"Pieta, is that the only dress you have?" asked the missionary.
The sad faced Filipina girl nodded shyly. Then she explained, "My master is a Spaniard. My father sold me to him long ago to pay a debt. He won't let me wear anything except this flour sack."
Mrs. Wightman, the missionary, looked pityingly at the poor excuse for a dress. It was merely an old faded flour sack turned upside down. Crude holes were torn in the bottom and sides for the girl's head and thin arms to slip through. "Let me make you a dress, Pieta!" she said impulsively. "Your master will not mind if he does not have to pay for it, will he?"
A look of fear flashed across the little girl's face as she vigorously shook her head. "Thank you, but you don't understand. My master is a drunkard and cruel. If I came home with a new dress he would be suspicious and angry. He would beat me and then sell my dress to buy more to drink. He says that slaves should only wear the poorest of things that do not cost anything."
Mrs. Wightman, a young missionary in the Philippine Islands, was having daily classes for children in a large outdoor pavilion. She had discovered that siesta time was a fine hour to gather children together, for the parents were happy to have them away from their homes so that they themselves could have their undisturbed rest. The class had grown until over a hundred boys and girls would come running as soon as their missionary friend appeared. As the children crowded in happily Pieta would stand wistfully at the far edge of the group in her shabby little dress.
One day the missionary again called Pieta to her side. "I have decided what to do for a dress for you! I am going to make you a nice dress like the other girls wear. Each day I will bring it with me to the class, and you can slip it on before the others come. You can wear it while the children are here, and then leave it with me when you go home. Would you like to do this?"
Pieta's glowing face was answer enough! "Oh! -would you make it pink—with ruffles—please?" she whispered eagerly.
In the days that followed, a radiant Pieta in her pretty pink dress sat in the front row, her hungry heart drinking in every word of the Bible stories. It was Easter time, and Mrs. Wightman told the story of the Savior's suffering and death for the sins of the world. Unexpectedly Pieta's voice interrupted her.
"I know what hurt the Lord Jesus the most!"
"What do you mean, Pieta?"
"Sometimes when I have been bad, and my master is angry, he hangs me on the fence," the little girl said earnestly. "He ties wire around my wrists and lets me hang there until I think I will die. The wire cuts into my wrists, and the pain is everywhere—but the most terrible pain is right here!" and she placed her hand over her heart. "It is the most dreadful pain of all, and I'm sure that is what hurt the Lord Jesus the most, too!"
The missionary was shocked to learn of the cruel treatment the little girl had suffered, but she said, "You are right, Pieta. The Lord Jesus suffered most of all in His heart. Not just because of the awful pain of crucifixion but because all of our sins were placed upon Him by God, and then God left Him alone to take the punishment that we deserved."
"Oh! I wish that He had died for me, too!" Pieta spoke aloud again, with longing in her voice.
"He did die for you, Pieta," the missionary assured her. "You may receive Him as your Savior right now!"
"But you have forgotten—I am a slave girl! Slaves cannot be saved, for my master says that a slave does not have a soul."
How glad Mrs. Wightman was that she could tell her the story of Onesimus from the book of Philemon. Although Onesimus had been a slave, and had sinned greatly, he had received the Lord Jesus Christ as his Savior, and had been forgiven. Then she asked Pieta to stay after the class was dismissed that they might talk about it together.
As they sat quietly after the others had run away, tears began slipping down Pieta's face. "It is wonderful that the Lord Jesus loves me! I cannot remember anyone who has ever loved me before. But I am afraid that I am too bad to belong to Him!"
"What do you mean, Pieta?"
"Sometimes my master sends me to the store to buy a cabbage, and I steal one of the pennies to get candy for myself. And sometimes when he is cruel to me I spit in the water pail when I go to the well for water, and, oh!—lots of other bad things!"
"Pieta, it is for these very things that Jesus died. The Lord Jesus has already taken the punishment that they deserved when He died upon the cross. He wants to be your Savior."
"I do want to belong to Him! How shall I tell Him that I do?"
"Do you remember the song that we sang today, the one that says, 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow'? Why don't you ask the Lord Jesus to do that for you right now?"
Looking toward the sky Pieta prayed simply, "Lord Jesus, wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." After a moment she looked at her teacher and said, sadly, "He didn't do it. I feel just the same."
"Listen to this verse, Pieta, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' What does the word 'believe' mean in your own language?"
"It means to count on it, to accept that it is so," she answered thoughtfully. "I see! I asked Him to wash me whiter than snow. It doesn't matter how I feel, I can just count on it that He will keep His promise and will do it!" The tear streaked face began to shine. "Wait until I tell my master! I don't think he knows anything about this, and I do want him to be saved too, for he is all I have."
The next day as the missionary helped Pieta slip into her pink dress she noticed many painful bruises on her thin body. Pieta explained, "My master swore, and said that what you had told me was lies, and then he beat me. I don't know why he was angry. It is such a good story! Help me pray that he will someday know that it is true." Then she asked, "Would there be something that I could do for the Lord Jesus for loving me so much?"
Mrs. Wightman gave her the responsibility of sweeping the pavilion each day, and from that moment on it was as clean as a small girl could possibly keep it.
Then came the days of great wind and rain. Winds from the northwest bowed palm and banana trees to the ground, swept thatched roofs from the houses and washed great waves of water over the island. Torrents of rain lashed in fury, rain that seemed endless. It was one of the dreaded typhoons, and by the time the storm was over many were homeless and some were drowned.
When they were able to have their classes once more the boys and girls had many exciting stories to tell, and some were stories of heartache and sorrow.
Then the missionary saw Pieta sitting in her accustomed place, but not alone! Beside her sat a pink pig!
"Why, Pieta! Where did that pig come from?" she exclaimed.
"He is all mine!" Pieta answered proudly. "When the water washed across our yard this little pig came floating along. I thought that he was dead, and he was almost. I fished him out with a stick and took care of him and he got all right again. I have been to every house but no one knows where he came from, or to whom he belongs, so he is mine now!"
"That is very nice," the missionary smiled, "but you had better leave him at home for this is a class for boys and girls, and he might disturb the class."
Fear lit up Pieta's dark eyes. She caught up her pig and held him tightly. "No! No! No!! I could never leave him at home. If he cannot come then I must stay at home with him. You do not understand. If I leave him home my master might eat him, or sell him—and he is my pig! He is the only thing that I have ever had that is all my own. He is for something very special!"
"What is that?" Mrs. Wightman asked gently.
"When he is big and fat and strong, then I want to give him to the Lord! He has given me so much, and I have never had anything to give to Him before. I am not letting my master feed him, for then he would say that he belonged to him. I am begging scraps of food and garbage from the neighbors."
"I understand, Pieta," the missionary assured the anxious girl. "If you can keep him quiet so that he will not disturb us you may bring him with you."
So it was that Pieta's pig became a faithful member of the class. Weeks slipped into months, and Mrs.
Wightman could see that the little Filipina girl was growing into a strong Christian. Her pig was growing, too! One day he appeared with a red bow about his fat neck, and the smile upon Pieta's face prompted the teacher to ask, "Is this a special day, Pieta?"
Pieta nodded her head eagerly. "This is the day I want to give my pig to the Lord. See how big and fat he is? I do not like the way my master has been looking at him. Tomorrow is his birthday, and I am afraid he may decide to have a feast for his friends with my pig. Will you please give him to the Lord Jesus for me today?"
After thinking carefully the missionary asked, "Would you like me to take him to the market and sell him? We could use the money to buy Bibles, and little books that tell the story of salvation to give to people who have not heard about the Lord Jesus."
Pieta agreed, and after the class Mrs. Wightman and Pieta's pig went to market.
The next day Pieta did not return to the class. When three days went by without her, Mrs. Wightman asked if anyone knew if she were sick. The children looked at one another fearfully. Then one volunteered, "Didn't you know? Her master was so angry when he found that she had sold her pig, and didn't even have the money, that he beat her dreadfully. He had planned to have a feast with his friends. He beat her so cruelly that one eye is gone—and we think that she is dying!"
Shocked, and sick at heart, the missionary dismissed the children and hurried to the little house where she had been told Pieta lived with the Spaniard. It was a typical thatched one room dwelling, standing upon posts to be above water during the heavy rains. Under the house, where the pigs were rooting and the chickens scratching in the garbage, she saw Pieta.
Crawling beneath the house, the missionary sat down beside her and gathered the sick child in her arms. Pieta's hot skin told Mrs. Wightman that she had a high fever, and as she held her the little girl had a convulsion. Tears began streaming down the missionary's face as she said aloud, "Oh! Pieta! What has he done to you? What has he done to you?"
The little form had grown still in her arms, and looking down she saw that Pieta had regained consciousness. Looking up at her with her one eye Pieta asked in a weak voice, "Are you crying? Why are you crying? You aren't crying for me, are you?"
The missionary could not answer, so Pieta continued, "Don't cry for me! I am going to be in heaven with the Lord Jesus very soon, and I'm so glad to go! Please don't cry for me, I can hardly wait."
Then Mrs. Wightman asked, "Do you think you will know the Lord Jesus when you see Him?"
Pieta answered, "Yes, I'll know Him! He is the only One who will have nail marks in His hands and feet!" Then after a moment she looked up again and whispered, "When I go, will you pray for my master? He is all I have, and I do want him to be saved."
It was hard for Mrs. Wightman to answer, for tears were choking her voice. She felt such bitterness toward that cruel Spaniard, but Pieta was waiting, and finally she was able to say, "Yes, Pieta, I will pray for his salvation."
In just a few moments Pieta grew still in her arms, and the missionary realized that her spirit had slipped away to be with the Savior whom she loved. Holding the girl's limp body she crawled out from under the house and slowly climbed the steps. Pushing the screen door open with her foot she entered the room where the Spaniard sat at the table, a bottle in his hand.
For a moment the man and the missionary looked at one another. Then Mrs. Wightman spoke. "Look at Pieta! She is dead. You killed her!"
"What if I did?" the Spaniard answered roughly. "She had no soul. She was nothing but my slave, and I had a right to do as I pleased with her. She was my property."
The missionary was trembling, but she answered quietly, without anger. "Yes, she did have a soul, and you know that. Pieta is now in heaven. You are a wicked murderer in the sight of God!"
"Get out of here! I have nothing to do with God or the things you teach. Get out!"
"I will go in a moment," she answered, "but first I have something to say to you. Just before Pieta died she asked me to do a hard thing. She asked me to pray for you. She loved you in spite of your cruelty to her, and wanted you to be saved from everlasting punishment. I will keep my promise to Pieta. I will pray that God will show you what a sinful man you are, and that you will come to Him for mercy and for pardon."
At home the missionary lovingly bathed the bruised body of Pieta, and dressed her in the pink dress she had loved. With a few Filipino Christians they had a Christian burial for her. Then Mrs. Wightman told them the whole story, and asked, "Will you pray with me for this wicked man that he may find the Lord Jesus Christ as his Savior?"
The response was immediate. They agreed to pray, and to pray around the clock, continually, until this man should be saved. During the fourth night the praying Filipinos heard footsteps. Looking up they saw the haggard Spaniard stumbling through the doorway.
"Is there mercy with God for such a wicked man as I am?" he cried. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as though he had neither eaten nor slept for some time.
Falling to his knees the man poured out his heart to God confessing his sin, and his deep need of Jesus Christ as his Savior. The Christians were able to show him from God's Word that the death of the Lord Jesus upon Calvary had atoned for his great sin, and he received God's gift of salvation.
The change in this man's life was seen by everyone. He immediately went to his drinking companions and shared with them what God had done for him. Soon his testimony was winning others to the Savior.
Then war came with all of its horrors. Pearl Harbor was bombed and the Japanese were everywhere, forcing the Filipinos to bow to the Japanese emperor. One day the Spaniard was brought face to face with the command to bow. Fearlessly he refused, telling the soldiers that he could only bow to the living God who had saved and cleansed him from his wicked ways.
There was a moment of stunned silence! Then the ringing cry was furiously repeated, "Bow to the emperor—or die!"
The Spaniard stood.
A sharp command was followed by a volley of shots, and the Spaniard was with the Savior he had learned to love even unto death, and with Pieta, in answer to her prayer!