<TITLE>07. Par 25-27</TITLE>L-25 And the old man, as he stood there I begin to feel sorry for him. I looked at his old ragged coat. I put my shoulders up the side of his to see if my coat would fit him. I looked at his feet: no shoes on, great callouses on his feet, dusty all the way up as far as you could see, where his ragged trouser leg. My shoe wasn't nothing like big enough for him. And I begin to look, and I thought, "That poor old man maybe never had a good meal in all of his life."
Oh, the economics of Mexico is very poor. The brick mason gets about eight pesos a day. And it takes about four days good hard labor to buy himself a pair of shoes. That's Pancho Frank. What does Pedro do, working for about two pesos with six or eight children to raise? Oh, it's terrible.
And I thought, "After all that, and then nature... The devil has given him evil to blind his poor, old, blinded eyes. How cruel it was to him." And I begin to enter into something; I can't express it; it was a love of sympathy. And as the old fellow come and laid his head over on my shoulder, and I hugged that old ragged coat, I said, "Merciful God, please help this poor old blind daddy. If my dad would've lived, he'd have been about that age. Will You help him?"
And I heard him hollering, "Gloria Dios." And the man could see as good as I could. The people begin screaming everywhere. What was it? It was entering into that fellowship of his suffering in his blindness. You must do it.

L-26 If ever I had a time of success of praying for anyone, is when I could enter into the fellowship with them, feel their infirmities, feel their conditions. Then something in you goes down beyond the reasoning and prays the prayer of faith for the sick. You've got to feel for a man. You've got to sympathize with him. You've got to be with him before you can help him. Then you enter into some sort of a deepness; it's the love of God. It's beyond human love.
I'm going to tell you something. You may class me a fanatic after this. But I feel like I want to tell you anyhow. Many things happen like that. Frankly, all my ministry has been wrapped around that one thing. If I can love that, or fall in sympathy with it...

L-27 I was a game warden of Indiana for several years, while I was still a Baptist pastor. One day I was--left my truck and was going across a field. And I had a little old gun, pistol, revolver that I was supposed to pack. And I was going over across the hills to see a sick friend to pray for him. And I took this little old gun off, and throwed it up in the seat, and started across the field. And as I walked through the field, a lot of little shrub oak (I don't think you have it here, little scrub oak, we call it there) in the field...
I was about two hundred yards from the fence, or better, when all of a sudden a great bull raised up. And I recognized him; he was that killer from the Burke's Farm down near the Walnut Ridge Cemetery. A few months before that, it killed a colored man, gored him through and killed him. And they'd sold him up there because he was a famous guernsey bull, a breeder. And they had him up there, and I forgot that he was in that field. And he rose up, not over about thirty yards from me. And anyone knows what those vicious animals are, and this fellow a killer. And as he rose up (I was excited, of course), I reached for the gun, and it wasn't there. And I am glad that it wasn't there. I'd have killed the bull then went and paid for him.
I reached for the gun, it wasn't there. Then I looked to the fence: too far away. Not a tree nowhere, but just little scrub oaks, about four or five foot high... And he'd been laying down with some cattle in this midst of these trees. What was it? If I turn my back, he got me. No matter where I went, he got me. It was death.


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