KEEPING HER PROMISE |
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| When I was a little girl about eight years old, we lived
on a farm in one of the central states. Each of us children had a task that was our own
special job. One fed the corn to the pigs, another had to feed the chickens, and my job
was to look after the smokehouse. Have you ever been in a smokehouse? It is a little tall house off by itself. There are no windows and the door shuts very tight. On the inside where the ceiling should be, there are many strong cross beams with large nails and stout hooks driven in them. Hanging from these nails and hooks are pork shoulders and big hams, and big flat sides of bacon and long links of pork sausage, that look somewhat like flat weiners. When this meat is first put into the smokehouse, it is pink and white looking. It has lain for some weeks in large boxes filled with salt. As soon as Father had hung up all the meat in the smokehouse, then he put a shovel full of burning coals on the dirt floor right under the meat. Then it was my job to bring a basket of clean chips from the woodpile and carefully lay two or three big chips on the red coals. The chips would not make much blaze; but how they would smoke! It is this smoke that turns the outside of the meat brown and makes it taste so good. I had to go into the smokehouse about every hour and lay a few fresh chips on the coals and come out and be sure and shut the door. That was my job, no one else was to look after it but me. I liked it very much at first; but one day I had some special plans for play, and when I went out to lay on the chips in the morning I laid on quite a few. I didn't want to bother to come back right away. I did not remember the fire till late in the afternoon; and when I ran out to see about it there was only one wee little coal that was alive and red and the house was full of big flies. I knew they would soon spoil all the meat. I could not go to the house for more coals as my mother would be sure to ask me about the fire, and she would not like it because I had neglected it. So I had to gather little bits of soft bark and fine splintery chips and lay them on the coal then get down on my knees in the dark room and blow, and blow, and blow until at last a little flame caught the fine bark and began to burn the stronger stuff. Then I had to shoo out all the flies. Now while I was doing all this, I was earnestly praying to God, and promising Him that if He would save the meat for us, I would always be faithful to all my tasks, and never neglect any of them again. And I really meant it. I did not neglect the fire any more. And when, some weeks afterward, my father went into the smokehouse to see how the meat was curing, I went along. I wanted to learn if any of it was spoiled. Father would take down a big ham and look it over carefully, and I would ask, "Is it all right?" and he would answer, "All right." He would take down another piece and again I would ask the same question. I was thinking of my promise to the Lord. Father went over every piece of meat that hung in the smokehouse, and every one he pronounced, "all right." Then I knew that God had heard my prayer, and that, from now on I would have to keep my promise and always be careful to do all my tasks faithfully. From then on I have never neglected my jobs, because you see, I had promised to be faithful.
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