PHILIP was just a thin little boy, not more than six years old. His mother was dead and his father was a thief, a very bad thief who robbed stores and was chased by the police. There were several thieves who worked together, and the worst of them all was little Philip. No one could steal from the corner store without being caught faster than Philip. His father told him that he was a very clever little boy, but no one ever told him that God saw him, and that he could not get away from God.
November had been a very hard month for thieves. No money had come in for a long time, and the police followed them so closely they were almost afraid to move in the day time. One long cold evening they started out in the pouring rain and walked until poor little Philip was soaked and shivering. It was very late when they crept into some one’s hayloft and lay down for a few hours sleep.
In less than fifteen minutes everyone was snoring; everyone but Phillip. His eyes were very wide and bright in the darkness. He was hot and cold, and miserable and thirsty, and no one seemed to care. I’m glad that God was watching him, loving him and caring for him every minute of that long cold night.
Before morning the thieves woke up, for it was safer not to wait until daylight. Father pushed Philip gently with his foot, but Philip was too sick to care. He tried to stand up when the thieves grew angry, but he could only tumble down in the straw again, and even Father saw that it was impossible for him to walk that day. They crept out into the early morning darkness without him.
Not long after that the rooster crowed loudly and the little lady in the farmhouse lit her fires. She came down the path to the farmyard calming, “Here, chick, chick, here, chick, chick.” But suddenly she stopped. There was a strange sound in her barn. Not chickens or pigs, but the sound of a little boy crying. She found him in a moment, and carried him to the cleanest, whitest, softest bed that Philip had ever seen in his life. She gave him water to drink, and bathed his hot little hands and face and cared for him with all her heart, but he was too sick to know anything about it. For days he did not know anything and she thought he would die.
But he did not die. The time came when he could sit up and look into the dear lady’s face and ask her hundreds of questions. Sometimes she answered them and sometimes she didn’t, but he loved her very mud and called her “Mother.” As he grew stronger, it was fun to do little things for Mother, to feed the chickens and pigs, to fill the wood box and sweep the snow. But the best of all was in the evening when the work was done, Mother would sit by the fireplace and tell him stories, wonderful stories, such as he had never heard before.
The story he liked best was of a Man named Jesus. Philip heard how they tied His hands and beat Him, and drove big nails through His hands and feet into the wooden cross. The tears ran down the little boy’s face.
“Why did they do that, Mother?
Was He a bad man?”
“No, Philip, He was a very good Man. He fed hungry people and opened blind people’s eyes. He was very good.”
“Then what did He die for, Mother? Why did they do that to Him?”
“They did it because they hated Him. He could have gone right back to heaven because He really was God, you know, but He chose to die for sinners.”
“What are sinners, Mother?” “Sinners are bad people who lie and swear and steal.”
Philip’s face grew very red and he did not look up, but he asked, “Is it wrong to steal?”
“Yes, Philip. It is a sin to steal even once.”
He looked up now and his eyes were full of tears. “Is that what Jesus died for?” he asked. “Then if that is what Jesus died for, I am never going to steal again.”
There were many other stories by the fireplace but that one story he never could forget. All that summer, his cheeks grew rosy and his little body grew so tall and plump that you never would have known him for the same thin little Philip who came there nearly a year before.
Mother wondered what she would do without her little helper.
Autumn came again. It was not quite daylight when Mother rose to make the fire in the kitchen, and Philip was pulling on his warm sweater to come and help her, when she heard a knock at the door. It was a heavy knock and a heavy footstep, and a rough-looking man outside when she opened the door. His question made her feel worse than I can tell you, for this is what he said, “I left my little boy here a year ago. I want him to come with me.”
Philip knew his father right away and did not think of saying, “No,” though his little heart was nearly breaking when he kissed Mother good-bye, and left the happy little home in the early morning. The other thieves were nearby but nobody seemed glad to see him. They tramped all morning in silence though poor little Philip’s mind was full of questions. He wanted to cry but it was no use, nobody loved him. Why did they come for him if they did not want him?
At last he could not bear it any longer, “Daddy,” he asked, timidly, “Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you when I feel like it,” said Daddy, and that was his only answer.
Whom have I in Heaven but Thee?
No other Name, no other plea:
No one on earth can satisfy me,
None but Thyself, Lord Jesus.
ML-09/13/1970