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After 25 years as a missionary in Africa, Samuel Morrison was coming home on the same ocean liner that brought Teddy Roosevelt back from an African hunting expedition. The dock where the great ship pulled into New York Harbor was jammed with what looked like the entire population of New York City. Bands were playing, banners were waving, choirs of children were singing, multicolored balloons were floating, and newsreel cameras were poised to record the return of the President.


Mr. Roosevelt stepped down the gangplank to thunderous cheers, applause, and a shower of confetti and ticker tape. If ropes and police had not restrained the crowd, he would have been mobbed!


At the same time, Samuel Morrison quietly walked off the boat. No one was there to greet him; he slipped through the crowd alone. Because of the crush of people there to welcome the President, Morrison couldn’t even find a cab. He began to complain in his heart:


Lord, the President has been in Africa killing animals for three weeks and the whole world turns out to welcome him home. I’ve given 25 years of my life in Africa, serving You, and no one has greeted me or even knows that I’m here.


In the quietness of missionary Samuel Morrison’s heart, a gentle, loving voice whispered, “But my dear child, you’re not home yet!”1

1. Anne Graham Lotz. Heaven My Father’s House. W Publishing Group (Division of Thomas Nelson), Nashville, Tenn. 2001, pg. 14-15.

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