Read Isaiah 65:24
Every 3 or 4
years I find I reason to tell this story. The chapter that is exclusively about Esau’s descendants is as good a
reason as any. There is nothing wrong
with this chapter, but I want to give you something to chew on this week.
It is very
much a true story. It comes from a
missionary sent from England to Zaire many decades ago. Her name is Dr. Helen Roseveare. She died at the age of 91 in 2016. I have read most of her books and can say
without equivocation, that the things that she went through in God’s service
would make most Marines feel like a bunch of wimps.
Here’s the
story that you have heard before, but it gets to me every time I read or hear
it, so you are getting it again.
One night, in
Central Africa, I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in
spite of all that we could do, she died leaving us with a tiny, premature baby
and a crying, two-year-old daughter.
We would have
difficulty keeping the baby alive. We had no incubator. We had no electricity
to run an incubator, and no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on
the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts.
A
student-midwife went for the box we had for such babies and for the cotton wool
that the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a
hot water bottle. She came back shortly, in distress, to tell me that in
filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates.
“…and it is our last hot water bottle!” she exclaimed. As in the West, it is no
good crying over spilled milk; so, in Central Africa it might be considered no
good crying over a burst water bottle. They do not grow on trees, and there are
no drugstores down forest pathways. All right,” I said, “Put the baby as near
the fire as you safely can; sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free
from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm.”
The following
noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with many of the orphanage
children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions
of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our
problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle.
The baby could so easily die if it got chilled. I also told them about the
two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. During the prayer
time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt consciousness of
our African children. “Please, God,” she prayed, “send us a water bottle. It’ll
be no good tomorrow, God, the baby’ll be dead; so, please send it this
afternoon.” While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by
way of corollary, ” …And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly
for the little girl so she’ll know You really love her?” As often with
children’s prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, “Amen?” I just
did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do
everything: The Bible says so, but there are limits, aren’t there? The only way
God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending a parcel from the
homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had
never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send a parcel,
who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!
Halfway
through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses’ training school, a
message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time that I
reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the veranda, was a large twenty-two-pound
parcel! I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone; so, I
sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully
undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly.
Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the
large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted
jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then, there were the knitted
bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children began to look a little
bored. Next, came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas – – that would make a
nice batch of buns for the weekend. As I put my hand in again, I felt the…could
it really be? I grasped it, and pulled it out. Yes, “A brand-new rubber, hot
water bottle!” I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly
believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed
forward, crying out, “If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly,
too!” Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small,
beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone: She had never doubted! Looking up at
me, she asked, “Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that
little girl, so she’ll know that Jesus really loves her?”
That parcel
had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday School
class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God’s prompting to send a hot water
bottle, even to the equator. One of the girls had put in a dolly for an African
child — five months earlier in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old
to bring it “That afternoon!” “And it shall come to pass, that before they
call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.” Isaiah
65:24.
We are
studying Genesis. It’s full of stuff
that happened long, long ago. It’s
ancient.
This story
about the water bottle tells us that God still works in this world today.
Approach the
throne of Grace boldly. Ask for the
things of God. Expect God to answer your
prayer.
Amen.
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