# The Lutheran Pioneer_St. Louis_1928_S71
# Machine transcription, uncorrected — CHI Digital Archive (demonstration)

72

THE LUTHERAN PIONEER.

better to indoctrinate themselves and their people.
It is not too bold a statement to make that the
whole church-life among the colored in this city and
its surroundings has been benefited by the beacon-
light of Gospel truth that has shone out from our
churches. Thousands who have never set foot in
our churches or only rarely visit them are never-
theless consciously or unconsciously following our
standards and turning their eyes in the direction
whence comes the light. There is better preaching
in their churches, more indoctrinating of the people,
better instruction of the children, and even a cer-
tain amount of previous preparation for their first
Communion. Our mission has been a city set on
a high hill and therefore could not be hid.

And the light emanating from our missions has
served still another purpose. A story which I read
in my youth and which made a lasting impression
upon me comes to my mind. There was a large
family. All the children had been reared devout
Christians. One of the sons turned prodigal and
left home and led a life of sin out in the wide,
wide world. At home the parents prayed and waited
for his return.. Years went by. One by one the
members of that family sank into the grave, first
the mother, then the brothers and sisters. The
aged father alone was left. His work was not yet
done. Every night he placed a light in the window
in order that the prodigal, should he return, might
tell that some one was still waiting for him. For
years the father waited in vain. At last, one night,
there was a knock at the door. The father opened;
he had waited for this. In stumbled the lost
son, wretched and sick. Gently the father bore
him to a bed and then watched by that bedside.
' There were tears of repentance and the confession:
“Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy
sight”; and there was joy among the angels of
God over the sinner that had repented. In the
morning the weary soul winged its flight to the
realms above. The father did not grieve, he rejoiced.
His mission on earth was done. The light was taken
out of the window.

Is our mission-work finished? Is our work
done? Dare we remove the light from the win-
dow ? — It is true, our colored churches are not so
very large after fifty years of hard labor. We all
would like to see them much larger. And it is
also true that in certain places the congregational
family is even getting smaller and smaller. Many
have gone to their eternal home in heaven. Their
places are vacant, their pews in church are empty:
Shall we remove the light and say that our work

is done? God forbid! There are those who have
wandered away. Shall they find the home dark
when they return? No; we must keep the light
in the window; we must sit up and watch for their
return. Soon there may be a knock at the door,
and one or the other of these wayward sons and
daughters will return with the confession: “I have
sinned. Here I was baptized, here confirmed, here
I learned the truth, here I want to die.” We must
be ready to receive them; ready to nurse them back
to spiritual health; ready to see them through the
last bitter struggle. What would they do with-
out us? They return to us year by year by way of
the sick-bed, the cot in the hospital, the accident
route, — but they come. The light must be burning
in the window when they come. Our mission is not
yet finished.

For fifty years the beacon-light of Gospel truth
and of a Savior’s love has shown on high from our
Lutheran Colored Missions through storm and tide.
It must remain there; you and I, by the grace of
God, must keep it there. And though many of our
congregational family have been laid in the grave
and the family is not any too large, those who re-
main must keep the light in the window to show the
wayward sons and daughters their eternal home.

G. M. Kramer.

‘A Little Child Shall Lead Them.’’

Her name was Eunice. Her eyes were big, black,
and full of the sparkling fire of early childhood.
Her forehead was high and wide, and her mind was
keen, curious, and highly imaginative. Her skin
was brown, a deep, dark, velvety brown, harmonizing
beautifully with the chestnuts which she liked to
crack between her pearl-white teeth. Her legs were
long and slender and carried her lithe body through
the undergrowth of short, stunted pines and strug-
gling water oaks with the swiftness and grace of
a racing roe. Her laugh was low, and it was filled
with the music of the pines among which it had
been born as she sat alone during the days of -her
babyhood and played with the dancing sunbeams
that stole in through the cracks in the walls or came
pouring in through a hole in the roof and fell in
a pool of dancing light just at the end of her ten
brown baby toes. Her songs —and she sang with
the wild abandon of the meadow lark — were filled’
with the music of the untamed birds among which
she was bred. Her voice was: low and musical, and
her words fell over each other as they were hurried