Chapter 6 - Wicket Gate

Homejo station among the Moni tribe has been established for several years. There is an open sided church with a dirt floor and a small Bible school that the Cutts and Harold Catto oversee.

My parents immerse themselves in Moni language study. Dad also begins to compile word dictionaries in five other languages as he meets different tribesmen passing through. There are salt wells nearby, so tribes come from afar to make rock salt. Mom begins to create small primers so new converts can learn to read portions of translated Scriptures.

A small Moni team return from the Bible school in Enarotali, and one student Simon begins to preach sermons on Sunday at the little church. There is delighted interest, the locals now hearing the Gospel fluently presented instead of haltingly through the white people. Attendance increases!

Bill and Gracie Cutts leave for a year furlough, and two single ladies join the team—Leona St. John (a teacher) and Rosalie Fenton (a nurse). The Monis are now able to learn to read and have a clinic for their disease or infections. By then I am more fluent and can interpret as Aunt Rosalie gives directions on how often to take medicine. Frambosia (yaws) which eats away at face skin began to clear up as adults receive penicillin injections. And eyes infected with pus dry up with antibiotic ointments. Open wounds get sulfa salve and bandages.

One bright morning after an oatmeal breakfast and prayer Mom and Dad thoughtfully ask if I would like to invite Jesus into my heart. I consider, “I want to do it by myself,” I finally answer.

Later in the day I wander down the grassy hill from our house to the tin roofed, open sided church. Two lines of rough-hewn planks form pews, with an aisle down the middle. I kneel on the dirt floor facing the front of the church, lean on the pew in front of me. “Oh God,” I pray. “Please come into my heart. Wash me clean…I want to be yours, Jesus.”

I wait. Tall grasses rustle in the breeze, puffy clouds drift in the pale blue sky. Finally I repeat my prayer and close…”Thank you, God. I am Yours.”

Slowly I stand and trudge up the worn path to our house. A low wood fence encloses our yard to keep out the goats and pigs. I open the rattan bound wooden gate and walk through, and the thought suddenly comes—“Now I’m a Christian!”

My parents are happy when I tell them that night. Years later when reading Little Pilgrim’s Progress I found that Christian had also passed through a wicket gate into salvation. Amazing. I am now part of the Jesus’ body in Homejo.

The weeks slide into months and Mom continues to homeschool me in first grade. We have Friday night fun nights with popcorn, board games, music from Dad’s clarinet and Mom’s ukulele. Every so often a caravan arrives from Enarotali with food supplies plus boxes shipped from the States. At Christmas we open brightly wrapped presents from relatives—warm pajamas, toys, dresses to grow into. We have the Christmas story at the open-sided church. And we feast with the other mission workers.

In God’s family we are rich.