Mr. Foster was walking home from work. He was happy at the thought of joining his wife and three children, and glad another day’s work was done. All at once he saw a group of ragged boys standing in a group on a dark corner. They were laughing and swearing, and as he passed by, one of them shouted and jeered at him. He turned round and said kindly to the one who had spoken, “Did you speak to me, my boy?”
He shuffled a little away, muttering, “No, sir.”
Mr. Foster stepped into the middle of the group and said, “Boys, listen to me. I have something good to tell you —a story.”
They were all silent in a moment, and then, in a few plain words, he told them of the kindness and love of God towards sinners. He told of the life, sufferings and death of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, and as he spoke of His weariness and hunger and thirst, all was silence. The boys knew themselves what it was to be hungry and weary. They listened still in solemn silence as he told them of the agony of our Lord Jesus, and of His unanswered cry to God as He suffered for sins. Dirty hands wiped dirty faces, and their round eyes never moved from Mr. Foster’s face as he told them that Jesus was watching the boys on that very street corner, and that His love was as great to them just then, as it was when He died on the cross for sinners.
The story ended. No one spoke. Suddenly Mr. Foster said,
“Now lads, He loved us very much, didn’t He? Do any of you boys love Him?”
They looked at one another, but felt they could not answer.
“And would any of you boys like to love Jesus?”
A little boy with a very dirty face, half hidden by his tangled hair, quickly held up his hand. One and another followed till all the hands were up.
A few more words were said, and then Mr. Foster gave them each a little money, and hurried home.
About three weeks later, the same kind man was walking along the main street of the city, when a little lad made a rush out from a laneway, and stood grinning with delight before him. Mr. Foster had no idea who he was, so at last he said, “Well, my boy, you seem to know me; who are you?”
“Please, sir, I’m Jack.”
“Jack—Jack who?”
“Only Jack, sir.”
“I remember you now. You are the very boy who shouted at me back on James Street a few weeks ago, and you told me you wanted to know and love Jesus. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. That’s right; we all remember your story about Jesus.” “Can you read, Jack?”
“Not too well, sir; but I can manage to spell out a page.”
“Would you like a Testament of vour own, where you could read all about Jesus?”
“That I would, sir!”
“Then you come to my home tomorrow night at seven and I will have one ready for you.”
Exactly at seven, Jack was there, having made an attempt to clean himself up a bit. He was soon seated beside Mr. Foster, who said, “Now, Jack, why do you want a Testament?”
“To read more about Him you told us of, sir.”
“Why do you want to read about Him, Jack?”
“Because I love Him, sir.”
“Why do you love Him?”
There was silence for a while. Poor Jack tried to speak twice and couldn’t seem to get started. At last he burst into tears and sobbed as if his heart would break. “Because they killed Him.”
It was hard for Mr. Foster to keep he tears back. The simple fervent belief in the Saviour’s death, the clear view that it was for him, and that he did in no way deserve it, had melted this poor little heart as it had never been melted before.
Jack’s name was then written, or rather printed, at his own request “very large” in his Testament.
From that time, Jack longed to tell. other sinners of the love of Jesus, and the way in which they might know their sins forgiven.
Have you, dear reader, ever. accepted Jesus as the One who died for you?
“We love Him, because He first loved us.” 1 John 4:19.
ML 10/14/1951