Sitting in front of me was an old Indian coolie with gnarled, bare legs around which varicose veins entwined themselves like creepers on the branch of a tree. Those who know the Orient will be familiar with his type. As the preacher said the words "God is in your hands", I saw the old man look at his toil-worn, calloused, twisted hands, and broken nails, almost in awe. Something tremendous was happening to him. One could watch a great yet simple truth enter his consciousness. Recognition of it spread across his face, which took on a look of sheer wonderment. Throughout the rest of the sermon he looked, time after time, at the hands which had suddenly taken on a new, sublime significance. It is my guess that his work, whatever it was, would never be the same for him again. Suddenly, no matter how degraded that work might be, it became meaningful for him. His Christianity suddenly became relevant to his work. ... His beliefs could be related to cleaning the monsoon drains the next day, or pedaling away from morning till night on a heavy trishaw.