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IT was in
a little fishing village on the Brazilian coast, where the great Atlantic
rollers spread their creaming surf along a hundred leagues of golden sands.
It was my first visit to |
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Mr. Ranken,
our then superintendent, had met me and suggested a walk round, calling on
the crentes, and inviting them to
the meeting. Their dwellings were poor, and very primitive: and the home
where I met the Lord was no exception – a few rough stools, a table, and some
other necessities. The floor was of hard clay, the walls of adobe, with a few
texts hung to relieve their bareness. We were warmly welcomed; stools
arranged for our use and that of the good man, while his senhora squatted on the floor; and Mr. Ranken began to chat with
them in fluent Portuguese. I picked up what I could, my knowledge of Spanish
helping me, but my attention was inclined to wander. I looked round the
unattractive hut; I looked at the gnarled hands and weather-beaten faces of the
old couple, and wondered how much they knew of the Gospel, or how much they
had grasped of the fundamentals of our faith: then the Lord spoke and reduced
me to shamed humility. |
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The old
woman was speaking, and I suddenly caught a sentence that riveted my
attention: - |
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“… and
when the wee baby was born, our hearts were broken! One little arm was just
skin and bone, quite withered! Oh, how we cried – didn’t we , old man?” –
appealing to her husband, as she constantly did. “Of course, we took it to
the doctor but he could do nothing; we tried everything. Then one day we were
told of a great wise doctor in |
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“Electricidade,” the old man supplied. |
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“Yes, that
was it. And we came back home, oh so sad!” |
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While she had
been speaking, the door behind me had opened and I just glimpsed a tall girl
who slipped in with a bundle in her arms, and stood quietly in a corner
behind me, to my left. The old lady continued her story: - |
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“Well, one
day when we were talking about it – I was crying – I suddenly thought, Oh, if
only Jesus were here we would have taken our wee baby to Him and He would
have made the poor arm all better. Then I said to the old man, ‘What are we
crying for? We believe in Jesus, don’t we? And the Pastor has told us that He
is the same to-day as He was then; why shouldn’t we ask Him to cure baby?’ |
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“So what
do you think? We just put our dear wee babe down here on the floor,” said
she, pointing to where she was sitting, “didn’t we, old man?” |
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“We did,” grunted
he. |
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“And we
just asked our Lord Jesus to take the poor little withered arm and make it
better. And – Maria!” she called, “come and show them.” |
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And the
quiet figure in the corner came forward shyly and unwrapped her bundle; and there
was a lovely little babe, waving a wee arm and gazing wonderingly at the two
strangers. |
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My mouth
was open and my eyes, I am sure, like saucers, as I rose and took the little
one’s arm in my hand, and said, |
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“Is this
the one?” |
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“Yes,” she
said, smiling happily. And taking the little arm, she twisted it round over
the baby’s head. |
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“It is a
little bit stiff at the top yet, but it is getting better every day.” |
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I took the
little hand in mine: and you know what a baby’s hand is, just about the most
beautiful thing in the world; the wrinkles round the wrist; the lovely little
pink nails; and I realised I was holding a baby’s hand that the Lord Jesus
had touched. And I had been wondering how much of the Gospel these poor folk
knew, and if they had any real understanding about God and Christ! And I knew
to my shame that they knew more, and had greater faith, than I had ever
attained. |
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Now I am
not preaching faith healing or advocating any particular ‘movement’. I am
only telling you what I saw with my own eyes, and what my own hands handled;
and how I realised in that humble little home, as I had never done before,
that ‘His touch has still its ancient
power’. |
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May God
give us the faith to believe it, and the confidence to claim it. |
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From:
Anon. True Stories Re-told. |