A Chance to Die by Elisabeth Elliot (best book recommendations .TXT) 📕

denied them, a dignity and an equality not only with other Indians but even, in spiritual terms, with those Christians who represented power—the British of the raj. These were the “loaves and fishes” that drew the crowds. Who among them actually had “ears to hear” the words of the Master? This was the burning question.

Missionary social activities were not Amy’s cup of tea. How to justify the time spent in this way? It was like making daisy chains while people were plunging blindly over a precipice. Once when the ladies were doing their fancy needlework and the men were reading missionary papers for discussion the question was asked whether anyone knew of an Indian who would work without pay.

There was a dead silence. The lady near me was busy matching her silks. All the others went on with what they were doing. Not one, so far as I could see, was astonished or shocked by such a question. At last one of the men said, “I must confess I don’t.”

But I felt as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the midst of that pleasant company. It wasn’t that I thought the question referred to those who could not work unless their expenses were paid. To have one’s expenses paid if one had not money of one’s own is apostolic. No, it was not that; it was that no one in that room knew of any who (whether they had pay or not) were working purely for love of their Lord, who loved Him enough to work for love’s sake only . . . I had half expected that in the moment’s silence that followed we would be on our knees in shame and contrition before God. For if such things were true, whose fault was it? But no, the discussion passed on to something else and there was a buzz of conversation, that was all. I went to bed that night in much perplexity of spirit.

She longed to become one with the people. “‘He made Himself of no reputation and took upon Him the form of a servant.’1 Pray that we may get down to the bottom of that verse,” she wrote home. “Then we shall be in a position to ask our Indian brethren to come down and join us for Jesus’ sake. Pray that we who are His sworn soldiers abroad may throw our kid gloves to the winds and FIGHT!”

Compared to the sari, the beautiful dress of an Indian woman, Amy’s own wardrobe seemed ludicrously elaborate, impractical, and, worst of all, a dreadful distraction for the Indians, as it had been for the Japanese. It might even be dangerous for her. If she wore a sari she had a measure of protection by being less conspicuous in a crowd. She tried not to be prejudiced in favor of one dress over another; “it is only a surface matter after all.” But she was not yet free to adopt Indian dress except on rare occasions. It simply “wasn’t done.”

Because Bangalore’s climate, although one of the most healthful in India, was considered too hard for Europeans to bear year-round, it was customary for British residents to resort to the hills in April and May. Missionaries generally followed suit. To Amy this was an indefensible waste of time and money. She had no intention of going, but was forced to join the party of three women to the Nilgiris. If they rode in sedan chairs, as was expected, thirty-six coolies would be needed, eight for each chair, twelve to carry the baggage. Amy and the doctor chose to ride ponies. They went to Kotagiri (“hills of the Kota tribe”), where there were forests of fir, fresh mountain air, and pure mountain water.

As she had ridden her pony Scamp on the beach of Millisle, Amy rejoiced to gallop Laddie on the quiet roads of Kotagiri.

Oh, that you could see us as we tear along, our solar hats discarded, if it is evening, our hair, or mine at least, flowing free! We are called the mad riders of Kotagiri, and I don’t think we much mind. This evening we came upon the elite of the little place, residents and visitors, congregated on the road. There was the good old Bishop and his sister, and the Bishop-to-be, his wife, and various old ladies and middles, and perambulators enclosing babies, and a dog or two. The small crowd parted with alacrity as we shot through, and we caught a fleeting glance of a gaze of astonishment and horror. There are two very mild old gentlemen who are fond of taking their walks abroad round the hill we consider our cantering-row. We delight to amble sedately past them, then, a yard or two ahead, break into our wildest gallop, and they remain behind in a state of apoplectic pie Once I ran over a man. I did not mean to—he wouldn’t get out of the way and one can’t stop short in mid-gallop. Lilian reported him not hurt, only somewhat surprised. All this will be over soon. When one is ready for work a bullock cart will be the order of the day. Just now I take it as an extra good gift which helps to keep me strong for the months of grind before me.

Amy, interested more in vocation than vacation, had taken along her helper, dear old Saral (her earlier helper having proved untrustworthy). This was a new departure. A British resort, remote from the sizzling plains three thousand feet below, was designed to provide refuge not only from the plains’ flies and smells and heat, but from its hordes of the poor and the ignorant. It was, above all things, freedom from contact with any Indians of any station whatever that most Britishers prized. This, to Amy, was a freedom earnestly to be avoided. “My Missie is as my child to my heart,” Saral said, and Amy refused to be separated from her. This caused consternation. Was this young Irish upstart going to have