one’s spirit, and obeying the Lord’s commands.

Taken from Stories Worth Rereading, Review and Herald Publishing Assn, Washington, D.C. 1919

 

Children’s Story — Muriel ’s Bright Idea

My friend Muriel is the youngest daughter in a large family. They are in moderate circumstances, and the original breadwinner has been long gone; so the young people have to be wage earners.

“Other people do not know now lovely vacations are,” was the way Esther expressed it as she sat on the side porch, hands folded lightly in her lap, and an air of delicious idleness about her entire person. It was her week of absolute leisure, which she had earned by a season of hard work. She is a public-school teacher and works fourteen hours a day.

Alice is a music teacher, and goes from house to house in town and from school to school, with her music roll in hand. Ben, a young brother, is studying medicine in a doctor’s office, and also in town, and serving the doctor between times to pay for his opportunities. There are two others, an older brother just started in business for himself, and a sister in nurses’ training.

So they scattered each morning to their duties in the city ten miles away, and gathered at night, like chickens, to the home nest, which was mothered by the dearest little woman. She prepared favorite dishes for the wage earners as they gathered at night around the home table. It is a very happy family, but I set out to tell you about Muriel’s apron, but it seemed necessary to describe the family in order to secure full appreciation of the apron.

Muriel is still a high-school girl, hoping to graduate next year, though at times a little anxious lest she may not pass. She plans to go to college as soon as possible. But about her apron. I saw it first one morning when I crossed the street to my neighbor’s side door, and met Muriel in the doorway, as pretty a picture as a fair-haired, bright-eyed girl of seventeen can make. She was in what she called her uniform, a short dress (less than floor length) made of dark print, cut lower(but modest) in the neck than a street dress. It had elbow sleeves, with white braid stitched on their bands and around the square neck setting off the little costume charmingly.

Her apron was a strong dark green denim, wide enough to cover her dress completely; it had a bib waist held in place by shoulder straps; and the garment fastened behind with a single button. But its distinctive feature was a row of pockets—or rather several rows of them—extending across the front breadth; they were of varying sizes, and all bulged out as if well filled.

“What in the world?” I began, and stared at the pockets. Muriel’s merry laugh rang out.

“Haven’t you seen my pockets before?” she asked. “They astonish you, of course; everybody laughs at them; but I am proud of them; they are my own invention. You see, we are such a busy family, and so tired when we get home at night, that we have a bad habit of dropping things just where we are, and leaving them. By the last of the week this big living room is a sight to behold. It used to take half my morning to pick up the thousand and one things that did not belong here, and carry them to their places. You do not know now many journeys I had to make, because I was always overlooking something. So I invented this apron with a pocket in it for every member of the family, and it works like a charm.

“Look at this big one with a B on it; that is for Ben, and it is always full. Ben is a great boy to leave his pencils, and his handkerchiefs, and everything else about. Last night he even discarded this necktie because it felt choky.

“This pocket is Esther’s. She leaves her letters and her discarded handkerchiefs, as well as her gloves. And Kate sheds hair ribbons and hatpins wherever she goes. Just think how lovely it is to have a pocket for each, and drop things in as fast as I find them. When I am all through dusting, I have simply to travel once around the house and unpack my load. I cannot tell you how much time and trouble and temper my invention has saved me.” “It is a bright idea,” I said, “and I mean to pass it on. There are other living rooms and busy girls. Whose is that largest pocket, marked M?”

“Why, I made it for mother; but mothers do not leave things lying around. It is funny, is it not, when they have so many cares? It seems to be natural for mothers to think about other people. So I made the M stand for ‘miscellaneous,’ and I put into that pocket articles which belong to all of us. I needed pockets last winter, when we all had special cares and were so dreadfully busy. It is such a simple idea you would have supposed that any person would have thought of it. I just had to do it this spring, because there simply was not time to run up and down stairs so much.

“It is true, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention,’” I said. “And, besides, you have given me a new idea. I am going home to work it out. When it is finished, I will show it to you.” Then I went home, and made rows and rows of strong pockets to sew on a folding screen I was making for my work room.


Just Do Your Best

 

Just do your best. It matters not how small,

How little heard of;

Just do your best—that’s all.

Just do your best. God knows it all,

And in His great plan you count as one;

Just do your best until the work is done.

Just do your best. Reward will come

To those who stand the test;

God does not forget. Press on,

Nor doubt, nor fear. Just do your best.

 

by Ernest Lloyd

Taken from Stories Worth Rereading, Review and Herald Publishing Assn., Washington D.C., 1919.

 

Children’s Story — Boardman’s Remarkable Deliverance

I preached one evening at Mould, in Flintshire (England) and the next morning set out for Parkgate on horseback. After riding some miles, I asked a man if I was on the right road. He answered, “Yes, but you will have some sands to go over, and unless you ride fast, you will be caught by the tide.”

It then began to snow so hard that I could scarcely see a step of my way. I got to the sands and rode over them as fast as I could. But the tide came in and surrounded me on every side, so that I could neither go forward nor turn back and to climb the steep rocks on the side was impossible. I prayed and surrendered my life to God thinking that I could not escape death.

In a little while I saw two men running down the hill on the other side of the water. Somehow they got a boat and came to my rescue just as the sea reached my knees as I sat on my horse. They took me into the boat and my horse swam by our side until we reached the land.

While we were in the boat, one of the men said, “Surely, sir, God is with you.” I answered, “I trust He is.” The man replied, “I know He is,” and then related the following incident.

“Last night I dreamed that I must go to the top of such a hill. When I awoke, the dream made such an impression on my mind that I could not rest. I therefore went and called on this man to come with me. When we came to the place, we saw nothing unusual. However, I begged him to go with me to another hill at a small distance, and there we saw you in your distress.”

When we got ashore, I went with my two friends to a public house close to where we landed. As we were telling of the wonderful providence of God, the landlady said, “A month ago we saw a gentleman in your situation, but before we could get to him he jumped into the sea. We thought that he hoped his horse would swim to the shore and thus save him, but they both sank and drowned together.”

I gave the two men who rescued me all the money I had, which I think was about eighteen pence. I stayed at the hotel all night. The next morning I was embarrassed because I had no money to pay my bill. I begged the hotelkeeper to keep a pair of silver spurs until I could redeem them.

But he said, “The Lord bless you, sir, I would not take a farthing (less than a penny) from you for the world.” After some serious conversation with the friendly people, I bade them farewell and again started on my journey, rejoicing in the Lord, and praising Him for His great salvation!

By Pastor Richard Boardman

From Miraculous Powers by M. E. Cornell.

 

Children’s Story — On Freedom’s Soil

I wish I might have known my grandfather, Valentine Leer, but he died before I was born. I can see him, though—a short, stout German farm boy, plowing the gently rolling fields of his father’s land in Russia’s southern Ukraine.

It was good land, rich black soil. Valentine Leer stopped the horses and squatted on his heels to rub the dirt between his fingers. It was still moist from the winter rains. The best growing land in Russia, he smiled proudly to himself. And his father’s farm the best kept, the most productive.

Straightening up, he looked out across the upturned furrows behind him to his little village nestled in the poplars among the low hills. Kassel, just fifty miles north of Odessa on the Black Sea, had been home to his people ever since they left Germany maybe fifty years ago in the early eighteen hundreds. They had come in response to the Czar’s call for more thrifty, hard-working German farmers, with the modern methods of Western Europe, to settle these thousands of fertile acres.

Valentine loved the little village which his people had named after their hometown in Germany. He could see the Lutheran church where he helped with the younger boys, the school, and his white-washed mud cottage in the cherry orchard under the great endless blue of the sky. Someday he would have his own cottage, and he knew who would share it with him—at least, he hoped he knew!

Putting up the horses for the night, Valentine strode toward the welcoming lamp light, hungry for a bowl of his mother’s Borsch. Or maybe there would be Kase Knepf or Strudel tonight. Whatever it was, he knew there would be plenty.

But when he came in, the kitchen was empty. From the next room, he heard his father’s angry voice.

“But, officer, I have already paid my taxes down at Odessa.”

“I did not make the law. I just follow my orders. Fifty more rubles to the Czar this year. After all, there is a war going on.”

There had been a war going on as long as Valentine could remember.

“I cannot pay it now,” his father said.

“I do not have the money.”

“If you do not have it in by Monday night, you either go to jail, or we take five desiatine of your land.”

There was a scraping of chairs and boots and the front door closed.

Valentine saw his father sink heavily into a chair. His mother sat in the corner wiping her eyes. He waited for his father to speak.

“Ach, so. Another freedom gone.”

“But I do not understand, Father.”

“You are young, my son. Tonight you have seen two of the promises in Catherine the Great’s manifesto broken.

First, the taxes. She promised us freedom from taxation. But year by year they have become heavier until I can hardly pay them. And then this Russian officer! We Germans were to have our own government, with an administrative board appointed by the Czar. One of our own officers should be collecting the taxes. But now the only question is: Where do I get the money? If I do not get it, I will lose the land.”

For the first time, Valentine realized the heavy burden his father carried. He ate his supper silently, wishing there was some way he could help. Scarcely had they finished their meal when Conrad Schmidt, their neighbor to the east, came in. He looked so old and beaten that Valentine’s father exclaimed, “Conrad, what is wrong?”

“They have taken my land,” he almost whispered. “You know I did not have much. My wife has been sick and I had a poor harvest last year. There were other expenses and I could not pay the taxes. So they have taken the last.”

“If I were younger,” Conrad continued slowly, “Yes, if I were younger and my wife strong, you know what I would do? I would go to America!”

Valentine slipped out the back door. He had to think. What was happening to the German colony? How could the Russians take their land away from them? It was not right.

He looked up to see Herr Wall, their Lutheran school teacher, swinging briskly down the road, bulging satchel in hand. Herr Wall was always hurrying. “Where are you going?” Valentine called.

“To America,” he answered. Then he stopped and laughed. “Ach, lieber, Valentine, you look surprised! Yes, but it is true. The Russian officers brought me orders from the Czar to turn over our Lutheran school to the Ministry of Education. We were to be free to control our own school, but now it is to be taught and controlled by the Russians!”

“But, America, Herr Wall,” Valentine protested. “What do you know about America? It is so far away.”

“But it is free, my lad. No one will take my school away from me in America. Yes, I am going. I will write and tell you all about it.”

During the following years Valentine thought often about Herr Wall and America. As he became responsible for more of the duties and problems of the farm, and built the little cottage to which he brought his bride, Fredricka Hieb, he treasured the occasional letter which came from his teacher.

But there was much to keep him busy at home and in the community. As Valentine and his bride walked slowly home over the muddy road one spring evening, avoiding the deep ruts left by the farm wagons, they talked about the Baptist preacher who had recently come to their village.

“You know, Fredricka, I feel that this teaching is more like what I have studied in the Bible myself. I believe I must accept it and be baptized.” He saw her face whiten in the dusk. “But Valentine, you know it is forbidden to change your religion. You know how the Orthodox Church and the government are working together to clamp down on Protestants. I just know you will be put in jail!”

“When something is right to do,” he answered, “then the only thing is to go ahead and do it.”

In spite of Fredricka’s fears, he was baptized. That was when his life of active service really began: A word of comfort to a downhearted Russian peasant here, a pamphlet on the love of God to an educated Russian officer there, and guidance and help to the new little Baptist Church in the German community.

But Fredricka had been right. It was not long before these activities brought him persecution. During the next few years he began to feel that he knew the interior of the Velva jail, five miles away, almost as well as his own home. When he returned from jail, discouraged, he could always find comfort in his children, Karl and Carolina.

“Father!” called little Karl, running out through the lean-to one night, “there is a big, big man in the house!”

Valentine dropped the plow and hurried in. What could it be this time? Surely not more taxes.

Fredricka stood at the kitchen door, tears in her eyes. “It was an officer, Valentine,” she choked. “He is taking a census for . . . for military service. Sometime this year you will have to go!”

Valentine picked up baby Carolina and put his arm around his wife. “Come, Karl,” he said, “it is time to go in to worship.” He took the big German family Bible from the shelf and sat down.

“That breaks the last promise, does it not? Exemption from military service. But we must remember, Fredricka, that God has a purpose behind all this. Though we cannot see what it is yet, we can trust Him.”

Valentine remembered the confidence and peace of that worship period the next evening when the heavy door of the little jail in Velva slammed behind him.

“Ivanovitch!” He heard the towering, fur-capped office bellow. “Take this … this Baptist and lock him up. I do not know for how long. Forever, for all I care!”

“But officer,” fussed the balding little jailer, “you know this Valentine Leer makes nothing but trouble in here. He is always converting . . .” The nervous little jailer’s voice trailed off. The door was shut and the officer gone.

“All right, all right, Valentine Leer,” he sighed, “what is it this time?”

Valentine sank down wearily on the hard slat-covered bed and began to unlace his muddy boots.

“This time, Mr. Ivanovitch, your officers on horseback drove me five miles on foot through the mud to you here because I was reading from the Bible to my Russian neighbor. I was reading from the Book of John, you know, the part where our Savior says . . .”

“You mean you were out making converts for the Baptist Church again. Proselytizing. That is against the law!”

“Yes, you are right. It is against the laws of Russia, and I am sorry for that. I do not like to disobey laws, especially the laws of a country which has been so good to our people in the past. But if God’s laws tell me to preach, and man’s laws say not to, then I must obey God’s laws.”

The jailer slid down beside Valentine, his eyes on the curious faces of the other inmates as he scooted nearer.

“Tell me something, Leer,” he half whispered. “I do not know much about the laws of God, but I would like to know why it is so important for you to do this—to keep preaching this gospel you talk about, always ending up in jail here. Why are you so different from the rest of us anyway?”

“Valentine leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He was very tired. Being marched five miles through deep mud had not been easy, especially after a hard day’s work in the fields. He wanted to be alone to rest and think. To think about the letter which had come that day from Herr Wall in America. He would really prefer to talk to the jailer later.

Then a picture of Paul and Silas in the Philippian jail came to his mind. They had been tired, too, and had been beaten besides, when they sang their triumphant hymns. He turned to the jailer.

“Mr. Ivanovitch, I am glad to tell you why I seem different. It is just a matter of faith. I see you have an icon over there. You have a fine one, my friend, the gold frame is beautiful and the picture of Jesus is lovely. Now when the priest has blessed this icon, you say it is sacred and you pray to it. You have faith in the icon, do you not?”

The jailer nodded.

“Now I have faith, too, but not in a picture made by a man like myself. I have faith in God and His Son, Jesus. I can pray directly to Him. I know that God hears me, that His Spirit is with me,always, wherever I am. I do not have to buy an expensive icon, and then a more expensive one, hoping that it will bring me blessings. I talk with the Creator who made the universe, and yet Who loves and cares for me. Is that not wonderful?”

“Look,” he said, “I will read it to you just as our Savior said it.”

He took his German Bible from an inner pocket and slowly translated several sweet promises into Russian. He could see that the other prisoners were straining to hear, and he wished he could read louder so that they would be sure to get the meaning.

“Come now,” he said finally, “I will teach you how to pray directly to your heavenly Father. We will kneel together.”

As he knelt, Valentine rejoiced to see four of the men climb from their bunks and slip to their knees on the floor. “Now I will teach you the prayer our Savior taught His disciples.” And Valentine slowly repeated the words of the Lord’s Prayer. Soon others were joining in with, “Our Father, which art in heaven . . .”

Suddenly they heard the tramp of boots outside and the grating of a big key in the lock. Before the jailer could get to his feet, the heavy door swung open revealing the overseer of the southern Ukrainian prisons.

The overseer cursed in anger.

“Ivanovitch, you swine, what is going on here? Oh, yes, now I see. It is that Valentine Leer here again. These Baptists,” he roared, “when you have one, you have two. If there are two, there will be four. And now look we have six, and one of them is my jailer.”

“All right,” he sighed, “let him go. And do not bring that little Leer into one of my jails again. He makes as many converts inside as he does outside!”

Well, I am free to go home again, Valentine thought, pushing along through the mud. Home to what? A few acres of land which could be taken from him at any time, Russian schools for his children where they would be indoctrinated with the Orthodox belief, military service which might take him from home for many years to fight in wars of conquest he could not conscientiously support, and most important, to a total lack of understanding of what religious freedom should be.

He realized that he had come to the place where he must either give up his spiritual work for others or be prepared for a future which could include not only the Velva jail, but also a Siberian prison.

He had almost memorized the words of Herr Wall’s letter—”There is freedom here in America, Valentine. You can worship or not, as you please. You can change your religion, preach any message you wish—no one hinders you in any way.”

Valentine turned to look at the fields of home. He would miss the rich acres and the mild climate as well as the Russian people. But when he would plow and plant and preach again, it would be on freedom’s soil.

Sequel: Valentine Leer did come to America. He was a Baptist at that time. In America he met an English speaking man who shared the Ten Commandments with him. That was all it took. The Holy Spirit gave him understanding as he studied for himself.

Valentine Leer raised up twenty-five Seventh-day Adventist churches in North and South Dakota. He also raised $70,000 for the College of Medical Evangelists to give young people the opportunity he did not have—to learn.

The American branch of the Leer family prospered and grew over the years. Many of them are missionaries, ministers and teachers carrying on the family tradition of active service for the Lord like their progenitor, Valentine Leer.