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ILLUSTRATED BY JAMES Hill
A Time for Giving
The letters he had prayed for would
be at the post office, the Rev. Peter
Morgan assured himself, as he pulled
on the muddy boots he had worn since
coming to Curachos. His pleas for con
tributions had been sent two weeks
ago, but he had not received one reply.
Now it was Christmas Eve, time to
pick up the last mail from the store in
the valley.
From his room behind the little mis
sion on the mountainside, Peter Morgan
looked out on the scattered shacks that
housed the 36 families of his congrega
tion. The rain that had been falling
steadily for four months had washed
away all other signs of life. The fields
were abandoned, and the roads .had
turned to rivers of mud.
Four months ago, Peter hadn't real
ized it was possible for anyone to live
in such poverty. The rain had de
stroyed the crops and, with no crops,
the natives had to live on roots and
bark and crawling things. Peter knew
the little settlement of South American
Indians could exist no longer without
help. He couldn't understand how they
had gone on as long as they had.
As he walked to Diego's store, rivulets
of water found their way through the
splits in his raincoat and the mud pulled
at his sturdy boots.
There would be many letters today,
the young minister told himself for the
hundredth time. He had prayed the en
tire night. God couldn't fail to send the
contributions his little congregation
needed so badly.
Until now, Peter had felt sure the
money would come. His sermon last
Sunday was entitled "A Time for Giv
ing." He had labored over it for days
and, even with his halting Spanish, he
felt it made the desired impression. He
Family Weekly, December IJ. J 959