His mother's God.

Waiapu Church Gazette, Volume IX, Issue 22, 1 April 1919, Page 174

His mother's God.

On one occasion I was conducting an entertainment at the front, the bulk of which fell upon myself. I sang, I told stories, but after all it did not "go," and I presently said to those Canadians, "You're a rotten lot. Now I have done. Good-night. ' ' Then a man came up to me. In private life he was a solicitor, but now he was dressed m a sheepskin, and staggered under the influence of strong drink— "Half a mo,' Padre. I'm going to stand m with you." "What do you want?" I said. "I'm going to stand m with you, I say. These blooming Y.M-ers (we divide our camp into "YM.-ers" and "Can teeners "—there are those who come to the one and very rarely to the other), they're not worth a curse." "Well, what can you do, Smith?" "I can preach a bit, or I can pray a bit." "Well, what else?" "I can recite a bit." "We'll start with that," I said. "What do you know?" "I know anything out of Bob Service. I can recite anything." "Well, what's it going to be?" "The Cremation of Dan Macree," said Smith. This is the story of a man who had come from the sunny South into the snows of the North. The cold has gripped him, and he is dying; and he says to his mate, "For God's sake don't bury me m the snow, I should never be warm. My last request before I die — Will you burn me?" He died and the story tells how 1 his mate, after dragging the body along the trail, came upon a derelict boat. This solved the problem as to how he should burn the body — he put it m the boat, found some wood, and set it alight. Then he got out of the way until he thought the ghastly work would be complete. When he returned he found the boat still there, and on going aboard he was greeted with "Shut that door; this is the first time I've felt warm since I left Tennessee." There was Ms "dead" friend sitting up by the fire.

It was received with applause. I said, " Smith, why didn 't you. come up before to help me out of my difficulty?"

"I've been m the canteen, "he replied.

Then I said, "Well, we generally close with a word of prayer."

. We all sang together "Fig-lit the Good Fight, ' ' and during the singing of the hymn I thought, ' < Shall I ask that man to pray?" I hadn't got through with my thinking when we game tp the .end p£ the hymn.

"Smith, did you say you would like to pray?" I asked. He said, "Yes, Padre."

"Well, Smith, you're a prodigal, and I'm sure your Father, God Almighty, would be glad to hear you. Have you prayed recently?"

"No, not for twenty years,"' was the reply. ;

A shock seemed to pass ■over the boys; they felt the irreverence of this.

I said, " Very well, Smith, if you would like to speak to God, then speak to Him."

And this was his prayer; — ''Lord God Almighty, "we're a rotten lot. God "be merciful to - us and pity us. Lord God Almighty, I'm stuck— no I'm not, Lord; I thank Thee for giving me a good and godly mother, who taught me to say 'Gentle Jesus.' " He did not get any further. ' ' That is all, Lord God Almighty, that I have got to say. Good-night. Be pitiful to us. Amen. "

That meeting broke up with a stillness that I shall never forget, and the reformation m that man's life was very remarkable. Seven or eight days after he and others passed out of our camp to the line, and I stood there to wish them all good-bye m the name of their fathers and mothers.

"Good-bye, Smith," I said,

"Good-bye, Father" (they often called me " Father ") ; "by the help of God I'm going" to stick it. I'm going to be loyal to my mother's God."

In ten days, he had made the great sacrifice, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not meet Smith m the City of God.— Rev. D. J. Hiley, C.F. •