THE weather forecast on that particular Friday night proved to be correct, for Saturday was a cold, dry November day with every indication of a keen frost at night. The hills in the distance, partially covered with snow, stood majestically out, as a row of battlements covering the three small villages in the valley. A great calm seemed to pervade the whole countryside that afternoon, impressing the mind with the fact that most of our little feathered friends had gone to warmer climes while our old friends of the meadow were in their warmer quarters.
“Our Friend,” as the Tinkers called him, was standing admiring the beautiful scene before him, reflecting how the countryside possessed a peculiar charm in the winter, entirely different from the other seasons. How beautiful was God’s handiwork, he thought; yes, everything that was beautiful was of God, and all ugliness, cruelty and perverseness seemed to pertain to man. His afternoon work was almost finished, for he had only one farm to visit before going home; so setting forward he made towards the Healthy Burn to cross to the farm. As he drew near the stepping stones he saw a man standing who proved to be a tinker. He was tall and very powerfully built (the typical Scotch tinker), while his black curly hair and brown tanned features gave him the appearance of a Highland chief. Our Friend was medium in height, and as he gazed at the powerful man before him and remembered that it was a quiet country road, he began to have a queer sensation (somewhere about the stomach). Gathering together all his courage he strode forward towards the tinker, and offering him a Gospel tract said, “Would you please accept a Gospel tract?” “Certainly,” answered the tinker. “Are you a Christian?” asked Our Friend. The big fellow looked up from the tract he was gazing at and placing his hand on Our Friend’s shoulder he said, “Twelve years ago, in the village of Anstruther, I accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Saviour.” Continuing, he said, “Traveling through the country it is very difficult to find ground to pitch my tent, but do you know, Sir, God has always provided me with that little bit of ground for my tent. He has never failed me.” Our Friend grasped his hand and rejoiced he had met a brother even though a tinker. His other hand went to his pocket to find a coin, but no! he could not give; he felt that it would be an insult to this man and to his faith to offer him such help. Just then two Christian friends came along the road, and introducing his brother the tinker, he left the three of them on the banks of the Healthy Burn. He crossed the stepping stones and for a moment looked at the tinker’s home. A few branches from some tree bent to form a half circle, with a piece of cotton stretched over making a covering, while a little gap in the top was left to let the smoke escape from the fire.
Making his way up the farm road he met the tinker’s wife coming home from the farm with a child on her back (the tinker fashion), another at her side, while a huge bundle of straw was under her arm. Giving her a tract, and slipping a coin into her hand, he made for the farm and then home.
Two truths were impressed on Our Friend’s heart that afternoon with a lasting impression. First, God is no respecter of persons, for was not His grace manifested in this tinker, who could say, “He is mine”? And secondly, contentment and peace do not lie in the possessing much of this world’s goods, but in knowing God as a Father Who cares for His children.
A little cotton tent for a home, straw for a bed, water from the burn and bread from the casual employment, yet this “Unknown Tinker” (for I never asked his name) could say from his heart, “He has never failed me.” Are not our hearts reminded of another who was acquainted with traveling, who took a stone and called the name of it Ebenezer, saving, “Hitherto has the Lord helped us”?
“We may live in a tent or a cottage,
Or die in seclusion unknown,
But the Saviour Who seeth in secret,
Remembers each one of His Own.”