This is the story about Lila’s mother. Lila, herself, was an eight-year-old girl living much of the time with her grandmother, Maria. LaLaja was a quiet village in the state of Nuevo Leòn, Mexico. Lila, along with her grandmother, attended the mission services. She was a very bright girl. She learned the choruses and Scripture verses very quickly. Her mother, though I do not remember her name, lived several miles away in the small community of Vegacilla. Pedro, Lila’s father, farmed and cared for the family livestock. Perhaps once a month we herded our vehicle up the goat trail, as it were, and across the creeks. We drove no faster than a man could walk. Once there, we conducted an evening service on the open patio where Lila’s parents lived. We were itinerant missionaries spreading the “Good News” over a very wide territory across Latin America. Thus we were not always in this immediate vicinity as a pastor would be. However, we loved the dark-featured inhabitants of this locality with a special warmth. It was here that we learned their language and culture . They were in our hearts, as the Apostle Paul wrote, “to die and live with you” (II Cor. 7:9). In passing this territory in the fertile hills near Linares, we heard that Lila’s mother was very ill. She was even now in Maria’s ‘dobe hut where she could be cared for more specifically. We quickly gathered a few of the faithful Christians and hastened across to the thatched-roof ‘dobe. Flowers bloomed in profusion just outside, but in the dark shadows of the dwelling, we found her lying on a cot—the most fragile piece of humanity on earth. Her bare arms were merely bones enwrapped with skin. Tuberculosis had ravaged her young body, and had entirely wasted the strength of this young mother. She hadn’t the strength left to eat—let alone to digest any nourishing food. She seemed to be merely awaiting the grim reaper who seemed at the moment to be lurking in a dark shadow of the room. Without further taxing the feeble attention she gave us, we held her frail arm and bowed our head in prayer, talking to our Father in heaven. The native Christians who were in the hut with us also laid their hands upon her body and joined in the prayer of faith. Hope and help entered that dark dwelling that afternoon. Within that same hour we drove some forty miles to talk to a missionary nurse. She kindly gave us a large container of powdered milk concentrate along with a few instructions. I returned to LaLaja and Maria’s hut. I first enquired if fresh milk were available to mix with the powder; and then I firmly instructed those in the room that this predigested concentrate was only for Lila’s mother—not for the children who would crave it and drink it all up shortly. And, finally, I committed her well-being to God in Jesus’ name, and slipped away—out into the refreshing evening breeze, and away from the quiet village lying in the shadows of the mighty Sierra Madre Oriental. It was perhaps a month later, returning from the southern reaches of Mexico’s tortured topography, that I swung off the highway and down the narrow dirt lane to the village once again. Standing outside the home of Pablo and Berta—they were the national lay-leaders in that area—visiting and making plans for a service that evcning. I suddenly remembered Lila’s mother and made enquiry about her condition. In the unpretentious Mexican way, Pablo raised his arm and turned his gaze across the garden path. There she is over in Maria’s yard hanging out the day’s washing. We make no attempt to understand the complexities that go to make up a life. Neither do we boast of the knowledge of theology that tries to convert religion to a science. James 5:14 and 15 does not give us a magic formula for restoring health to the sick. It is not a “hocus-pocus” procedure. However, it is part of the “simplicity that is in Christ” (II Cor. 11:13). We do need the simple faith in Christ who forgives our sins and heals our bodies. He is the compassionate Savior who, while on earth, touched men and women and they were never the same. Christ is no longer walking this earth—only as He dwells within Christians. We are His hands extended. We need the compassion of Christ. We need to touch lives for Christ. It is the physical touch; yes, a ministry of sympathy that mingles Christians with the poor and infirm and sinful of this earth. And the touch mingled with faith inspires hope anew and the awakening desire to live—and to live for Him. Yours for OUTREACH AMAZON,  Erwin and Jean Bourne Outreach_amazon@yahoo.com <HOME <ARCHIVES