Epilogue
—
January 1, 2005
IN MY PREFACE TO The Henrietta Mears Story, I promised that I would present all the criticism I could find about Henrietta Mears. 48 years later, I am attempting to keep my promise. David L. Cowie, one of Teacher's protégés, started out as a member of the College Department at Hollywood Presbyterian Church, was challenged by her, and became a very successful pastor. He used to say, "Teacher ruined my life! It was as though she placed a burr under my saddle and I could never be content with anything unless I tried to do my ultimate best, and strive for perfection. I could never rest or be satisfied with anything less than that. She ruined my life." Then he would laugh and say, "Of course I would have it no other way! Nothing is too good for the Lord—or for Miss Mears!"
Teacher's background had been in the Baptist church. Now she was serving in a Presbyterian one. As a result, she had a completely ecumenical outlook on the world, welcoming everyone regardless of his or her race or background to join her in the great adventure of the Christian faith. But there was resentment and jealousy on the part of some.
When she developed her Sunday School materials, the Presbyterian hierarchy wanted her to distribute her lessons and commentaries only through the Presbyterian Church. But Teacher did not want to isolate them to one denomination. She wanted the materials available to everyone without prejudice, so she distributed them through Gospel Light Press on an interdenominational basis. Unfortunately this caused friction and disfavor in some places.
The same thing happened when she developed Forest Home Christian Conference Center as a spiritual retreat for all denominations and the unchurched. Again, Presbytery headquarters wanted it developed as a Presbyterian facility. Teacher was adamant. It was to be open to all denominations that honored Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. This, too, brought conflict with certain factions.
Teacher had come to Hollywood Presbyterian Church at the invitation of her great friend who was the pastor of the church. When he retired and a new pastor came to the church, Dr. Louis H. Evans, there were, understandably, some differences of opinion. Sometimes these differences resulted in sharp conflict. Both Teacher and Dr. Evans were spiritual giants and they managed to cooperate, but there were times of tension. After all, even the Apostles of Jesus had their differences as they ministered after Christ ascended into Heaven.
Teacher was for bold action and she was a visionary of the highest order. There were often understandable loggerheads of disagreement as to the best way to make those visions real for Teacher was never one to compromise her passions. But she always counseled us, her students, to have a "fist of steel but wear a velvet glove." She often quoted II Samuel 22:26-28: "To the faithful you show yourself faithful, to the blameless you show yourself blameless, to the pure you show yourself pure, but to the crooked you show yourself shrewd. You save the humble, but your eyes are on the haughty to bring them low." She emphasized to us that when dealing with non-Christians and the crooked, to be very strong and stand firm for what is right, just, fair, and in the will of God. You were never to be a pushover when serving God, but rather be strong, unafraid and unyielding when doing things according to his will.
Teacher's leaders were not spoon-fed. They had to learn their own lessons, make their own decisions, and come to their own conclusions. Teacher could be very adamant and stubborn at times. I found this to be true one time when I tried to give her some advice. She had planned a program for the College Department with three of us giving our testimonies, two young men and me.
Teacher planned for me to be the middle speaker. I knew this would be disastrous because neither of the men had speaking experience and I was a skilled speaker having been the Iowa state champion high school debater for three years and a national first place winner in college oratory. It is well known that to be the middle speaker in a program is the weakest position. I modestly suggested that she might want me to be the final speaker, since I was the most experienced speaker.
She frowned, thrust out her lower lip, and bowed her head for a brief moment and then said, "I believe we should leave things just as they are."
I knew she was making a mistake. The night of the program, I was right. The first speaker was not very effective and he spoke briefly. I was brilliant and in my very best form. I finished on a high point. The audience was hushed and spellbound. I held them in the hollow of my hand. I was completely sincere. In the profound silence that followed my conclusion, I took my seat.
George, the third speaker, had recently returned from naval duty in the war. It was 1945. He was wearing his uniform. He was tall, and unassuming. He slowly got up from his seat, very reluctantly moved to the platform, faced the audience, and he couldn't speak. Tears were coming down his cheeks as he mumbled some words. I was right. He was completely inexperienced. Teacher should have listened to me.
George looked at the floor. "I don't know what to say after Barbara. I can't talk the way she can. All I can say—" and he shyly lifted his head and looked at the audience. I was so embarrassed for him and I was suffering right along with him. Teacher certainly could see now that I had been right. Why didn't she take my advice?
George was stumbling on. "—All I can say is I love Jesus. And all the time I was in the war and when I was frightened, I just hung on to the fact that Jesus is my Savior and that whatever happened to me, I belonged to him whether I lived or died. I knew you would all be praying for me and I thank you for that. I guess that's all I can say." He gave a shy smile, wiped the tears away, and sat down.
There wasn't a dry eye in the audience, including mine. Our hearts were ripped wide open.
Teacher was right in her decision.
Years later I asked a friend, "Do you remember that night when George spoke to the college department?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "He was wonderful. I remember every word he said."
A smile touched my lips. "Do you remember anything I said?"
She looked surprised. "Oh, were you on the program? I don't remember you."
I laughed. "Teacher was right!" Then I told her what had happened when I had suggested the program change to Teacher.
Some people have said that Teacher could be very harsh in her dedication to obtaining excellence. One of my very first assignments, when I started working on the staff as Teacher's assistant at Hollywood Presbyterian Church, was to reprimand two girls in the college department. They had failed in their responsibility to mail out the invitations to the names on the roster for a very important banquet. My heart sank. I didn't want to do it. Who was I to reprimand them?
Teacher insisted. Because those invitations were not mailed, who knew who might have been neglected and failed to come because they did not receive their invitation? It was the sole responsibility of the girls. They had failed. It must be pointed out to them very emphatically. When you are given an assignment and you accept it, you must be faithful and fulfill that assignment. It is your responsibility.
I reluctantly went out of her inner office and waited for the girls to arrive. Miss Mears sat at her desk with the door ajar so she could listen to me. The girls arrived.
I don't remember what I said. I tried to be as gentle as possible. I pointed out that they had failed to do what they had promised and because of this—; the girls were reduced to tears. I wanted to sink through the floor. When they left, Teacher told me that I had done an excellent job.
Later, when one of my friends from the college department confronted me in anger, accusing me of making the girls cry, and asked me who was I to scold them? I meekly told her that I had followed Teacher's instructions and I had done exactly what she wanted me to do, and she was listening through the open door of her office to hear me do it.
Teacher was truly teaching me the discipline necessary in training leaders and making them responsible for their failures. I have never forgotten the lesson that being a successful leader includes the willingness and ability to point out to others the necessity for them to fulfill their responsibilities in the very best way in our service to God.
Teacher always dressed in the height of fashion, with wonderful hats and furs. Her nails were manicured and she wore bright red polish on them. She wore jewelry, and large earrings that matched each outfit. She said, "If the people in some of the churches where I speak in other parts of the country saw me, they wouldn't let me in their churches to speak. I am called of God to serve him in Hollywood, the same way Joseph was called to the palace in Egypt. If I wore drab, dowdy dresses, and no make up or nail polish or furs, the people I am called to teach in Hollywood would not listen to me. They would feel uncomfortable and not listen to my message. When I speak to groups in other parts of the world," she would say with a merry laugh, "I leave off the red nail polish and earrings!"
When I sat in the living room of her home in Bel Air one day, listening to her speak to forty women who were wives of Hollywood film producers and directors, I understood her fashion standards. What a powerful message she preached that day to her entranced audience, who accepted her as one of their own.
When I was working with her as her assistant, I had many calls for drama productions that I wrote, produced and directed. And I performed regularly at the banquets with my original monologues and plays that Teacher asked me to write. Her appreciative laughter would ring out louder than all the others. She always praised and appreciated everyone's talent and she encouraged each one to do more and more.
I had my B.A. degree in theatre arts from the University of Iowa when I came to Hollywood. Now I wanted to pursue my studies at the University of Southern California and earn my Master's Degree in Theatre under the direction of William C. deMille, Cecil's older brother. William was famous in New York as a successful playwright before anyone had heard of Cecil. William financed Cecil's debut in Hollywood. I wanted to learn all I could about acting, directing, and script writing so I would be as prepared as I possibly could be to serve in the field of church drama.
Teacher was very respectful of education and encouraged preparation for your place of service. When I told her I wanted to return to the university to get my Master's Degree, she said, "Since I respect education and I urge everyone to get as much as possible to prepare effectively for God's service, I can't stand in your way. I wanted you to follow in my footsteps and take over my position. Of all the throngs of young people who have passed through my office, you are the one I choose to follow me. I have always said that you are the only one who can catch my spirit. But if you want to get more education, go with my blessing. We can still work together on many projects."
When I was on the stage acting in productions at U.S.C. Teacher would be sitting in the front row applauding, with her laugh ringing out above all others. I continued with her presenting many dramatic productions at Forest Home Christian Conference Center, in pageants, films, and other programs. When my biography was included in Marquis' Who's Who in America, under the name of Barbara Hudson, I was pleased to see that my efforts in church drama had merited their approval. I'm still included in 2005.
In 1946, I married a fellow student in graduate school at USC. Two daughters were born to us, one in 1948 and the other in 1950. I produced pageants at Forest Home, for six years, and produced several films for them. My husband worked as art director for several Christian film companies. One time, he went to the Holy Land with Billy Graham and a small technical crew to film on location. When he came home, he said Billy's behavior was exemplary and above reproach every moment during their travels and filming.
During a conference at Forest Home, in 1947, where Billy Graham was the keynote speaker, just before his very first meetings in Los Angeles, I got up my courage and told Miss Mears that I wanted to write her biography. The scene is still vivid in my mind. It was night. We were standing together in front of the flagpole. A single light burned over the door to the soda fountain. I can see Teacher clearly in my mind.
My words were greeted with a derisive peal of laughter.
"Oh, everyone always wants to write the story of my life. Who wants to read it? What's important about my life? I was born, I lived, I died. What's interesting about that? What utter nonsense!"
I shriveled away and returned to my cabin, chagrined at my effrontery.
Ten years later the editor of Fleming H. Revell Publishers was ringing the doorbell at my home in Canoga Park, California with a contract in his hand.
He said, when I opened the door, "Five different people in widely separated places in Southern California have told me in this same day that you are the only person who should write the biography of Henrietta Mears. That convinced us. Here's the contract. Would you please sign it?"
I was overcome with shock and surprise, but not to such a degree that I didn't rally and sign the proffered contract. I couldn't believe it. I was exuberant. And scared. And thrilled. I was going to write Teacher's biography. What an honor. I felt very humble.
It didn't last long. The phone rang the next day and it was Teacher.
She told me that Stanley High was there with her and he had just flown to Los Angeles from New York City to get her permission to write her biography. He was the Religion Editor for Reader's Digest Magazine. He had just published his biography of Billy Graham.
"Oh, Barbara," Teacher said in her soft, bewildered sounding voice, "What do you think we should do? You've just signed the contract with Fleming Revell and now Stanley High wants to write my biography. Oh, dear, what do you think we should do?"
That was one of Teacher's provocative habits, to adroitly place the responsibility on the other person's shoulders to get them to make the decision she would like them to make. I made the decision. "Teacher, of course he should write your biography. I'll tear up my contract with Fleming Revell."
"Oh, Barbara, you don't want to do that! Oh, dear, I just don't know what to do."
"Of course, I'll tear up the contract, Teacher," I bravely responded, with my dreams whirling away in the mist. I had felt very humble to think of writing her biography. Now I felt even more humbled not to write her biography.
"Well, first, Stanley wants to meet you and talk to you. He wants you to have dinner with him tonight at the Beverly Hills Hilton."
Plans were finalized and my deflated ego went to meet Stanley High for dinner.
Bob Hope rode with us in the elevator up to the restaurant. It was that kind of a restaurant.
At the table, Stanley High fixed me with a piercing glance. "I want to see if you have the guts to write the biography of Henrietta Mears," he said. "I traveled thousands of miles with Billy Graham while I was writing his biography for only one reason. I was trying to find some dirt about him to put in his biography. But to my dismay, in all that time that I spent with him, there wasn't a shred of impropriety on his part or even a hint of any."
Finally, after being thoroughly grilled during a five-course dinner, he said to me, "Not only do you have the guts to write her story, but I've decided that you know her far better than I do and you must write her biography."
He flew back to New York and I started to write the book. But I was always concerned that Teacher might be sorry that I was writing the story of her life instead of the Religion Editor of Reader's Digest Magazine and the biographer of Billy Graham. I felt very humble indeed.
It was a heavy burden to be writing Teacher's life. I felt there was a whole world of judges waiting to see what I dared to write about our beloved Teacher. But there were also some laughs of relief during the process. I think it was Ruth Graham who wrote to me about the formal that Teacher wore to a large festive banquet during the Billy Graham Crusade in London.
Teacher didn't have a formal to wear. What could she possibly do? It was a formal occasion. Then she thought of a solution, and no one was better dressed than she at the banquet that night. Ruth Graham wrote that she knew what Teacher was planning to do, and she could hardly hide her laughter when she saw Teacher's elegant entrance. Someone had given Teacher the gift of a beautiful satin nightgown for the trip. She hadn't worn it yet, but on the night of the banquet she did. She put on the nightgown, added a necklace, tossed a fur scarf around her shoulders and she was ready for the banquet. A "Robe of Righteousness" had never looked more stunning.
But there was also a time of tears for me during the writing. I was a mother of two daughters aged 7 and 9. I lived in Canoga Park, separated from Miss Mears home in Bel Air by more than 15 miles away through a twisting canyon road. Every time I went in to her home to interview her and spend hours in discussion, it meant I had to have child-care at home. Also, I had none of the conveniences of a clothes dryer, dishwasher, microwave oven, or any help with cooking, cleaning, washing or ironing.
One day, when I had spent the entire afternoon with Teacher recording our conversations, writing down notes, jogging her memory, it had all been accompanied with the excited phone calls and dashing preparations for a big festive dinner party that Miss Mears was giving that night. As the long afternoon progressed the dinner sounded more and more exciting to me. Many of my friends would be there. But I was not invited.
At the end of our time together, when it was almost time for the guests to arrive, Teacher apologized that she wasn't able to invite me to stay for dinner. I forget the reason she gave me. All I remember is that when the big front door closed behind me, heavy rain was falling and it was cold and dark.
I lugged the heavy recording machine through the rain to the car, climbed in and huddled in the front seat and, as the water streamed down the windshield, the tears streamed down my cheeks. I would have to drive home through the cold rain through the dark, twisting canyon. I had nothing ready for dinner at home, so it would have to be frozen t-v dinners again. I shivered in the cold and began to cry even harder.
I sobbed out a prayer, "Oh, God, why couldn't I go to the party?" And then the words came into my mind, "Whom God loves he chastens." I cried all the louder and spoke aloud, "God, why do you have to love me so much?"
Then the impact of what I had prayed hit me, and I began to laugh through my tears, "Oh, forgive me, Lord. Don't stop loving me. Love me all you want to. Don't stop. I don't care about the party." I started the car, drove home through the rain, laughing as I wiped away the tears.
As the time neared for the publisher's deadline for the completed manuscript, conditions only got worse. I was reading and filing away hundreds of letters, choosing quotes, transcribing all the notes from the recorder, organizing, outlining, telephone calls, telegrams — keeping my two young, energetic daughters in control, as I tried to capture this magnetic woman in the pages of a book.
I staggered into Miss Mear's home one afternoon, carrying the large recording machine. The housekeeper met me at the door and told me that Miss Mears was detained at another appointment. So we sat down and talked. She told me she had come there from the east because she wanted to volunteer to help Miss Mears in any way she could, but she didn't feel that she was helping Miss Mears. She was just serving as a housekeeper, maid and cook for the couple who lived with Miss Mears.
As I confessed my hardships and the approaching dead line for the book, she suddenly volunteered to come and stay with me and help me get the book finished. She said she would feel that she was helping Miss Mears much more than she was there, if she helped me get the book ready on time for the deadline. She would volunteer her services the same way she was volunteering there and she would be doing more important work helping me get the book about Miss Mears written and to the publisher. I was thrilled beyond measure. Hope flooded my soul. I was sure Teacher would agree that this was God's will and his solution for my crisis in getting the book completed on time.
When Miss Mears arrived, we happily presented our plan to her and waited for her enthusiastic approval.
She was horrified. She said they couldn't possibly get along without her help there in her home at Bel Air. They would be in as big a mess as I was in. Sudden bitterness clouded my soul. Weren't we supposed to commit everything to the Lord and trust in him? Wasn't she willing to commit? I was hurt. I stopped smiling. I opened the case to the recorder and said, "All right, I'll write the book, but I no longer believe it."
How could I ever have said that? But hurt feelings will always betray us.
When I got home after dark that night. I went into the house and was appalled at laundry piled high, dishes undone, no food in the refrigerator, beds unmade, papers and clothes scattered everywhere, and a hungry family to feed. I sat down at my typewriter, buried my head in my hands and groaned. "I can't do it. You'll have to write the book, God. I can't. I'll do the typing but you'll have to tell me what to write."
And write it he did.
The next morning, I went out to do the dishes in the kitchen and, as I stood over the sink scrubbing the pots and pans, the words of my Preface that I used in The Henrietta Mears Story came into my mind verbatim, as the tears ran down my cheeks.
I dried my hands, rushed to the typewriter, and began to write as fast as I could.
It was making me late for my appointment with Miss Mears, and I was never late. But I kept on writing. Finally I tore the pages out of the typewriter and rushed on my way through the canyon to Bel Air. I was going to be very late. How could I explain it to Teacher? What would she say? Would she be angry over the delay in my arrival?
I parked in the curving driveway behind the large iron gates in front of the house, hurried to the big front door, the pages of the preface clutched in one hand and the recorder in the other. When I rang the doorbell, Teacher herself opened the door. Words tumbled out of my mouth. "I'm so sorry—!"
"Oh, thank God, Barbara, that you're late. I was praying that you would be late. I just this moment got home! I was detained at the airport talking to a missionary from India who wanted to see me before he left to return home and it was the only chance we had to talk and it got later and later and I was praying, 'Oh, dear God, there is precious Barbara coming all the way to my house and I won't be there. Just do something to detain her.' And he did. Praise God."
I waved the pages in her face. "And this is how he did it. I knew I was going to be late because I was writing this, but I had to write it. Let me read it to you."
We settled down in the study and I began to read it aloud to her, just as I had written it in my passion.
When I finished, she said nothing. She sat in silence. Her head was bowed. Her hand was covering her face. It seemed that my heart stopped beating. Had I offended her? She must not like it.
Finally, she looked up at me and spoke softly in a very serious voice. "For the first time, Barbara, I see a purpose in writing the story of my life. I haven't seen it before, and I've been against the idea. But you've changed that. Now, I do see a reason. Let's get to work."
When it was time to put her biography all together into a finished manuscript, so that I would have peace and quiet and could concentrate totally on what I was doing, I took all my notes and papers up to Forest Home Conference Center where I stayed for a week in Margaret Mear's cabin at the edge of Mears Lake. There is where I typed the final manuscript. After I finished it at two o'clock one morning, I fell into bed. It was finished. But I couldn't sleep. I felt a compulsion to get up and drive home. I couldn't turn it off. I had to get up. What madness to drive down the mountain in the dark, drive home without sleep for 200 miles on the dark freeway! Sheer madness! But I finally got up, quickly gathered everything together, got into the car and started my treacherous way home, berating myself all the way for my foolishness.
Prior to this time, I had not appreciated the singing of Elvis Presley. But in the dark hours before dawn, as I hurtled my way on the freeways, I turned the radio up to full blast and it was only Elvis's voice that kept me awake through my dangerous flight as I kept nodding my sleepy head to keep awake in rhythm to the music. He will have my thanks eternally.
I pulled up in front of my home just at the very moment that my husband was coming out of the house to go to work. My younger daughter was ill with a high fever and he had no one to leave her with and it was urgent that he go to work. As he left the house, I went in through the front door, praising God that he had brought me home to take care of Cathy, and grateful to Elvis Presley for keeping me awake on the trip so I made it alive.
The next day I was back in the large living room of Miss Mears' Bel Air home reading my manuscript to thirty of her closest friends and associates who were sitting in judgment to listen to what I had written about our beloved Teacher. I read the entire manuscript through without stopping, without any comments or interruptions from anyone. It took hours. I started in the afternoon and finished at midnight.
When I finished, without a word, the group of listeners got up and retreated in silence to another room, I was left alone wondering what they were going to decide about this monumental manuscript about Teacher. I waited. I can still see the empty room and the furnishings vividly in my mind. Finally, the group returned with serious expressions on their faces. What was the verdict going to be? Miss Mears sat with bowed head for a moment, and then she spoke. "We have decided that not a word is to be changed. It's perfect just the way it is." Excited comments tumbled out of everyone.
Some time later, I was in my car at 2:00 A.M., driving the curving roads through the canyon with the manuscript on the seat beside me. I was ecstatic. I couldn't believe it. I was rejoicing and singing aloud with joy.
The lights of a police car flashed behind me. I stopped. The officer came to the window and flashed his light in my face. Nothing could penetrate my happiness and I smiled joyfully at him.
"What's the story?" the officer growled in a harsh voice.
I laughed up at him. Delirious happiness poured out of me. "I read my book to them about Teacher! Teacher loves it. No one wants to change a word. I've been reading it to them all afternoon and evening. They like it! I just left them. Oh, I'm so happy."
The officer lowered his light. Silence. Then he said, "Well, I don't know who Teacher is, but congratulations. That's wonderful. Now, you'd better get home—and please drive on the right side of the road the rest of the way. All four of your wheels were on the wrong side of the road when I stopped you." He tipped his hat and grinned. "Congratulations." He waved and returned to his car. No ticket.
I stayed on the right side of the road the rest of the way home. I've been trying to do it ever since.
I sent it into the publisher and I soon received a letter from Mr. Barbour of Fleming Revell. He told me that they had printed my manuscript without changing a word, or adding or deleting a single comma. He said it was the most perfect manuscript they had ever published. They didn't do any editing or change a single word.
God must have written the script.
When The Henrietta Mears Story was published, Teacher took one of the copies and wrote a note to me on the flyleaf..... "Dear Barbara, your creative imagination never ceases to amaze and delight me. I stand in awe of your genius and ability inspired by God. I have always said you are the one person who can catch my spirit. You have written my life story better than I could have written it myself. With love, Teacher." It was like a beautiful benediction to me.
This epilogue has not been planned. It has just poured out of me in a conglomeration of thoughts. When I was writing Teacher's biography, I didn't go around interviewing people and trying to find criticism of Teacher. But I wanted to be honest and share anything I knew or discovered. There is very little to share. But Teacher was a human being. She was strong, determined, bold, and fearless in her service to God. We all step on toes. If someone steps on yours, get over it.
My final conclusion is the same one Teacher would make. Keep your eyes only on Jesus. Never, ever, ever eulogize spiritual leaders and put all of your confidence and trust in them. It is so easy to criticize and find flaws in leaders, especially those who are doing the most for God's kingdom. It is so easy to be critical and judgmental. There can be hurt feelings, disillusionment, and bitter roots that begin to grow. Satan is at the constant ready to infiltrate, weaken, undermine, ridicule, hurt us, and destroy the effectiveness of God's servants.
I think of the words of the chorus: "Turn your eyes upon Jesus. Look full in his wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace." If you are carrying around a grudge or hurt feeling against one of God's servants, get rid of it. Confess, repent, and change your focus.
As Teacher would say, "Do not put your faith in any human being. Trust only in Jesus your Savior, God your Father, and the Holy Spirit. Look only to Him in your praise and worship. Do not put your confidence in humans. To God be the glory forever."
Teacher influenced my life more than any other person I've known. Through the years I've continually asked myself, when faced with a crisis, "What would Teacher do? How would she handle this?"
I still see and hear her so vividly teaching us in the College Department at Hollywood Presbyterian Church. Bill Bright, who later founded "Campus Crusade for Christ," is sitting beside me. We are both listening intently.
Teacher's voice booms out with authority and power as she holds her Bible in her right hand. "Don't you call Jesus divine. He is not divine. Divine means "godlike." He is not like God. He is God. He is deity, very God of very God! Don't you ever call Jesus divine."
Recently, one of America's outstanding pastors and Bible scholars, closed an important television program by saying, "Jesus is divine."
I wrote to him and told him Teacher's words, "Jesus is not divine. He is deity. He is God, not like God!" I told him about Henrietta Mears and her teaching.
I never got a reply. I hope he got the message!
Thank you, Teacher, for setting us straight!
Teacher died when I was 42 and she was 73. As I write this epilogue, I am 83. I wonder what Teacher would have done with those ten years had they been allotted to her?
Oh, God, let me use the time that I have left, to do some good before I join Teacher in Heaven. I know they are having a wonderful party up there.
BARBARA HUDSON
POWERS
New Year's Day, 2005
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