One of the pleasant memories of the Jacksons’ camp ministry is about a man who came to camp, driving a team of horses. Joe, who had traveled two days to get to camp, was white-haired. Nobody knew how old he was. Hardly noticed, he sat at the back of the tent, paying close attention. 

        On the last day of camp the big tent was taken down, leaving only the massive wooden frame. Most of the people had already left. The Jacksons took the opportunity to visit a bit with some other missionaries who had not yet left, before setting out for home. Bill took a little walk to where the big tent had stood. After looking around, he began to reflect upon the week of ministry which had taken place. Thoughtfully, he gazed heavenward through the skeleton of wood. 

        “I came to ask you if it’s too late for me?” The voice broke into Bill’s thoughts. Turning, he saw Joe at his side. 

        “Too late? What do you mean, Joe? Too late for what?” Bill could have guessed pretty accurately what was on Joe’s mind. It was better for Joe to say it. 

        “I’ve been sitting here all week listening. I know I need to be saved. I didn’t do anything about it all week. Is it too late for me to accept Jesus now?” 

        Sitting down on a log, Bill assured Joe that it wasn’t too late. “You can’t be sure about tomorrow, but the Bible says that today is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2). Slipping to his knees beside the old man, Bill listened as Joe invited Jesus into his heart and life. 

        “Joe walked with the Lord for the remaining years of his life,” Bill later said. “He was over ninety when he died in January, 1994.” 

        Joe was eager to learn what he could about the Lord. He couldn’t read and couldn’t learn to read because he had lost one eye in an accident and the other eye was weak. A good friendship developed between Joe and the missionary who, under God, had led him to Christ. Bill, for his part, was interested in doing all he could to help Joe. 

        A chance to help came when Joe realized that he was probably well past the age to receive the Canada Old Age Pension which, at the time, was paid out to every Canadian citizen over seventy years of age. But Joe had no proof of age, a problem faced by many Native people who didn’t always have birth certificates or other documents showing how old they were. 

        The pension office in the nearest city set up a tribunal of people to establish Joe’s age. Bill was asked to translate Joe’s side of things into English for the tribunal and translate the tribunal’s side of things into Cree for Joe. During the proceedings, Joe was asked where he was when World War II was taking place. Since he had spent most of his life in the bush, it was conceivable that Joe didn’t know a war had been fought. He didn’t read newspapers, didn’t meet many folk, didn’t have a means of keeping up on current affairs. 

        The tribunal asked other questions. Then a member of the tribunal noticed that one of Joe’s fingers was missing. “What happened to your finger, Joe?” he asked. Bill translated the question into Cree, then gave the tribunal Joe’s reply. 

        “I was hunting. My rifle was slung over my shoulder. It caught on some branches. I pulled on the gun, and it went off. My finger was hanging by the skin so I got my jackknife and cut it off.” Joe’s simple answer turned a few faces pale among the tribunal members. But, the one who asked the question sensed he was on to something.

        “What was the first kind of a gun you hunted with, Joe?”

        “I’ll try and explain,” Joe said to Bill. “They may not understand.” He did the actions. “I had to pack the barrel from the front before I could fire It.” 

        “Pack the barrel?” Bill turned to the tribunal. “Joe had a muzzle loader.” 

        An older member of the tribunal began to gather his papers together. “That settles Joe’s age,” he said. “Anybody who hunted with a muzzle loader wasn’t born yesterday.” The tribunal unanimously approved Joe’s pension, and even made it retroactive for a year.