The young man was quite a successful businessman and his wife a highly qualified and unusually talented teacher. It was not long before their attention was drawn to the need of the foreign mission field and they dedicated their lives to missionary service. After a period of language study they lived in a white-washed mud house infested with deadly snakes and scorpions, yet they were neither alarmed nor bitten. Their faith enabled them to entrust their little son to God. Epidemics of typhoid and dysentery, together with the hazards of malaria, were faced with calm and confidence. 
 

Their work proved a blessing, and on one occasion idols were publicly burned in a nearby village. Their meagre income was a little more than seven pounds a month, but they were happy to know that they were in the will of God. In such surroundings God gave them a baby daughter as a playmate for their little son, who for some years could speak only the native language. A few months after a visit to the hills, their little daughter, Rosemary, took sick, and was rushed to the nearest hospital, sixty miles away. There she was given every attention, while the young father visited the wards with his message of hope in a living Saviour. Within a matter of days, however, the little life began to flicker, and before they could realise it, their baby daughter was with them no more. It was a shattering blow. As they stood together over the little mound wreathed in pink oleander, they knew that the biggest test was yet to come. How could they face the Indian community back at the mission station? How could they show to those around them that Christ had risen from the dead? Where was their faith now? Would it stand the test? Did they really believe the message preached in those very hospital wards? Turning to God in their human helplessness, they took the journey back,wondering if they would fail Him. Upon their arrival, crowds were there to greet them and the tears flowed freely. This made it all the harder, but looking to their Lord they were enabled to lift their heads high and, strengthened with His power, were prevented from breaking down as they made their way back to the bungalow. Their triumph of faith had its own amazing sequel. 

It happened the next day at language study where their tutor, a Brahmin, threw down his books and said, "It's no good, I can't work today... I might as well tell you that I believe." 

"Believe what?" asked the young couple. 

"I believe that Jesus Christ is the true and living God," was the amazing answer. 

They could scarcely take it in. "What makes you believe?" they asked, with growing wonder and joy. 

"Well, it's like this" answered the Brahmin. "I've been telling you about my gods for some time, but something you said about Jesus Christ has worried me a lot. You said that He rose from the dead, and I worked it out that if Jesus Christ rose from the dead, and I worked it out that if Jesus Christ rose from the dead, then He must be the Living God... He must be the truth. But I wanted proof. How could I know for sure? When I heard about the death of your little daughter, I said to myself, 'Ah, this is the acid test. If Jesus Christ rose from the dead I shall see it in their reactions. I shall see their faith at work.' So when you stepped off the train yesterday, I was hiding behind a banyan tree, watching to see what would happen as you walked along the road with your weeping friends. The radiance in your faces broke me up, for He did for you what my gods could never do for me. I believe He is indeed the Living God." 

The years rolled by and God gave that young couple another little girl whom they called Joy in place of sorrow. She was a beautiful child. With blue eyes and auburn locks she was the joy of her parents' hearts. It was some time later, while they were serving their Master in the Godavari Delta, that the young wife was suddenly stricken with fever and was taken to hospital by her anxious husband. For weeks she lingered in a semi-delirious state with complication of typho malaria. Then the little boy came down with severe dysentery. 

In desperation, the young father handed him over to the same hospital, praying that the little girl would not get the infection. In spite of his meticulous care the dreaded signs appeared and she too was a victim. With all three of his loved ones desperately ill, the young man went to look for comfort and found it in a leper asylum nearby. Christian lepers with fingers and toes burned off by the dreadful disease were singing praises to God for His great salvation. Others, with their noses hideously eaten out, were joining in. The young man was stung to the quick. What was his suffering compared to their lot? Taking courage, he returned to the hospital where he senses something was wrong. Little Joy had taken a turn for the worse, and through carelessness due to a misunderstanding her body had dehydrated. His wife knew nothing of the child's illness. Only a few days before she had run into her mother's ward with much glee. 

"Oh God," he cried, "Not again!" Pleading the cause of his sick wife, he was tempted to wonder whether it was worth it all...worth the sacrifice involved. Had he not left home with all its comforts? Had he not given everything, literally everything to God? As he agonised in prayer he saw thrown against the dawn of an eastern sky the starry symbol of the Southern Cross, a symbol which silenced him to submission. He bowed his head. A few hours later, he held the frail form of the joy of his heart in his arms for the last time. How could he tell his wife? Seemingly, God had prepared her heart, for she suddenly had a strange premonition that all was not well with the little darling. Now he must tell her. The next minutes are too sacred to record, for they shared them together as a husband and wife whose faith alone enabled them to overcome through the blinding tears and stabs of sorrow in the midst of pain. 

It is said that the young mother insisted on the little body being brought into her ward for the funeral service. How delightful the little girl looked. She was clutching a bunch of flowers which she had always loved, and the sunlit golden curls seemed to reflect the glory into which she had entered... for as an innocent child she had sped into the arms of the One who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me." The mother insisted on being propped up in bed by her grief-sticken husband, and with the perspiration streaming from her emaciated body she sang with tenderness, 
"All for Jesus." As the young husband laid the little one to rest, the evening was filled with songs of praises and thanksgiving to the Lord of the Resurrection and the Life... a striking contrast to the hopelessness and helplessness of heathen wailing and mourning. Beautiful flowers once again symbolised the wonder of the Resurrection, and all was at peace. The little lad recovered, but left the hospital a mere skeleton. Today he is a fine young Christian man whose life is dedicated to God. The mother, too, was nursed back to health and strength. Many years have passed. God has given the young couple three more daughters, and their faith in Him, instead of waning, has grown all the stronger. Their sorrows, instead of driving them to disillusionment and despair, have deepened their love and understanding for others who have passed the same way, for they have proved the comfort and consolation of a God who in Jesus Christ suffered with His creation, as no one has ever suffered, to bring salvation, hope and joy under all circumstances, to those who repent and turn to Him. You see, that young mother is my wife, and those wee girlies were our precious daughters! 

         A fuller account of this story, More Precious Than Gold, is available in booklet form. 
 

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