“TEACHER,” said one of the young girls in my Sunday school class, “Polly Moran is very sick, and would like you to go and see her.”
I of course said I would go, but I was at the moment somewhat surprised at receiving the message, coming as it did from a morose and uninteresting child, whose absence I had hardly noticed.
The place where Polly lived was the most wretched in the city and the people of the quarter the worst. In the center of a labyrinth of small streets I found the court, and then the number I sought—the door was open and on approaching it I heard from within, a most dreadful oath. Lifting up my soul to the Lord, I prayed that I might be kept and guided, and then I rapped timidly.
“Come in” was the response. I entered and found myself in the presence of three villainous looking men, who were seated at a table upon which was a pitcher of beer and a pack of dirty cards. As they were looking at me with surprise, I said,
“Is this where Polly Moran lives? I am her Sunday school teacher.”
“If you are our Polly’s teacher go upstairs, and don’t be afraid; no one shall touch a hair of your head as long as I am here,” replied one of the men as he rose up, holding by the table to steady himself.
I went up the stairs and found myself in the only sleeping room in the house. It would be impossible to imagine a more miserable place—there was not a single piece of furniture; some piles of rags here and there, and on one of these poor Polly was lying.
When she saw me, she tried to raise herself up, but the effort only led to a violent paroxysm of coughing. Her hollow cheeks, and red cheek bones showed clearly that she was one of those victims sacrificed by parents to the demon of drink.
“My poor child,” I said to her, “I am distressed to see you so sick.”
“Yes Miss, I am very sick—I cannot get up, only for that I would come to the school,” she replied.
“I am very much afraid Polly that you will not be able to leave this room, for a long time to come.”
“I shall never go back again, Miss, but I am going to heaven. The doctor said this morning, when Mrs. N. brought him, that it would be useless to take me to the hospital as I am dying.”
“And are you afraid to die my dear Child?” I said.
“O! no Miss, I am so happy to go, for people do not drink in heaven, do they?”
Wishing to assure myself of the foundation of her confidence, I said to her:
“Why do you think you are going to heaven, Polly? Is it because you have always been a good girl?”
“O! no! no! I have been very wicked; I was in the habit of saying very bad words, and doing all sorts of bad things before that—”
Here a violent fit of coughing, almost with convulsions, interrupted her words.
I made her take a little light nourishment I had brought and she soon recovered her breath.
“Why have you ceased to say bad words?” I asked.
“One Sunday you had told us that Jesus had so loved us that although He was rich and a great King, He had come down to the earth to be poor like us, and I thought that meant that He loved good people and well dressed like you, and at the moment I thought that, you turned towards me and looking directly at me said:
“Jesus loves you.”
“Yes, my dear Polly, Jesus loves you very much, quite as much as though you were rich and noble.”
“When I left the school,” the girl continued “I said: ‘Thank you Jesus for loving me so,’ and I promised Him I would do everything He wished me to do, for before that, no one ever cared for me, except yourself, Miss.”
“Why have you not told me this sooner?” I asked.
“I did not like to do it, but I was so happy that when father was drunk and took to beating me, I would say in a low voice: ‘Jesus loves me,’ and then I did not mind the blows.”
I prayed with the dear child, and left her with my heart full of praise, and in admiration of the wonderful ways of the Lord, who saves the weakest and most wretched child.
I went twice after to see Polly. I read to her passages which speak of the Lord Jesus who loved her, and I prayed with her. At each visit I found her weaker in body, but strong in the faith.
“When I go to heaven,” she said, “I will say: I am Polly Moran, whom Jesus died to save, and they will let me right in, won’t they?”
O! dear young reader, that you might have poor Polly’s simple faith!
“Being justified by faith, we have peace with God!”
Jesus died to save you, you also. He loves you. He was delivered up for you, and all that He asks is that you believe on Him.
When I came again to see Polly, the neighbor Mrs. N. said,
“Polly is dead; her last words were: Tell the lady that Jesus came for me; her head then dropped upon her bed, and she was gone.”
What a glorious change. She had left her miserable bed of rags and her sufferings; she had left her abject poverty for the infinite riches of Christ; from grief and misery to endless joy and happiness, in the presence of Him who loved her and died to save her.
ML 10/15/1933