by Mrs. E. C. Judson

We include this excerpt written by Adoniram Judson’s wife as an encouragement to press on even when no hope is in sight. This story exemplifies the commitment her husband made to “connect” with the unreached in Burma. Other duties tempted the preacher to abandon his stand by the wayside, but he painstakingly repressed his human and personal desires and set his face like a flint on the witness stand, braving the heat, the mockery, the rejection; yet hoping his words would fall on some wayward but seeking soul.

The sunlight fell aslant upon the fragile framework of a Burman zayat; but though it was some hours past midday, the burning rays were not yet level enough to look too intrusively beneath the low projecting eaves. Yet the day was intensely hot, and the wearied occupant of the one bamboo chair in the centre of the building, looked haggard and care-worn. All day long had he sat in that position, repeating over and over again, as he could find listeners, such simple truths as mothers are accustomed to teach the infant on their knees; and now his head was aching, and his heart was very heavy. He had met some scoffers, some who seemed utterly indifferent, but not one sincere inquirer after the truth.

In the middle of the day, when the sun was hottest, and scarcely a European throughout all India was astir, he had received the greatest number of visitors; for the passers-by were glad of a moment’s rest and shelter from the sun. The mats were still spread invitingly upon the floor; but though persons of almost every description were continually passing and repassing, they seemed each intent on his own business, and the missionary was without a listener. He thought of his neglected study-table at home; of his patient, fragile wife, toiling through the numerous cares of the day alone; of the letters his friends were expecting, and which he had no time to write; of the last periodicals from his dear native land, lying still unread; and every little while, between the other thoughts, came real pinings after a delicious little book of devotion, which he had slid into his pocket in the morning, promising it his first moment of leisure. Then he was naturally an active man, of quick ardent temperament, and with such views of the worth of time as earnest American men can scarcely fail to gain; and it went to his heart to lose so many precious moments. If he could only do something to fill up these tedious intervals! But no; this was a work to which he must not give a divided mind. He was renewing a half-tested experiment in wayside preaching, and he would not suffer his attention to be distracted by anything else. While his face was hidden by his book, and his mind intent on self-improvement, some poor passer-by might lose a last, an only opportunity, of hearing the words of life. To be sure, his own soul seemed very barren, and needed refreshing; and his body was weary—wearied well-nigh to fainting, more with the dull, palsying inanity of the day’s fruitless endeavors, than with anything like labor. Meantime a fever-freighted breeze, which had been, all the hot day, sweeping the effluvia from eastern marshes, stirred the glossy leaves of the orange tree across the way, and parched the lip, and kindled a crimson spot upon the wan cheek of the weary missionary.

“God reigns,” he repeated, as though some reminder of the sort were necessary. “God Almighty reigns; and I have given myself to him, soul and body, for time and for eternity. His will be done!” Still, how long the day seemed! How broad the space that blistering sun had yet to travel, before its waiting, its watching, and its laboring would be ended! Might he not indulge himself just one moment? His hand went to his pocket, and the edge of a little book peeped forth a moment, and then, with a decided push, was thrust back again. No; he would not trifle with his duty. He would be sternly, rigidly faithful; and the blessing would surely come in time. Yet it was with an irrepressible yawn that he took up a little Burman tract prepared by himself, of which every word was as familiar as his own name, and commenced reading aloud. The sounds caught the ear of a coarsely-clad water-bearer, and she lowered the vessel from her head, and seated herself afar off, just within the shadow of the low eaves. Attracted by the foreign accent of the reader, few passed without turning the head a few moments to listen; then, catching at some word which seemed to them offensive, they would repeat it mockingly and hasten on.

Finally the old water-bearer, grinning in angry derision till her wrinkled visage became positively hideous, rose, slowly adjusted the earthen vessel on her head, and passed along, muttering as she went, “Jesus Christ!—no Nigban!—ha, ha, ha!” The heart of the missionary sunk within him, and he was on the point of laying down the book. But the shadow of another passer-by fell upon the path, and he continued a moment longer. It was a tall, dignified looking man, leading by the hand a boy, the open mirthfulness of whose bright, button-like eyes was in perfect keeping with his dancing little feet. The stranger was of a grave, staid demeanor, with a turban of aristocratic smallness, sandals turning up at the toe, a silken robe of somewhat subdued colors, and a snow-white tunic of gentlemanlike length and unusual fineness.

“Papa, papa!” said the boy, with a merry little skip, and twitching at the hand he was holding, “Look, look, papa! There is Jesus Christ’s man. Amai! How shockingly white!”

“Jesus Christ’s man” raised his eyes from the book which he could read just as well without eyes, and bestowed one of his brightest smiles upon the little stranger, just as the couple were passing beyond the corner of the zayat, but not too late to catch a bashfully pleased recognition. The father did not speak nor turn his head, but a ray of sunshine went down into the missionary’s heart from those happy little eyes; and he somehow felt that his hour’s reading had not been thrown away. He had remarked this man before in other parts of the town; and had striven in various ways to attract his attention, but without success. He was evidently known, and most probably avoided; but the child, with that shy, pleased, half-confiding, roguish sort of smile, seemed sent as an encouraging messenger. The missionary continued his reading with an increase of earnestness and emphasis. A priest wrapped his yellow robes about him and sat down upon the steps, as though for a moment’s rest. Then another stranger came up boldly, and with considerable ostentation, seated himself on the mat. He proved to be a philosopher, from the school then recently disbanded at Prome; and he soon drew on a brisk, animated controversy.

The missionary did not finish his day’s work with the shutting up of the zayat. At night, in his closet, he remembered both philosopher and priest; pleaded long and earnestly for the scoffing old water-bearer; and felt a warm tear stealing to his eye, as he presented the case of the tall stranger, and the laughing, dancing ray of sunshine at his side.

Day after day went by, as oppressively hot, as dusty, and bringing as many feverish winds as ever; but the hours were less wearisome, because many little buds of hope had been fashioned, which might yet expand into perfect flowers. But every day the tall stranger carried the same imperturbable face past the zayat; and every day the child made some silent advance towards the friendship of the missionary, bending his half-shaven head, and raising his little nut-colored hand to his forehead, by way of salutation, and smiling till his round face dimpled all over like ripples in a sunny pool. One day, as the pair came in sight, the missionary beckoned with his hand, and the child, with a single bound, came to his knee….

The story goes on to tell of how the words of Jesus touched a young boy, an old water carrier and a philosopher. Space does not permit the complete story here, but some time later cholera came to town and claimed many lives. The preacher was called to their homes and learned that the Word of God did indeed bear fruit upward.

This article is found in the appendix of the biography written by Judson’s son. See The Life of Adoniram Judson in this issue for the book review.