The Golden Pot That Had Manna

The nearest asylum was five hundred miles away. It might as well have been five thousand. Before a patient can be admitted there, various preliminaries naturally are required. Of these Mimosa knew nothing, nor did she probably know there was such a place as an asylum in the world. She lived through those months with her sari in her hand, to use her own idiom, which was her simple way of telling of prayer without ceasing in mute appeal and faith that help was on its way; not trying to pierce the thick mystery that has baffled mankind since the beginning, but accepting it, unintelligible as it was, as “well.” Only she did most earnestly beseech that her husband’s reason might return; for without the control of reason a blind man can be very terrible.

And gradually it returned, and his eyes became less darkened. “We had no help, no medicine did I know of, nor had I money to buy it. It was only our God’s healing.” And she sent a thank-offering to the Christian church which knew nothing of her.

Nor did we in Dohnavur know anything of her.

Through all these years Star and Mimosa had been kept apart. Never once had Mimosa been allowed to accompany the other sisters who sometimes came to see us; nor had Star been allowed to hear anything of her. Now, at last, she heard of her distress, and longed to get in touch with her. But how? Mimosa could not read. It was not likely that verbal messages would be given. After some pondering, Star decided to write. “O my living Lord, incline the heart of someone to read it to her,” she prayed as she wrote, and believed it would be so.

And so it was. The letter safely reached Mimosa’s house, and a kindly cousin read it to her.

Trembling with joy, she listened. For Star had been constrained to write to her as to a fellow-believer, fellow-lover. Almost wondering at herself, for she could not understand why she was so directed, Star had opened the twenty-seventh psalm to this, as she thought, Hindu sister, copying in full the verse which in Tamil reads: “Though my father and my mother may forsake me, the Lord will draw me close to Himself.”

Strange that what is life of life to one is mere dust of words to another. The cousin read indifferently in the sing-song drone of India; as coined gold Mimosa received the words, loving them, desiring to linger over them. But coined gold is a poor simile, and, though little enough of it had come her way, Mimosa would have heaped it in handfuls on the floor for just those words that she heard now.

Then, the reading over, she took this, her very. first letter, in her hands, and, touching her eyes with it in the pretty, reverent way of the East, she carefully folded it and put it in the box where she kept her one possession of value, the title-deeds of her little house. If she had heard of the golden pot that had manna, that was kept in the ark of the Covenant overlaid with gold, she would have thought thus of her precious letter. And thereafter: when overwhelmed by troubles and sorely in need of sustenance, she would go to that box and take out her letter, and, smoothing its pages with tender fingers, try to recall the words written upon them. Or if the friendly cousin could be found, she would get him to read it to her again, till, fed by that hidden manna, she was strong to continue. But it never occurred to the cousin to write and tell us about her, nor did it enter her mind that such a thing could be done. So we went on knowing nothing.