Acts 27:22

An inner-city missionary, stumbling through the trash of a dark apartment doorway, heard someone say, “Who’s there, Honey?” Lighting a match, he caught sight of earthly needs and suffering, amid saintly trust and peace.

Calm, appealing eyes, etched in ebony, were set within the wrinkles of a weathered black face. On a bitterly cold night in February, she lay on a tattered bed, with no fire, no heat, and no light. Having had no breakfast, lunch, or dinner, she seemed to have nothing at all, except arthritis and faith in God. No one could have been further removed from comfortable circumstances, yet this favorite song of the dear lady played in the background: