Soldiers for Christ

Before I knew it, my days at Nyack were drawing to a close. As I sorted through my belongings and packed them up between final exams, I relived the memories evoked by forgotten books or notes written on scrap paper. On a Bible place-marker I had scrawled 2 Corinthians 9:8: "And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work." That had been God's special encouragement when I had cried out to Him that first semester about the sin of racial prejudice even from Christians. Every morning as I had my devotions I had glanced at this reminder, but lately that glance had been fleeting. But now, as I sat among the piles of books and clothing. I clutched the verse over my heart.

   "Lord, the time I've dreamed about is just about here, and suddenly I'm scared. I don't know what's waiting in that future, but I trust Your grace to take me — us — through whatever it is. Thank You that You are stronger than anything the world can throw at us. And thank You for always being just a whispered prayer away."

   Before I opened my eyes, I waited for a moment, as was my habit, for any message He might place upon my heart. Sometimes it came in the form of the memory of Mama singing an old church hymn filled with promises of His care.

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Sometimes an appropriate verse would pop into my mind. That morning, He reminded me of Isaiah 65:24: "Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." He had our future in His hands!

   The next day He gave me a reminder of His care. Just as I came out of my first-hour exam, it occurred to me that I hadn't checked my final account with the business office. Just a few weeks before, I'd had to miss a couple of days of work because of a severe spring cold. What if I owed the school money for my last month's room and board? What if they wouldn't let me graduate until it was paid? Where would I get the money? Ruth was married by now and pregnant, so I certainly couldn't ask her for it. And Alden was still in India with the army; there was no way to get a letter to him in time. What if they made me stay an extra week to work off the debt? I couldn't! I had to get home — to put together a June wedding.

   Having convinced myself that I owed money, I hurried to the business office, praying for help. "O Lord, show me how to pay that debt so I can go home and plan our wedding. Don't let them keep me here, Lord."

   Taking a deep breath, I asked to speak to the treasurer about my account.

   Just as I was stammering explanations, she held up her hand. "First of all, let me pull your file, so we can talk about specifics."

   I waited in the stiff chair, twisting my handkerchief into knots.

   In a few moments, she was back, holding the open file and smiling. "Well, Wanda, I'm glad you came in. You don't owe us anything; we owe you $35.00."

   Thirty-five dollars! That was a tremendous sum back in 1944. Was that a celestial chuckle I heard as I thought of the verse "Before they call, I will answer"? I'd be able to graduate after all.

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   We couldn't have asked for a more beautiful morning for the graduation ceremonies. My only disappointment was that none of my family could be there to see me accept my diploma. But I determined to concentrate on the happiness of the day, including the presence of Howard's mother and her friend, Esther Kimmey. There were at least two joyful faces in the crowd — happy for both of us.

   After the ceremony, Howard and I said good-bye to special friends. All of us had tears in our eyes; in spite of the exchanged addresses, we knew many of our paths wouldn't cross again. Most of the students took the bus from Nyack across the Hudson River and into Grand Central Station. From there Howard, his mother, Esther, and I took a train home to Oberlin. The trains that left the station that afternoon seemed to symbolize the various directions in which our lives would take us. I might have been tempted to become melancholic about our partings if there wasn't a wedding to plan!

*     *     *

   Four weeks after graduation, in Fairchild Chapel at Oberlin College, I became Mrs. Howard Jones. My father couldn't attend the ceremony because of illness and distance, so my brother Bob escorted me down the aisle. Ruth stepped into a role vacated by Mama, and many of our old friends celebrated with us. Three of my closest friends stood with me: Aleta, my cousin Natalie, and Helen, who sang "Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Us." The dreamlike, hazy quality of the day led me to think that I would soon wake up and discover that we were still students, with another year of dating ahead of us. But when the minister prayed and concluded the ceremony, and Howard and I stood, my hand nervously gripping his, reality finally descended. I was a married woman.

   That very first morning of our life together, Howard opened his fat black Bible, worn with use, and read aloud. Jeremiah 33:3 became our verse that day. "Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and shew thee great and mighty things which thou knowest not." We both prayed over our day and our

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future together. We didn't know what the future would hold, but we certainly knew we'd never survive without God's guidance. There was nothing we wanted as much as knowing His perfect will, and the tradition we started that morning — our prayer and Bible reading together — has been the foundation of every day of our forty-four years of marriage. After a short honeymoon boat trip across Lake Erie to Ann Arbor, Michigan, we climbed on a train — back to New York.

   Since our church in Harlem could offer Howard only three dollars a week as salary, our first home was with Miss Woolward, one of the two church founders. She was a small, light-complexioned black woman with a dark mole on her left cheek. She pulled her long hair into two buns, a style that would have been severe if it hadn't been for her pleasant expression. Her job as seamstress in the garment district of Manhattan demanded long hours, so she insisted we were to treat the apartment as our own. What could have been a very awkward situation was pleasant for us, as she never made us feel like intruders.

   Thus our first home was on the third floor of an apartment building in the Bronx; the elevated subway train ran right outside our front window. It took time to get adjusted to the noise, especially at night.

   Although I missed the shade trees of Nyack and Oberlin, I set about unpacking our trunk. Up those three narrow flights of stairs, we lugged two heavy items: Howard's large wooden desk and the trunk that contained all our worldly goods — wedding gifts, a little Sears radio, and Howard's theology books.

   In the morning, Howard would study, preparing his sermons for Wednesday night and two Sunday services, while I straightened the tiny apartment or wrote cheerful letters to our families. Howard set aside his afternoons for visitation of the church families — just twenty minutes away by subway. Usually, I accompanied him into those homes, marveling at the contrast between the conditions behind the equally sad-looking doors. Some doors would open into a bright spot of color: handmade braided rugs on the floor, old-fashioned quilts on the bed,

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and even fresh cornbread in the oven. In other homes, a single light bulb would hang starkly from the ceiling, impotent in its ability to chase away the shadows that hovered over each family member. Repeatedly, I saw young people who needed hope in a hopeless world; since their parents weren't offering it, they desperately needed the church. It was an overwhelming responsibility.

   At city-wide rallies each month, we had the opportunity to meet other young black couples like ourselves who were working with city youth. As those special friendships developed, one theme recurred — the need for an organization that would help the black youth in Harlem in the way groups such as Youth for Christ were drawing the white youth all across America. Someday, we all agreed, we'd organize just such a group. But for a while the dream lacked "feet." Then in answer to prayer, Howard met two fine young Christian men who wanted to work to help plan this new ministry. That would start with local Saturday night rallies.

   "What'll we call it?" someone asked.

   Various names were tossed back and forth, but Soldiers for Christ Youth Rally was the one they settled upon. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and they gained the support of many black churches. As the planning for a kick-off rally progressed, Howard came home from one meeting particularly excited; his former quartet from Nyack would provide the music. A youth choir would also be formed. Jack Wyrtzen, director of Word of Life Youth Rallies, would be the guest speaker.

   In those days at the close of World War II, it wasn't uncommon to see people on the street corners preaching for one cause or another. As the date for the rally approached, we used this method to draw a crowd. Howard and some young people would sing and share their testimonies. After they had some people's attention, others of us would take turns, sharing the gospel and inviting any and all to the church where the Soldiers for Christ rally would be held. At first, I wasn't so sure about this. It seemed easy for Howard to speak out on a street corner, and I wished some of his confidence would seep into me.

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"Howard, I can't do it," I'd say as we left the apartment, and he'd squeeze my arm as if he were pumping it full of courage.

   "His grace is sufficient," he'd say, and of course it always was. Soon I was looking directly into the strangers' eyes. Remembering my own bitterness after Mama's death, I tried to imagine the great hurts buried in the crowd. God had reached me through the spoken word of strangers; he'd ministered to me for years through a woman, Miss Gatherer. In turn I spoke boldly of God's love and His ability to fill the empty places.

   Finally the night arrived for the first Soldiers for Christ Youth Rally. The large church in Harlem that had offered to host the program was packed with people of different races. As I watched the young people file into the sanctuary, tears filled my eyes. God had blessed us and allowed us to see fruit for our ministry. That night, the Word of God was preached and the altar was lined with people putting their trust in the Savior. In my spirit I felt God was confirming our call to this place.

*     *     *

   Not all of our young days consisted of the "mountain-top" experiences evangelists love to talk about. There were enough daily chores to add frustration to our lives. For instance, we had to do the wash in the bathtub.

   I'd prop up a little scrub board in the old-fashioned tub. Then I'd lean over it, trying not to scrape my knuckles as I rubbed the clothing against it. The sheets were the hardest. I'd scrub them until I was satisfied, and then I'd call Howard in to help wring out the water. He'd stand as close as possible to the tub, gripping one end in his powerful hands, and begin to twist. My smaller hands couldn't grasp as much nor turn the material as tightly; when I tried it, the job was always lopsided.

   "Come on, Wanda, you got to twist harder if you want to get any water out of this." Howard had a way of challenging me to give my all to this task.

   "Now, Howard, I'm doing the best I can!"

   There was a noticeable absence of "Honey" and "Sweetie" as we

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struggled to wring out those sheets. But once that part of the chore was finished, we still had to hang the wash outside on a line stretched between the buildings and controlled by a pulley. If a bedsheet wasn't balanced just right, it would brush up against the filthy wall and we had to start the job all over again. Often the most frustrating part would come later. After all the clothes, including Howard's shirts that he was so particular about, were safely on the line, someone several stories up would invariably shake a dustmop out the window. There went a morning's work!

   The only thing that finally rescued me from having to do those sheets was my pregnancy. Right then Howard decided we'd exercise our faith and send the sheets — and his shirts — to the corner laundry. On a salary of three dollars a week, it was an extravagance, but as we prayed about it the Lord let us know that it was all right, that He would provide the extra funds. Almost immediately Howard began to receive speaking invitations that dovetailed with his responsibilities at our little church and with Soldiers for Christ.

   We soon learned the laundry was just the first of many things with which we would have to trust Him. Since we couldn't afford a private doctor, we had been relying upon the clinic at Sloane Hospital for Women. Even though it was across town, Miss Woolward had recommended it because it was part of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. But in the third month of my pregnancy, I began to have problems; one of the doctors feared for the baby's life. When he heard I had to walk up three steep flights of stairs to get to our apartment, he ordered me to stay home as much as possible. My afternoon visits with Howard suddenly were taboo, and I became a prisoner within our tiny rooms.

   One February afternoon was particularly difficult. The sun was warm, and the little bit of azure sky that I could see over the rooftops invited me outside. I paced the living room for a few minutes. There was no snow; maybe if I walked down the steps very carefully, resting often, it would be all right. I stared down at my barely protruding tummy and then covered it protectively with my hands. No, I decided — I couldn't risk

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the baby just to enjoy a few minutes of fresh air. I'd concentrate upon making a special dinner instead.

   Miss Woolward always returned from work late and ate mostly fresh vegetables and whole grains. As usual, she wouldn't be eating with us, so I set to work making all of Howard's favorites, even bread pudding for dessert. For hours I peeled, stirred, crumbled, chopped, waited, but at the time I expected Howard home, he didn't arrive.

   I began to fret. There I was, a prisoner while he was able to be outside enjoying the beautiful day. Why couldn't Miss Woolward have lived on the first floor so I wouldn't have to go through this? What if Howard were hit by a car? What if somebody had jumped him, thinking he carried a few dollars in his old Bible? What if there'd been trouble at one of the houses he was visiting? As the clock ticked away, my imagination created several gruesome possibilities. When he finally walked through the door, my worries bubbled over, refusing to give him the greeting his smile said he was anticipating.

   "Where have you been?" I demanded. "Don't you know I've been worried sick? How come you didn't let me know you were going to be late?"

   He stopped in mid-grin. "Now without a phone, how was I going to let you know I was going to be late? If I could have gotten in touch with you, you know I would have!"

   By then I was in tears. Was that a sigh of exasperation I heard as Howard put his arms around me?

   "Wanda, Honey, you're going to have to get used to things like this because I'm going to be out calling more and more. And I'll be all over the city so I can't keep an exact time schedule for you." He rubbed my shoulders as he continued. "I know you don't feel well now; I'm sorry you have to stay inside. We'll have to ask the Lord to give you patience to get through these months."

   My sobs had given way to whimpers; I pulled away from him to look up into his face.

   "Yes, but I'm the one who's here all day; I didn't know what had happened to you. A big city like this . . . all the things

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we read in the papers about what happens to people . . . and you gone so long . . . I just got frantic, Howard."

   He wiped the tears off my cheeks with his fingertips. "I know, Honey. But you're going to have to trust the Lord to take care of me when I'm out of your sight — just as I have to trust Him for your safety when you're in this apartment by yourself."

   The thought that he was concerned about leaving me alone hadn't occurred to me, and it opened a new door of understanding for me. I still felt my pain, but a little less since I could see that he carried some also. "Well, let's eat," I finally said after a brief kiss, "and tell me about your day."

   The next time Howard was late I was just as frantic, but gradually it grew easier to wrap prayers around him. Little did I then expect that this small lesson — learning to let him go for hours at a time — might be boot camp training for the long absences the Lord had planned for our future.

*     *     *

   Early in my pregnancy, I faced another loss: Papa died. He had remarried after returning to Carolina, but he had never regained the spunk I remembered so well. When his wife called to let the family know he was ill, Ruth left immediately to be with him. I wanted to go too, but the doctor had advised me not to travel. When Ruth called me with the news that Papa had died shortly after her arrival, I sunk into another bout of grief.

   I seemed to relive my childhood — watching for him to come home from work, riding back to the house on his shoulders. I remembered looking in his pockets for those little surprises of gum or penny candy that he always had — just for me. And as I remembered the stories I'd heard through the register at night, a profound sadness swept over me. I was motherless, and now fatherless. If it hadn't been for Howard's loving encouragement, I don't know how I would have made it through that difficult time.

   But not all of those months were traumatic. Gradually, plans for the arrival of our baby consumed most of our

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thoughts — whether we'd have a boy or a girl, the fun of choosing a name, the wonder of being a family, even the gathering of enough little shirts and gowns. Miss Woolward had further endeared herself to us months before by being delighted at the news of our expected baby. As my tummy grew noticeably larger, she often shyly held out another tiny garment that she had made in the evening. Every garment was covered with tiny tucks and smocking, a tangible expression of her love.

   As our first anniversary neared, I discovered I couldn't see my feet because of my tummy. That might have upset me if the baby hadn't chosen that moment to do one of those somersaults she had been practicing for the past several weeks. I was sure the baby was a girl, and the little person growing inside of me had become so real that I had begun to use the pronoun she freely. I cradled my hands over my tummy, wishing I could hold her in my arms.

   The summer seemed extra long that year, but our church family brightened my lonely days by helping with what little work I had and by giving us a baby shower. Most of the gifts were from veteran mothers who knew exactly what we'd need. Two weeks later, in early August, our beautiful little Cheryl was born.

   Those were the days when fathers waited for births in waiting rooms and mothers stayed in bed for two weeks after deliveries. We weren't allowed even to sit up and dangle our feet over the side of the bed until the fifth day. Impatience wanted to get an upper hand in our family! I tried to concentrate on the wonder of our perfect baby. How I marveled at her dainty fingers and toes and that tiny sweet mouth. Although Howard could look and ooh and aah, he wasn't allowed to hold her until we went home. How delighted we were when the doctor at last announced we could leave in two days. When Howard came to visit that evening, I gave him careful instructions as to what he was to bring for that trip home — diapers, the tiny pink dress Miss Woolward had made, and the white booties-and-sweater set that his mother had crocheted.

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Even as I told him exactly where to find each item, I sighed over the one thing absent from the list — a bonnet.

   Like all new mothers, I wanted everything to be perfect for my baby. And part of my "perfect picture" had been a bonnet — for effect, yes, but also to protect her from the August sun. Well, I finally decided, we'll just have to make do with what we have. I'll just drape the summer-weight blanket over her head. But even as I made those practical plans, I longed for that bonnet and asked the Lord's forgiveness for concentrating upon our lack instead of upon His many blessings.

   When Howard arrived to take us home, all new-father nervous, he was full of wonderful news. Miss Woolward's brother-in-law, the taxi cab driver, was waiting for us downstairs. He said we couldn't take a new baby home on the subway. Joyfully, Howard handed the nurse Cheryl's going-home clothes and then turned again to me. "Here, Honey. One of the women stopped by this morning. She had been visiting her mother when the church gave us the shower, but she wanted you to have this."

   As I tore away the wrinkled tissue paper and saw the gift, tears spontaneously sprang into my eyes. There on my lap was a white bonnet — delicately hand embroidered with pink rosebuds! "Oh, Howard! How did she know?" Howard just kept smiling. He knew how good God is — especially when he picked Cheryl up and we headed for home.

   When we stepped out of the cab, Howard's dear mother was waiting for us. She had come, just as she knew Mama would have done, to take care of the cooking and cleaning so I could center my attention on Cheryl.

   Miss Woolward stayed in the background until after Howard's mother left, but when we settled into a normal routine, she became very grandmotherly, even buying Cheryl a carriage and taking her to the park each evening to show her off.

*     *     *

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   As Cheryl grew, so did our family; her darling sister Gail was born two years later — on a Sunday afternoon in June. That morning when I got up, I knew "the time" was near. But I didn't realize it would be in just a few hours. As a precaution, though, I decided to stay home. Shortly after Howard and Miss Woolward left for the church, the pains began. I tried to read a story to Cheryl, but my mind was really on the clock. Contractions eight minutes apart, then six minutes. Oh, Howard, I thought, please don't give a long message today; get on home! When he finally strolled in shortly after noon, I met him at the door with my suitcase in hand. We handed Cheryl over to Miss Woolward and made it to the hospital, where Gail was born just a few hours later.

   While God was blessing us personally, He also was blessing our church. As the congregation of Bethany Chapel outgrew its building, the committee began to look for a larger church. But a survey of the neighborhood turned up no affordable and suitable buildings. Because many of our members had moved north to the Bronx over the years, it seemed logical to look for a place there. Sure enough, God led them to a former Jewish synagogue that looked right — and that included an upstairs apartment which would be for our family. While we'd have to do work to make the sanctuary practical for our church (adding a platform and pulpit) we were thrilled to find such a property at a good price. When the painting over the door at last said, "Bethany Alliance Church," I hugged Howard with delight and breathed a "thank you" to our heavenly Father.

   Although I was sad to be leaving Miss Woolward's loving care, I was eager to at last have a home of my own with our own pictures on the wall and knickknacks on the shelves. We quickly settled in quite comfortably — right over the sanctuary. For the first few weeks, Howard spent most of his time working on the downstairs reconstruction. He'd come upstairs for lunch, happy despite any physical fatigue. The sawdust clung to his work clothes — and to my floor — but I didn't mind. I liked the church being so close. When the work was finally completed, our own members and many neighborhood people celebrated with a service of dedication.

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   Of course the church didn't have air conditioning, and on hot summer evenings we'd hold our services outside. The singing drew the neighbors away from the new enticement of televisions and they'd lean out their windows to hear us. Several of them later joined the church.

   Often when a particularly joyful song was being sung, I'd catch Howard's eye and smile as I nodded toward his tapping foot. He'd grin back, reassuring me that he was enjoying the work the Lord had set before him. I never once heard him complain about having given up his dream of taking his music around the world — even that next winter, when the old coal furnace would belch soot onto his face and white shirts. He soon learned to stoke the coal before he got dressed for church!

   But even with all of the furnace problems (you never heard hot water pipes that banged as loud as those — and always during prayer time), we were excited about the growth the Lord was bringing to the church and to His kingdom. We even started to broadcast the Soldiers for Christ services regularly on the radio, and the mail response we received proved that people all across the city were being blessed and converted.

   It was a good thing our church had a good reputation in the neighborhood, because something unusual was happening. One morning, Howard had several errands to run. He took Cheryl with him, and just as they were leaving, I thought of something I needed from the store. Gail, a toddler, was sitting contentedly in her high chair so I left her there and ran down the steps to catch Howard and Cheryl.

   I gave Howard my request, then waved from the porch as they pulled out of the drive. Just as our car turned the corner and was out of sight, the heavy oak church door slammed behind me. I gasped as a I grabbed the knob and pushed, but it was too late. I was locked out and Gail was alone in her high chair. How could I have done such a foolish thing? "O Lord, I'm sorry. Please protect Gail and please get me back in to her," I prayed, trying to hold back a motherly panic.

   While my heart was scolding myself and offering rapid prayers for protection for Gail, I quickly analyzed various solutions. I couldn't break any of the church windows to get in;

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they all had decorative bars over them. And all of the wooden doors on the ground floor were as heavy as the front door — and locked. I stood in front of the church, looking up at the windows of our apartment. If only I could get up there, I could get in to Gail.

   "O Lord, please help me."

   As soon as the plea was uttered, I remembered the fire station on the next block. Whispering a quick, "Thank You, Father," I took off running.

   I burst into the station and grabbed the arm of the nearest fireman. By this time, I was close to hysterics.

   "My baby's alone and I'm locked out. You've got to help me!" I sobbed.

   After getting me calmed down enough to tell him where I lived, he called to another fireman. In less than a minute, the two men had slapped on their fire helmets, grabbed a long ladder, and left to the rescue. What a sight we must have made — two tall firemen carrying a long ladder and trotting down the sidewalk, then a shorter, frantic woman hurrying along behind them.

   When we reached the church, they leaned the ladder against the kitchen side. My hands were clasped.

   "Oh, please hurry." I said. "Her high chair is right by the window."

   "Yes, Ma'am. Now she's going to be frightened when she sees us come in, but don't worry. One of us will be right down to unlock the door for you. Lucky you left the window open so we don't have to break it."

   His last statement was said over his shoulder as he started up the ladder. Only then did I remember having opened the kitchen window that morning. The window was open just a few inches at the bottom, but enough for the first fireman to thrust it upward. I watched him climb into the window, his partner right behind him. Immediately, Gail's high-pitched cries of "Ma-Ma!" stabbed the air — and me. As soon as that heavy church door was opened, I ran up the steps as quickly as I could and swept Gail into my arms, never more thankful to touch a squirming toddler.

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*     *     *

   After we'd been at our new location less than two years, our third daughter was born. We'd had a hectic Sunday. In the afternoon the church had had a special service to dedicate baby triplets and our new Hammon organ. The ever-growing Solders for Christ rallies had been moved to Sunday nights at our church for broadcast, so Howard's responsibilities wouldn't be over until after eleven. Howard's mother was with us again to help with the other two girls, so as she put them to bed, I went to bed, tired. Just as I stretched out, a contraction announced the onset of labor; I got dressed and began to pace, waiting for Howard.

   When I finally heard his tired footsteps on the stairs, I sighed with relief.

   "Howard," I said, "I think we'd better move quickly. You know how fast Gail came and this one isn't going to wait long either."

   "I'm ready. Let's go," he answered, picking up my suitcase and helping me down the stairs. "Just tell him he has to wait until we get to the hospital." After two girls Howard was anticipating a son. This time around we were using male pronouns when we referred to Baby.

  Howard broke a few speed limits that night, but we made it to the hospital on time — with a full thirty minutes to spare. About midnight our lovely Fourth-of-July baby girl, Phyllis, was born. When Howard laid eyes on her, he was just as excited as he'd been when he'd first seen the other girls. "That's my girl," he said, beaming with pride. His pleasure was obvious — although I wasn't sure whether he was referring to me or to our daughter as "his girl."

*     *     *

   As our family grew, so did our ministry. The Lord graciously reminded us of His promise to bless those who follow Him. One of those blessings was a family camp ministry, open to all races.

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   In the late forties and early fifties, Christian summer camps were becoming popular, but only white folks were encouraged to use such facilities. One of our friends had taken his family to an Eastern camp, looking forward to a week of teaching by a renowned speaker on Bible prophecy. But before dinner on the first day, the camp director knocked on their cabin door, handed them back their entire fee and said — albeit politely — that they might be more comfortable worshiping with their "own kind." Not wanting to cause problems, our friends had quietly and disappointedly left the grounds. This man clearly saw the need for a camping program that was open to black families. As he discussed his burden with Howard and others, the vision for a camp materialized.

   A friend of Miss Woolward's had a farm in Bethlehem, Connecticut, about two hours away, which she wanted used for God's glory. One look at the lakefront property and Howard and the committee knew it would a perfect campground. On the spot, we named it "Bethlehem Camp."

   What a joy it was to see families arriving by bus and car, eager to spend a day or week with us for picnics, preaching, and camping. Howard and I, remembering the green lawns and trees of Oberlin and Nyack, were amazed that so many first-time campers had never been outside of New York City. In one day they saw more green grass than they'd seen in a lifetime. But even better than that, they heard the Word of God. Our foremost goal was to help them see that Jesus Christ can make a difference in their lives — spiritually, physically, emotionally, and even financially. People who have hope look at life differently than those who merely exist. Even their walk takes on a cheerful purpose. Their goals become long-range and they begin to make plans for next year instead of just tomorrow. As nice as the green grass was, we were in the business of offering Jesus Christ to a tired, oppressed race.

   The year 1951 held many special blessings for us not only because of the camping program, but also because of the church's unique neighborhood ministry. The openness of our church as well as the Soldiers for Christ broadcast brought in a variety of people: East Indians, Filipinos, whites, and blacks.

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The needs before us were great, and Howard often referred newcomers to drug centers or other social agencies.

   During those special years of 1949-51, many seeds of love were sown. Little did we suspect the eventual harvest. We are still close to several young people in that church; many of them are faithful witnesses for Christ in various endeavors. One brilliant young girl, Mildred Clarke, showed great promise for the medical field; today she is a fine gynecological surgeon in New York, and recently she operated on our daughter-in-law, Cora. Nor did we know that a future son of the special young couple Irene and Henry Granderson would someday be our son-in-law.

   Others within that group of young people included the Binghams, three teenage sisters who sang together. Each time I heard them, my heart's prayer was "Lord, if You choose to give our girls any talent, I'd like them to sing for You." Often as I watched the Binghams, I'd picture our three little girls someday harmonizing in church, touching lives with their music.

   When Elsie, the second Bingham girl, developed cancer, I was horrified, as if the disease had invaded my own family. Elsie soon died, and in my sorrow, I dared to ask God why He had permitted such a young, beautiful life to be so short. As so often happens, He didn't answer right then; maybe He knew my grief would keep me from hearing. Howard and I went to Elsie's home to comfort the family and to help plan the funeral. We weren't sure why, but Elsie's mother hadn't been attending our church, so we weren't sure what kind of reception awaited us. We knocked on the apartment door praying doubly hard. But the Lord had already prepared her heart. Elsie's quiet, long-suffering strength and unwavering faith had been a powerful witness. That day we were able to comfort one another, and within a few weeks Mrs. Bingham joined the church and found peace for her aching heart.

   We tucked so many memories into our hearts, as though we knew we wouldn't be part of that special church family much longer. And, sure enough, we soon discovered that all those experiences were God's preparation for a larger ministry.

Chapter Five  ||  Table of Contents