I don't like Ingathering. I have to leave a nice warm house, the cosiness of a crackling fireplace, the sit-down-and-cuddle-me time that I usually spend with my children. I have to go out into the night, where it's always cold, or snowy, or rainy, and knock on doors I don't want to knock on to bother people who don't want to be bothered and ask them for money. I don't like Ingathering and I say I won't go.
(Then I remember a manger in Bethlehem. And a Christ who was willing to leave heaven for me.)
I don't like Ingathering. I'd rather give my goal than go out and face people at the doors. I'm not a good solicitor anyway, and I'm always embarrassed to ask people for money. My soul cringes at the thought—it's too much like begging, too humbling.
(Then I remember a Christ, who was humble enough to walk the dusty paths of Judea for me.)
I don't like Ingathering. Dogs yap, children howl, and people, snuggled comfortably in their homes for the evening, growl at me. Or they insult me, or slam the door in my face. No one should have to put up with this kind of thing, I think.
(And then I remember that they spat in the face of Christ.)
I don't like Ingathering. The wind blows, and the snow gets in over the tops of my boots; my fingers grow numb. I'll quit, I think.
(Then I remember—Was it blood on Your face, Christ? And did You want to turn back too?)
I don't like Ingathering. I think I won't go out this year at all.
(And then before my mind pass the starving children of India; a leper holds out hands with fingers eaten from them; an old grandmother, her home torn away by a tornado, sobs heartbrokenly; the frightened, hungry eyes of a Vietnamese child stare up at me. And I hear Christ saying softly: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.")
Does Christ speak to you like that? He does to me.
MRS. W. K. Taken from Northern Light, March, 1968
