Summer 1977
Barrels of Water
(1 Kings 18:33)
We had known from the beginning that God had placed us on this campus along with the spiritist cult in order to show forth His glory. Dr. Alan Tippet, a missionary friend and fellow professor at Fuller, often spoke of the tremendous witness that can result from a "power encounter" such as Elijah faced on Mt. Carmel (I Kings 18). There was not the least question in our minds that in our confrontation with the cult, they were testing the power of our God with theirs — a true "power encounter."
Along about June, another aspect of the story of Elijah began to impress itself upon some of our minds. That was the barrels of water. There were four of them, then four more, and again another four: twelve in all that were poured over the sacrifice. Elijah wanted no question at all that there had been any trickery. God's power alone would have to light that sacrifice. The wood was not only thoroughly wet, but the trench around the altar was filled to the brim. In no way could an accidental spark have ignited the wood.
For ten years we had lived and worked among Mayan Indians in Western Guatemala. At 8,800 feet, it was cold. I did
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every bit of work I could possibly do seated in our living room in front of the only source of heat, a wood-burning fireplace. There was rarely an evening throughout the year when I didn't have a fire burning.
I loved the wood fireplace except when we returned to Guatemala from our furlough in the States. Then, naturally, there was no pile of previously dried wood, and the spark just wouldn't catch. I could buy wood fairly easily and cheaply, but it was always newly cut. It took months, literally, to dry it out so that it would burn, especially during the six months of the year when it rained every day. What a frustrating experience to try to light a fire in the fireplace when the wood was "wet"!
But there was Elijah, soaking that wood with barrel after barrel of water!
During those months after we got our option to buy the campus, we also had our barrels of water which God poured over our sacrifice. We also had to come to the place that, humanly speaking, there was absolutely no way we could meet the October 1st payment deadline.
For two years I had had a large lump about the size of an egg on my right arm. Two doctors had said it was probably okay, "just don't bother with it unless it starts to grow."
"Roberta," Ralph said one day in March, "I think your lump is getting bigger."
"Oh, surely not," I answered. But for the thousandth time I measured it with my left hand, and looked at it in the mirror and wondered: "What if . . ." Oh, Lord, not now . . . please, not now. If it is cancerous, what will Ralph do without me? Can he bear the agony plus fulfil your call? And where will we get the money for surgery?"
And again for the thousandth time I committed it to the Lord and went on about my business.
In March, Ralph and I were asked to take part in a student missionary conference at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, the first they had had in five years. We were to stay
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in the president's home. Dave, Ralph's brother, had been the president for only one year, and his children greeted us warmly as we rang the doorbell of their beautiful home. Unknown to us, Dave and his wife were gone to a meeting of Christian college presidents, and his mother-in-law had come to be with the children.
"Oh, dear," I thought. We had lived overseas most of the time since Dave had married, and after returning to the States had seen them only occasionally when they visited from Michigan or Spokane, Washington. I knew Mrs. Fischer casually, but certainly not well enough to drop in on her, already burdened with three youngsters
I think she was as unenthusiastic about the arrangements as we were, but she graciously showed us to our rooms.
Several days before, my sister had loaned me two books by Merlin Carothers, Prison to Praise and Power in Praise, and I took them with me to Santa Barbara. At first I found Carothers' thesis incredible. "Are we really supposed to thank God that we have a terrible habit of smoking, or are an alcoholic, or have been abandoned by our mates?"
But as I began to understand what he was saying, I began to praise God for the things we have found hard — the fact that good friends avoided us because they did not want to be associated with something that might fail and look silly; or that others accused us of wanting to make a name for ourselves; and for our old cars that were constantly breaking down; and for the tremendous financial need we were facing; and even for that lump on my arm.
Mrs. Fischer saw the book tucked in my knitting bag and said, "Oh, you're reading Carothers. Isn't he great?"
And I showed her my lump.
Right there in the front hallway she put her arm around me and said, "Let's pray for that lump, right now."
Afterward, she told me about her oldest son who had had a lump on his chest some years previously. It was removed several times before God finally healed him. Then she urged
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me to see Dr. Byron.
At that time, Dr. Byron was the chief surgeon at the City of Hope, a cancer research center in the Los Angeles area. Only those cancer patients with a good chance of being cured are accepted at the hospital. Once accepted, however, whatever is not covered by the patient's health insurance is covered by the hospital. What's more, having been once accepted as a patient, a person is eligible for care at the City of Hope no matter what medical problem he might have.
I knew that getting into the City of Hope was somewhat like the Bible verse which says, "Many are called, but few are chosen," and I wondered how I could even get to see Dr. Byron.
I had wonderful fellowship with Mrs. Fischer that weekend and really came to love her. And at her insistence I called Dr. Byron, who examined me, did a number of tests, and admitted me to the hospital. Unlike most doctors, he prayed with me that the Lord would heal me, using him however He would. Friends at the Center also prayed, but the lump remained, and I had surgery.
The doctor told me later that tumors on the arm are fairly common, but are usually above the muscle. What had concerned him about mine was that it was below the muscle and seemingly attached to it. It could have been cancerous. Praise the Lord, it was not!
It was a time of recommitment for me, and a time when Ralph, also, learned to recommit me to the Lord. Our minds and bodies were totally immersed in the urgency at the U.S. Center for World Mission, and our hearts were very much exposed to the mercies of the Lord. But we found them to be, oh, so tender.
The stress of all this, however, was the first barrel of water over the sacrifice. There was another.
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Time was passing fast. Ralph had been working night and day from April to June to line up consultants and a board
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of reference. Almost every day, top men in the field of missions responded: "I'll be honored to be a consultant. I think it is great work you're doing there. Please keep me informed." By May 13 we had 16, a few weeks later 20, then 30 and 40 — all well-known Christian leaders. The list was growing so rapidly that we had to reprint our letterhead stationary almost every week.
The consultants asked hard questions, which Ralph circulated with his answers in a VIP letter he sent out every week. Each letter mailed, however, reminded us that we had one less week to get the down payment we needed.
For weeks Ralph had been trying to reach Bob Schuller of the Garden Grove Community Church. "He's interested in missions. He has a television program where he can appeal to Christians. Maybe, just maybe, he will help us."
But we couldn't even get to him. He was out of the country. That was our second barrel of water.
Then Ralph tried to contact Channel 40, a Christian television station.1 The brother-in-law of one of our interested college students was high up in the staff there. He suggested that maybe they would help.
But again, no response. Another barrel.
We heard that several people had recommended us to the 700 Club in Virginia — a program on another Christian television station.1 And a month or so later we again heard that we had been recommended. We received a questionnaire to fill out — then silence.
"Have we heard from the 700 Club?" Bob asked one day as we passed in the corridor.
"No, I guess that must be another barrel. God just isn't letting us rely on any human help, it seems."
I thought about the cattle on a thousand hills, and all the silver and gold and oil that belong to the Lord, but I couldn't imagine how some of that would land in our bank account at the Center.
We were working like mad on a color brochure. All the
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experts from other mission agencies insisted that the first thing we needed was a nice brochure, and our volunteer help wrote and rewrote, sketched and resketched, planned and replanned. The graphics department was about to go crazy with the constant redoing.
Ralph wanted a famous personality for the front cover. He is, himself, fairly well known in mission circles, but not far beyond that. We didn't have the nerve to ask Billy Graham. Maybe Corrie ten Boom would be willing?
She probably would have been, but her board wouldn't let her even see our letter. "She is already far over-extended," they explained. "She's such a soft touch; she wants to help in every Christian endeavor."
About that time the sacrifice seemed really drenched — at least to us. But God said, "No! Pour on more water."
"Maybe now it's time we try some professional fund raisers," some of our staff suggested in mid-July. "Here we are, only ten weeks away from our due date, and we have barely raised any money at all. It's too bad to have to give fund raisers a third of what we raise, but they really know what they are doing and we'll come out ahead. Anyway, it's the only chance we have."
Ralph didn't want to seem stupid, or obstinate, or know-it-all, so he agreed to talk to some. One man who was highly recommended to us had raised millions of dollars for a Christian project in the Northwest. He was interested in what we wanted to do, but, "No thanks!" He had too many jobs already. As he put it, "You don't even have a mailing list."
Then we talked to someone recommended by a Christian organization, and another recommended as having raised millions for a project in the Midwest. And then another. The answer was always the same: "There just isn't enough time to raise that kind of money." One man came to see us on his own initiative and promised the sky. We thought, "Maybe this is God's answer." But things didn't fit together, and again, God shut the door, hard! Another barrel!
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We were stirring up a lot of dust, but it didn't look like we were accomplished much. Our volunteers were working day and night, setting up businessmen's luncheons, calling churches to set up presentations, completing the brochure. But having no mailing list to speak of, we were starting from scratch.
"How about a promotional movie?" someone suggested. So Ray Carson of International Films, one of our member organizations, made one in one week flat.
How about asking the other now-well-off Christian organizations to help us? Or how about contacting foundations? Or maybe some godly millionaire would want a building named for his mother? Or how about . . . ?
Our heads spun with the possibilities, and our hearts danced in joyful faith that God would work his miracle that way!
But it was not to be. And that was another barrel of water. And another. And another.
Mr. A was out of the country. Mr. B had already committed all of his money. Mr. C. didn't believe in giving money to buildings. Foundation X had lost a lot of money through an unfortunate, unavoidable circumstance. Y Foundation might help us next year, but not now. Foundation Z wouldn't even listen to our cry for help.
Everywhere we turned, trying to "hook a big one," we caught nothing. Absolutely nothing!
"God, what are you doing?"
__________
It was near the end of July. We had on hand roughly $25,000, a promise of $100,000 from that small church in Lake Oswego, Oregon, and a few $1,000 pledges from several struggling college students! That was all! Our down payment was $1.5 million, and as a minimum we had to have $850,000 to enter escrow on October 1st. We had been warned that if we could not complete the down payment in six months (another $650,000), we would lose a great deal of
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the amount we had already paid. It therefore seemed foolish, humanly speaking, to pay the first $850,000 if we could not be sure of getting the rest. As the days and weeks passed, we prayed for wisdom, and also prayed earnestly that God would give us the whole amount right away.
But God said, "No."
About that same time there fell what seemed to me to be the final blow. "Mommie, the doctor thinks I have tuberculosis!"
It was like a thunderclap. Linda had been working at the Center all summer, and part-time during the previous year. She was now transferring to a state university for her last two years and had gone that day to complete the entrance requirements.
"How on earth could you have gotten tuberculosis?" I asked. "Do you have a bad cough?" I hadn't noticed anything unusual. "Are you running a temperature of any sort? Do you perspire at night?" I went through all the symptoms I could remember in my frantic state. "Why does he think you have tuberculosis?"
"I had to have X rays, and he says . . . he says . . . there's a spot on my left lung." Her voice broke.
We were talking over the phone, and I could visualize her in tears. They started running down my face as well. "Oh, Linda, surely not!"
I felt so alone in this crisis. Ralph was in India speaking at a conference and hoping to set up a South India Center for World Mission. It was always hard for me when he was gone. Though I had no line authority, I still felt responsible that all would be done as he wished, and on time. But now this!
"Oh Lord, haven't we had enough?" I breathed.
"This also is in My hands," I sensed Him say, and my spirit quieted.
"Okay, Lord, if it is in Your hands, then You will take care of it. Just make us able for the test."
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Was this another trick of Satan to stop us? He wasn't giving up easily, there was no question about that. I reminded Satan again that Christ had once and for all gained the victory, that he had no power over us at all except as Christ allowed it, and that we belonged to Christ.
Linda went on, "Mommie, I have to go back for a lot more tests tomorrow." Again her voice broke.
"That's okay, honey," I said. "I'll go with you." As we prayed together over the phone, I committed her once more to God.
It was a rather restless night for both of us, constantly awakening, constantly pleading with God, constantly recommitting.
Linda was born in Costa Rica and, at five months, had moved with us to Guatemala. In the Indian tribe where we worked there was a great deal of tuberculosis, so we had the whole family innoculated with BCG, even though doctors felt it to be of little value. As an infant, Linda was carried on the back of the girl who helped me in the kitchen, but that girl had been very clean and healthy, and I couldn't understand how Linda could have gotten tuberculosis from her.
But then I remembered how, repeatedly, when she was playing with the Indian children at age three or four, I would catch them eating off the same apple or sharing the same stick of gum, as children do. She might have contracted it then.
Or, I asked myself, "Did she work too hard her first year in college, when she would arise at 4:30 in the morning and walk through the snow at Wheaton to work in the dining hall? Or perhaps she had contracted it this past year? She had worked hard to get money for college even while carrying a full load. I remembered the twinge I felt when she was the first college student to donate a thousand dollars to our payment. I knew what it cost her!
The next day I waited somewhat impatiently at the university medical center while the doctor did further tests.
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He must have taken twenty X-rays, and I worried a bit about the amount of radiation she was getting. Would it cause cancer later on? When the nurse placed four of the X-ray films on the lighted screen for the specialist to examine, I went over to look more closely. There was absolutely no doubt about it. She had a spot about the size of the end of my little finger in her upper left lung.
It seemed right then that even the trench around our sacrifice was full of water.
"Oh, Lord. Help! If I could only talk to Ralph it would help, but I can't! Lord, in his absence, You'll have to take care of us!" And once again I felt that strange peace.
"Mother, he says it's all sealed off. I must have had TB when I was a child, and you didn't know it. But it's okay now. I have to take care of myself, and not be around anyone with the disease, but I can go on to school."
Again the Lord had answered prayer, even before we knew enough to ask. How I praised Him!
Barrels of water! Of what value were they to us? Satan meant them for our harm, but the Lord used them to strengthen our faith, to let us know that we could depend on Him and on Him alone. He was sufficient.
And then the fire started to fall.
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1. In the intervening years to 1986, we have appeared on both of these television stations several times as well as on others which are either nationwide or regional. Such programs have given exposure to the vision, but, so far as we know, have not resulted in significant financial assistance.
