Way back in pioneer days, Rose played by the door of her log cabin. The dark pine forest seemed to fence her in, and she was wishing for the hundredth time that she had someone to play with. Suddenly, a little Indian girl came out from among the trees, walking all by herself, right toward her.
Rose was delighted. Smiles were better than words. Everything was new and wonderful for both of them, now that they could share things together. Her new friend’s name was Colombe, a gentle Indian child, and every moment they were together was golden.
The afternoon passed quickly, and as the shadows grew long, Colombe turned to the forest path to leave. But Rose’s father would not let her go alone. The evening forest was full of hidden dangers, but the child walked ahead without a trace of fear. He followed along behind her to the edge of the forest, but he stopped there. He felt, rather than saw, that the path was lined with the brown bodies and watchful eyes of Indian braves who would guard her the rest of the way. She must be a chief’s daughter, he thought. There was no need to follow her any farther.
Colombe returned day after day, and Rose talked of nothing else. They were very best friends and they shared everything, and that is why Rose eagerly shared with her friend her Saviour - Jesus! The One dearest to her heart must be shared with her friend, and Colombe understood. Her heart opened to the love of Jesus and she learned to pray to Him.
But there came a day when Rose watched and waited, and her little Indian friend did not come. Day after day she waited and then asked her father to please follow the forest path and see what had happened. He returned with the news that the wigwams were gone and the fires were cold. They had moved on.
There were many tears and prayers in the log cabin in the months that followed. It seemed a long, long time until finally the smoke of the campfires rose into the sky again. The Indians had returned, but still Colombe did not come to Rose’s log cabin.
And then one day a tall Indian came from the dark forest to the cabin of the white settler. Clearly, he was the chief of the tribe. Both men knew a little French, enough to be understood. The white man stood silent, waiting for the chief to raise his downcast eyes and tell his sad story. He had three sons who had died of fever, one by one. One little treasure was left to them, his little gentle daughter, the light of her parents’ eyes and the princess of the tribe. But recently she also had died of fever.
“But this was different,” he told Rose’s father. “She was very, very sick, but she was not afraid. She talked of Jesus who is alive and who was so real to her. She said she was going to Jesus, and she died with joy. I have come,” said the chief, “to learn of Jesus.”
If someone came to you and asked to learn of Jesus, could you tell them? You might be able to tell something about Him, but if Jesus is really your living, loving, coming Saviour, you will be able to tell who He is. Do you know Him? It is only Jesus who can give you joy when you die.
Everybody ought to know
who Jesus is.
On the cross He died for sinners
And His blood makes white
as snow;
Living, loving, coming Saviour,
He’s the One you ought to know.
ML-12/12/1999