by D.L. Moody
I remember when out in Kansas, while holding a meeting, I saw a little boy who came up to the window crying. I went to him and said, “My little boy, what is your trouble?”
“Why, Mr. Moody, my mother’s dead, and my father drinks, and they don’t love me, and the Lord won’t have anything to do with me because I am a poor drunkard’s boy.”
“You have got a wrong idea, my boy; Jesus will love you and save you, and your father too,” and I told him a story of a little boy in an eastern city. The boy said his father would never allow the canting hypocrites of Christians to come into his house, and would never allow his child to go to Sunday-school. A kind-hearted man got his little boy and brought him to Christ. When Christ gets into a man’s heart, he cannot help but pray.
This father had been drinking one day and coming home he heard that boy praying. He went to him and said, “I don’t want you to pray any more. You’ve been along with some of those Christians. If I catch you praying again I’ll flog you.” But the boy was filled with God, and he couldn’t help praying. The door of communication was opened between him and Christ, and his father caught him praying again. He went to him. “Didn’t I tell you never to pray again? If I catch you at it once more, you leave my house.” He thought he would stop him. Not very long after this, one day his father had been drinking more than usual, and coming in found the boy offering a prayer. He caught the boy with a push and said, “Didn’t I tell you never to pray again? Leave this house. Get your things packed up and go.” The little fellow hadn’t many things to get together—a drunkard’s boy never has—and he went up to his mother’s room. “Good-by, mother.” “Where are you going?” “I don’t know where I’ll go, but father says I cannot stay here any longer; I’ve been praying again,” he said. The mother knew it wouldn’t do to try to keep the boy when her husband had ordered him away, so she drew him to her bosom and kissed him, and bid him good-by. He went to his brothers and sisters and kissed them good-by. When he came to the door, his father was there, and the little fellow reached out his hand. “Good-by, father; as long as I live I will pray for you,” and left the house. He hadn’t been gone many minutes when the father rushed after him. “My boy, if that is religion, if it can drive you away from father and mother and home, I want it.” Yes, maybe some other little boy has got a drinking father and mother. Lift your voice to heaven, and the news will be carried up to heaven, “He prays.”
by D.L. Moody