The minister’s eyes swept with intense searching the apathetic faces of his stylish, worldly congregation. He had made an impassioned appeal for help in the support of a little mission church among the mountains — a section where rough men and women knew scarcely anything of God and of the religion of Christ. He had hoped to inspire the people with the spirit of giving, to make them feel that it was a sweet, blessed privilege, and — he had failed. A sense of desolation crept over him.
“God help me,” his lips murmured, mutely. He could not see the bent figure of little crippled Maggie in the rear of the church — a figure which was trembling under the fire of his appeal.
“Lord Jesus,” the little one was saying, brokenly, “I ain’t got nothin’ ter give; I want the people in the mountains to hear ‘bout my Saviour. O Lord, I ain’t got nothin’ ter—”
What was it that made the child catch her breath as though a cold hand had taken hold of her heart?
“Yes you have, Maggie,” whispered a voice from somewhere; “you’ve got your crutch, your beautiful crutch that was given ter you, an’ is worth a lot of shining dollars. You kin give up your best frien’ ‘what helps yer ter git into the park where the birds sing, an’ takes you ter preachin’ an’ makes your life happy.”
“Oh, no, Lord,” sobbed the child, choking and shivering. “Yes, yes, I will. He give up more’n that for me.”
Blindly she extended the polished crutch, and placed it in the hands of the deacon who was taking up the scanty collection. For a moment the man was puzzled, then, comprehending her meaning, he carried her crutch to the front of the church, and laid it on the table in front of the pulpit. The minister stepped down from the rostrum and held up the crutch with shaking hands. The sublimity of the renunciation unnerved him so that he could not speak for a moment.
“Do you see it, my people?” he faltered at last; “little crippled. Maggie’s crutch — all that she has to make life comfortable? She has given it to the Lord, and you―”
There was a moment of silence. The people flushed, and moved restlessly in their cushioned pews.
“Does anyone want to contribute to the mission causer the amount of money this crutch would bring, and give it back to the child, who is helpless without it?” the minister asked, gravely.
“Fifty dollars,” came in husky tones from the banker.
“Seventy-five.”
“One hundred.”
And so the subscribing went on, until papers equivalent to six hundred dollars were lightly piled over the crutch on the table.
“Ah, you have found your hearts — thank God! Let us receive the benediction,” almost whispered the minister as he suddenly extended his hands, which were trembling with emotion.
Little Maggie, absorbed in the magnitude of her offering and the love which prompted it, comprehended nothing that had taken place. She had no thought of the future; of how she would reach her humble home, or of the days in which she would sit helpless in her chair as she had once done. Christ had demanded her all, and she had given it, with the blind faith of Abraham. She understood no better when a woman’s arm drew her into close embrace, and soft lips whispered into her ears:
“Maggie, dear, your crutch has made $600 for the mission church among the mountains, and has come back to stay with you again. Take it, little one.”
Like the flash of light there came the consciousness that in some mysterious way her gift had been accepted of God and returned to her, and with a cry of joy the child caught the beloved crutch to her lonely heart, then, smiling through her tears at the kind faces and reverential eves, she hobbled out of the sanctuary.
“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:1010Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it. (Malachi 3:10).)
Gertrude M. Jones.
NOTE. —Reader, what have you given to help the work of the Lord Jesus in this world?