Fall turned to winter. Snows came. A great white blanket covered the surface of the ground in that far northern woodland. During the long winter evenings, the man of God spent much time praying for the Indian Chieftain who had come to Christ. During those same long winter evenings, the Indian was spending much time preparing for that which he would bring as a gift to his Savior and God.
When the snows began to thaw, the green shoots came out upon the trees, and the first early spring flowers began to rise among the dead leaves of the previous autumn. Again, as the evening call echoed across the lake, and as the man of God waited beside his fire, the chieftain appeared between the parting boughs of the young firs that circled the spot where the flames of the campfire glowed and flickered.
In his hands the man brought an object that was beautiful to behold—a trinket made of silver and turquoise. It was the fruit of the most skilled handcraft of the men of the forest. He presented it to the missionary with these words,
“I bring a gift for my God.”
The missionary looked into the Indian’s eyes and answered just two words, “Not enough.”
Without another word the chieftain disappeared among the trees of the forest. Springtime came in full bloom. Blossoms came out on the trees. Flowers broke through the ground and blossomed in their full glory. When the beginnings of the summer had arrived, the Indian chief at the hour of sunset came again to the campfire spot of the man of God. This time in his hands he brought something which was not a useless trinket, but rather an instrument essential to his life—his constant companion both on the warpath and on the hunt—his arrows and his bow.
Holding them out before the missionary, he said, “I bring a better gift for my Savior, for my God.”
Knowing that this indeed was something so necessary to his life, that it meant a real sacrifice, the missionary looked into the eyes of the chief and answered just two words, “Not enough.”
The Indian turned and disappeared among the trees of the forest, and the man of God prayed.
Summer came to its full verdure, and then the harvest time, when all the fruits of the land were gathered in. In the peak of the harvest time, at the hour of the eventide when the Indian evening call was echoed across the lake, again the Indian approached the man of God. This time he held in his hand the thing that was indeed the most precious possession of any Indian warrior, his blanket. Skillfully woven by the most skilled artisans of his tribe, it bore in its very design the history of all his exploits and deed of bravery, which led to his having become the chief of the tribe. He brought it in his hands and holding it up and with pride in his voice, he spoke these words,
“I bring my best gift for my Savior and my God.”
The missionary knew enough of the culture of the Indian tribes to appreciate indeed the value of the great sacrifice the man was making. Understanding all of this and looking into the eyes of the man who came before him, he answered just two words, “Not enough.”
Again, without speaking further the chief disappeared among the trees of the forest. The man of God prayed.
Autumn’s season wore on. The leaves on the trees again turned to their riot of brilliant color, then faded, then fell from the trees, spreading their carpet of golden brown upon the surface of the woodland, and leaving the trees stretching long, dark fingers into the autumn sky.
As the first chill of winter came, the man of God sat beside the fire, huddling close to appreciate the warmth of the flames. He listened as the Indian evening call echoed in the distance.
“Ya-a-a-ah Ha-a-ah we-e-e-e hay-y o-o-oh.”
As the last sound died out and as the last long rays of crimson disappeared in the west, the boughs of the fir trees were parted, and into the circle stepped the Indian chief.
He was dressed in all the full regalia of his position in the tribe. The great war bonnet of eagle feathers crowned his brow, falling on both sides almost to the ground. On his breast hung the sacred wampum of the tribe. There were bracelets on his arms and ankles, and from his shoulders hung the beautiful blanket depicting the history of his exploits as chieftain of the tribe.
In his hands he brought nothing.
Without a word, he approached the fire. Raising his hands, he lifted the great war bonnet from his head and dropped it into the flames and watched as the fire consumed the trophy. Then the sacred wampum from his breast followed into the fire. From his arms and ankles, he removed the jeweled bracelets and dropped them into the burning flames. From his shoulders, he removed the blanket, with the insignia of his rank and position in the tribe and gave it also to the flames. Standing then as any Indian, dressed only in his loincloth, his hands empty, he fell to his knees and looking into the eyes of the man of God said, “I have nothing else. I bring my self—a gift for his Savior and my God.” The missionary, standing in front of the Indian chief, looked into his eyes and said just one word, “Enough.”