To the Regions Beyond

Family devotions were held either at the dining table or in the living room, but since that first morning of marriage, Howard and I knelt together in our bedroom.

   Often, as I prepared dinner, Howard spent extra time in prayer. As the children came in from school full of news, they'd ask, "Where's Daddy?"

   "Praying. So let's talk quietly 'til he joins us."

   But one by one, they'd peek into our room and see him on his knees. Often they also heard their names in his petitions.

   During our six years in New York, Howard had often been asked to consider taking a church in Cleveland, Ohio. As we prayed about it, we knew the time wasn't right. There was still so much to do in Bethany Church.

   But eventually we began to realize that the church had grown from infant dependency into strong adulthood. The programs within the church and the radio broadcasts were reaching beyond our community. The family camp program in Connecticut was helping hundreds of people each summer. Often the mailman delivered letters expressing thanks for specific, tangible help the ministry had given. The church was no longer struggling to survive; maybe the Lord did want us to move on.

Page 66

   Then Howard received another call to take the pastorate of what was then known as the Smoot Memorial Alliance Church of Cleveland. Howard was on his knees overtime for a few weeks, seeking God's will. We felt this was the leading of the Lord. But while the decision to accept a new challenge was exciting, the prospect of leaving the dear people of Bethany Church was most difficult. They had become like family. The teens who had been the core of the church when it started had grown up and married; Howard had performed many of those ceremonies. We and the church had provided stability for them during trying times, but we knew that the Lord would provide a pastor to take over His work in New York.

   When that person was found, we — with contented hearts — set out for Cleveland in our secondhand Dodge. With three daughters, we didn't get our possessions into one trunk. Howard's brother, Clarence, came out from Oberlin to drive a truck back west. It was full of our collection. But Howard's big desk still seemed to dominate the stacked "treasures."

   As we drove across the George Washington Bridge I looked toward the future with hope. Most of my family, including my brothers and Ruth, were still in Ohio, as was Howard's family. I knew the cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents would be a delight to the girls, now seven, five, and three.

   The Cleveland church had a strong music ministry and had been home base for the famous Cleveland Colored Quintet. During the thirties and forties, those godly men had traveled all over the States and into Europe, sharing their love for the Lord through music and testimony.

   In addition to the music, the church focused on Bible teaching and evangelism in obedience to the Great Commission to go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.

   Shortly after our move to Cleveland, we received a letter from Dick Reed, a missionary to Liberia we had met when we first moved to New York. Dick had since returned to Liberia and was the program director of radio station ELWA. The letter asked if Howard would send some of his tapes from his church services. Dick wanted to broadcast them in Liberia

Page 67

since the nationals loved to hear Negro spirituals. When we mailed the first tapes, Howard's eyes twinkled. "See, Wanda, the music's going around the world without us." I laughed of course. Only God could have masterminded the plan.

   In his introduction on the tapes Howard was asked to say, "This is Howard O. Jones, coming to you from a Negro church in Cleveland, Ohio." Remember, this was in the fifties when hardly any blacks served as foreign missionaries; the ELWA radio station wanted the people of Liberia to know the minister and people they were hearing were of their own race. That simple introduction brought hundreds of letters to the station, expressing delight, but also asking questions about American blacks.

   As news of the African broadcasts spread through the family and around Oberlin, Dad Jones would flash his proud "that's-my-boy" smile. "I always knew Howard was going to make it! he'd brag. We were thrilled that the Lord had allowed him, as well as others, to see that God blesses His faithful followers.

   I was happy to be back in Ohio, in such familiar territory. Whenever relatives would stop by the house, the girls would run to them, each trying to be the first to get and give a hug.

   Shortly after we moved to Woodmere Village, a suburb of Cleveland, I discovered I was pregnant again. Even though my later pregnancies had not caused the worry that my first one had, I still cut down on my outside activities — just to be on the safe side. So, in the spring of 1952, the girls and I took fewer trips to the park and library; we spent more quiet sessions reading our favorite stories together. One afternoon, I called all three girls to the piano.

   "Come around here, Sweeties. Let's sing 'Jesus Loves Me.' "

   As we sang, I was surprised to hear an unusually good quality to their young voices. I hadn't forgotten the prayer I had whispered listening to the Bingham Sisters back in New York; it was time to experiment.

   "That was really pretty, girls. Remember when Mommy and Daddy sang in church last Sunday night? That's called

Page 68

'harmony.' Every song has more than one part. Listen while I sing the second part of 'Jesus Loves Me,' then you try to sing it."

   For several days we worked on the harmonies and melodies of many familiar church songs; I'd sing it first and then they'd repeat it. Often they'd get tired and want to quit practicing, but I would beg for "just one more." The music sessions continued all summer, even after the birth of their baby brother, David.

   One Sunday morning, after a restless night, I knew it was nearing delivery time. Though I wanted Howard to go with me to the hospital, I knew he had to fulfill his preaching responsibilities. A churchful of people were gathered, expecting to hear the Word. Howard couldn't let them down, and besides, I really didn't think I was that close to delivery. I simply didn't want to arrive at the hospital with only thirty minutes to spare, as I had with Phyllis.

   "Don't worry, I'll wait for you," I said as I left the hospital and Howard left for the church.

   But life doesn't always go as planned. Just as Howard was about to begin the worship service, he heard the phone ring in his office.

   "Rev. Jones, I just want to let you know you have an eight-pound son, born one-half hour ago," the doctor announced.

   Though almost speechless, Howard finally answered, "Are you sure? We already had three sweet girls, you know. Are you sure it's a boy?"

   "Oh, yes," the doctor chuckled. "No doubt about it."

   That morning Howard cut the service very short, but both he and the entire congregation took time to thank the Lord and rejoice that Howard David Jones had arrived safely. Then Howard slipped away to the hospital to welcome his new son personally.

*     *     *

Page 69

   Our youngest soon became the pet of the Cleveland church, and so much attention spoiled him. We didn't have a church nursery; the babies spent Sundays on their mothers' laps, learning to sit still as toddlers. At least that's how it was supposed to work. David had a mind of his own, and he soon proved he could be very naughty. One Sunday, when David was about three, a parishioner with an irritating voice, especially when he stressed words, read the creation story. David listened for several minutes and then shouted, "Shut up, man!"

   As I hushed David, I caught Howard's eye. We both wanted to crawl away somewhere, but the damage had been done. The roar of laughter from the congregation so flustered the reader that he hurriedly finished and left the platform. Our later apologies couldn't erase the impulsive words of our toddler.

   But he could be a charmer too. All our children had been taught never to run in the church. But David had a short memory. After one Sunday service, he made a beeline for a woman who always gave him gum. His little legs pumped across the floor to her side as she was greeting Howard at the back of the church.

   After repeated warnings Howard had had enough of David's running, so Howard stepped forward to swat David's behind. But the blow was blocked by the "gum-lady," who silently announced that Howard had better never again hit that precious child in her presence. Sometimes I wondered how David was going to turn out; but maybe it was I who'd been spoiled by three girls before a boy.

*     *     *

   All of the church children participated in the annual Christmas program, so one year I decided our girls would sing. For that special night, I dressed them all alike, in little red dresses trimmed in white. I pulled back their hair with white ribbons.

  When the Jones Sisters were announced, they quietly walked to the front of the sanctuary. I held my breath,

Page 70

wondering if the sight of so many people would terrify them. I needn't have worried. I followed them out of our pew and went to the piano. They looked at me for courage, and as I played the introduction I flashed a "you can do it" smile their way. As soon as the first words of "Jesus Is the Light of the World" were out of their mouths, a hush fell over the crowd. I think the people expected to hear them sing in unison instead of harmony. Halfway through the song, I glanced across the platform at Howard. His eyes shone with thankfulness to hear his children singing for the Lord. God had seen fit to give the girls the musical talent I had seen in their father — the first night I'd met him.

   Within the next two years, the girls were invited to sing on a popular religious television program in Cleveland. By then, they'd sung at a number of churches and were known as the Jones Sisters Trio. Occasionally Howard would tape them as part of the radio programs he sent to Dick Reed at station ELWA in Liberia, West Africa.

   Dick had continued to send back reports of the people who had accepted Jesus because of Howard's broadcasts. Then one day the mailman delivered a letter from the Sudan Interior Mission, inviting Howard to conduct a three-month series of evangelistic crusades in Liberia, Ghana, and Nigeria.

   He would be the first black evangelist to hold crusades of that magnitude, the letter said. As a matter of fact, this whole idea was an experiment to see the nationals' response to an American black clergyman; several mission organizations had agreed to unite to sponsor the tour — if Howard would agree.

   This, of course, was first of all a call to pray. Was this God's will? After spending hours on his knees, Howard accepted their invitation.

   And then we felt God's confirmation when ELWA sent one hundred dollars toward Howard's airfare. While Howard and I had been praying about his trip, I'd been praying out a more personal matter, and when the money for Howard's airfare arrived, making the trip a reality, I felt it was time to state what was on my mind. "Howard, I'd really like to go with you," I ventured.

Page 71

He nodded. "Honey, I wish you could. But we're struggling as it is; you know there's just no way we can afford to have you go with me."

   I wasn't about to give up my dream. "Well, I just feel the Lord is going to work it out so I can go. He's going to provide the perfect sitter for the children, and He's going to give me eight hundred dollars for my fare."

   He looked at me as if I were crazy, but said no more.

   A few days later, Howard asked the church for permission to be gone for three months, and they enthusiastically approved the absence, promising to provide the rest of his plane fare. After the service, an elderly woman came up to me. "Mrs. Jones, I think it's just wonderful that you and your husband can go to Africa."

   Apparently she hadn't paid attention, because Howard hadn't said anything about my going or even wanting to go. But before I could explain, she grabbed my hand. "I know the Lord wants me to give you this for your trip." Into my hand she pressed a dollar bill.

   I couldn't wait to show it to Howard. "It looks as though the Lord wants me to go after all," I said to him when we got home. "Only 799 dollars to go!"

   He seemed surprised. "You're really serious about this, aren't you? All right, let's pray right now and ask if it's God's will." We knelt there in the living room and made our request known.

   Within a few days of that prayer, Howard's parents called to say they would pay my fare. "Honey, this is wonderful," Howard said. "But who will stay with the children? We're going to be gone three whole months!"

   "I've been praying about that. The children love Aleta and Roy; let's ask them."

   We did, and to our delight, my dear friend and her husband accepted. Little did I know that Aleta and Roy had been praying for a place to stay for three months, while they sought His will for their future ministry! Two needs suddenly dovetailed with one answer

   When the day finally arrived, I couldn't believe that I was

Page 72

actually on the plane and on my way to the land of my ancestors. Liberia had been founded in 1847 by freed African slaves, who had chosen to return to their homeland. I felt as though my history had come full circle. Here I was, an American black descended from African slaves, going to a country that had been settled by those with great vision. It was a delicious feeling.

   To step off the plane onto that soil was a highlight in our lives. I squeezed Howard's hand with excitement. He grinned back at me. "Well, Baby, I promised to take you around the world. The Lord's sure doing a better job of it than I ever would have!"

   I squeezed his hand again, knowing he was right. There to meet us were missionaries from the various stations and Mrs. Tolbert, the wife of the vice president of Liberia. I marveled at the warm welcome we received.

   After a few days in Monrovia, Howard and I were touring the ELWA facilities when a messenger delivered several gold-edged invitations to a reception given by President Tubman. We were delighted enough that our names were on one of the envelopes, only to discover that the luncheon was in Howard's honor.

   I gasped with delight.

   The next day, the president himself escorted me at the head of the procession into the beautiful dining room. I'm sure dinner was wonderful, but I don't remember the courses. I was too busy trying to contain my awe. All I could think was I can't believe Howard and I are sitting on either side of the president of Liberia.

   Two days later, on January 18, 1957, at the Executive Pavilion in Monrovia, Howard preached the first in a series of evangelistic crusades scheduled for West Africa. President Tubman and other government officials were present in the capacity crowd of 2,000.

   The ELWA staff provided the music and Howard preached the Word of God. Five hundred decisions for Christ were made in that night's meeting, but we trust there were even

Page 73

more since ELWA broadcast the service to several other West African countries as well as throughout Liberia.

   As a result of the 1957 crusade, two Christian organizations were started — the Monrovia Bible Institute and Youth for Christ. Both continue to thrive.

   We enjoyed two more days at the home of the superintendent of ELWA, Ray de la Haye, and his wife, Sophie. For several nights, the sounds of the sea lulled us to sleep. Sophie took me shopping one day. Monrovia looked like a modern city, but many shops opened directly onto the street. No doors or windows. We quickly saw that Africa is a continent of contrasts, with the old and the new standing side by side. Row upon row of exotic goods — brightly colored fruit, fabrics, baskets, and even an occasional animal or two — all beckoned. Sophie warned me about purchasing fresh vegetables; dysentery haunted every American missionary who arrived, she said. Canned vegetables were the stock of the missionaries' green foods, though the tops of the potato plants were sometimes served with fresh fish and rice. I enjoyed our days in the city, but soon we were scheduled to go into the interior to one of the mission stations.

   I watched the men load the jeeplike vehicle that would carry us. The last thing packed in was several wide boards, used as a bridge across streams. Suddenly I knew I was in Africa, the land I'd seen in the slides missionaries had flashed across the screen at church. In the city I'd been surprised that only some of the people wore the colorful robes I had expected. In the fifties, most of them dressed in the Western clothing familiar to us. I soon learned that the urban people wore the beautiful, national dress mostly on holidays.

   We know the first mission station had been alerted to our coming, but we still hadn't expected the greeting we received. The mission house sat on a rise in a grove of acacia trees, decorated in our honor with ropes of flowers. Beneath those decorated trees stood hundreds of people, waving and cheering as we rode into view. A royal couple couldn't have been more warmly welcomed. Once the vehicle door was opened, the people rushed forward to greet us, touching our clothing, our

Page 74

faces, our hands. For a moment I was frightened as several of them surged forward to lift us up onto their shoulders. Our missionary escort kindly urged them to restrain their excitement, reminding them we'd had a long journey. It was all overwhelming, but beautifully so.

   While they crowded around us, I couldn't help but remember our college days, when mission boards had said that American blacks would never be accepted by nationals. Obviously, it was the fear of the white boards that had prevented our service, not the attitudes of the people themselves. How thankful we were that radio station ELWA and other missionary organizations had challenged the assumptions and granted this privilege.

   If those "white" boards would have checked, they would have discovered that black mission boards, such as the National Baptists and others, had previously sent our people into Liberia — with success. One of them was the indefatigable Mother Mae Davis. We had known of her work, but our host, Bill Watkins, eagerly told us more of her story.

   A tall, slender, elderly woman, she had long been Africa's woman of faith in the way George Muller had been England's man of faith. Not only did she personally educate and care for abandoned children, but she never lost sight of His promises to a hurting world. Often she and the children thanked God for nonexistent food, knowing He was sending a farmer to them at that very moment with rice and other staples. She also cared for the sick with a special tenderness that won people's hearts. She did so much with so little; what could she have done in Jesus' name if the churches back in the States had sent her more materials and financial support?

   Instead of waiting for help from others, she asked the Lord to show her ways to make her little mission station self-supporting. Within a few days of that initial prayer, a plantation owner gave her rubber plants, which she planted around the mission grounds. Liberia is one of Firestone's major sources of rubber, so Mother Davis was confident she'd have a market for even the little bit she could produce. It took several years before the trees began to yield, but when they did, all of the money

Page 75

went to meet the needs of the people around her. She used her furloughs in the United States to raise money, but she always returned to Liberia earlier than scheduled, saying she was homesick for her little ones. When well-meaning friends asked her to go back to the States now that she was "getting on in years," she only chuckled.

   "No. No. Liberia is just as close to heaven as the States is. My people need me here."

   Dick Reed had handled all of the details for Howard's meetings but was away on furlough when we arrived, so Bill Watkins escorted us to the outskirts of the province, to Mother Davis's apartment above her clinic. I was surprised at how slender she was; in my mind I created a giant — physically as well as spiritually. She stood as we entered, smiling and holding out wrinkled hands in greeting. There was nothing that set her apart as the woman whose spirit portrayed the Lord so much that the local people called her "God-mother."

   Bill greeted her and then turned toward us.

   "Mother Mae, this is Pastor and Mrs. Howard O. Jones from Cleveland, Ohio. It's his Sunday night broadcast you hear over radio station ELWA."

   Her smile deepened. "Cleveland? Is that anyplace near Oberlin? I spoke at several churches in Oberlin years ago. In fact, I graduated from Oberlin College. When I went back, I stayed with some nice people by the name of Young. Sister Young was such an encouragement to me at that time . . . "

   At the mention of my family name, Howard and I snapped our heads to look at each other. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. To think I was half a world away, listening to a spiritual giant whom Mama had befriended years ago! Howard turned to the bewildered woman and offered an explanation for my outburst.

   "Mother Mae, Wanda is Mrs. Young's daughter."

   "Sister Young's daughter?" Immediately she threw her arms around me. "Why, bless you Honey. I just thank God for this day!"

   For the rest of our too-short visit, we filled in the years since she had ministered in Oberlin. I could have gone home

Page 76

that very afternoon and felt as though the trip had been worthwhile. But of course, the tour was just starting — and so were the Lord's blessings.

*     *     *

   Wherever Howard preached, whether in the cities or in the interior, great crowds gathered to hear him and many people responded to his message. Speaking through an interpreter, he always began by expressing his love for them and giving greetings from their brothers and sisters in America. Immediately, the people would express their joy by making soft clicking noises with their mouths.

   Because of the lack of electricity, most of the meetings were held in the daytime. But occasionally because of bad roads, we would arrive late, delaying the service. I'll always remember the sight of the lines of people coming to the service at dusk, their lanterns swinging at their sides.

   At one such meeting in the interior, the missionary wife asked me if I would briefly speak to the women.

   "Oh, no. I couldn't do that. Howard's the speaker!"

   She gently shook her head. "No, the women need to hear special encouragement from you, the first black American woman they've seen. Please. It'd mean so much."

   How could I say no to that? Within a few minutes, I was standing in front of hundreds of eager women, many of them holding sleeping babies while toddlers leaned against their laps. My arms ached to be around my own little ones, and I held back threatening tears. The missionary wife smiled at me, ready to interpret my message.

   Sending up a quick prayer of "please help me, Lord," I spoke of Jesus' love, so great that He was willing to die in our place. My talk wasn't based on a three-point outline, as Howard's would be, but it was from my heart, and the response was gratifying.

   The next morning, when we were saying good-byes and leaving the village, a woman stepped out of the crowd, spoke to me

Page 77

in her own language, then took my hand, and pressed something into my palm. I looked down at an American dime!

   Bewildered, I turned to the missionary wife who explained, "She wants you, her American sister, to have that as a special gift. That's all she has but she thanks you for coming to tell her about Jesus."

   Liberia was on the U.S. monetary system so I knew the dime was precious to her. For a long moment, I stared at it. How could I take so much from this woman who had so little? I was ready to say, "Oh, no, I can't take this!" but when I looked at her face, her expression stopped me.

   Instead, I clasped her hands in mine. "Oh, I thank you," I said. "God bless you! I'll always remember you and pray for you."

   The memory of her smile is with me still.

   As we left, the missionary wife looked at me thoughtfully. "Do you see how these people respond to you? They want you to stay. I'm going to admit something that's going to sound funny, but I envy your skin color."

   I tried to keep my face from betraying my disbelief, but inwardly thought, Boy that's a switch! As a child, I had wanted not the white skin, but the privileges that went along with it. Surely my face betrayed my thoughts because the missionary wife suddenly stammered, "It's true, Mrs. Jones. Today I've seen how much identification means to them. You and your husband being here has meant far more than I ever dreamed possible." She clasped my hands. "Thank you for opening my eyes."

   Impulsively, I hugged her good-bye.

   At the next stop, we were "entertained by two sets of young twins who had been given to the missionaries to raise. Even in the fifties, some interior tribes believed the birth of twins brought a family curse, canceled only if the babies were left to die. The missionaries had arrived in the area just before these two sets of twins were born, so the local people saw the births as a warning against the missionaries. Undaunted, the young couple had begged for the lives of the babies, saying they were a blessing instead of a curse. I was impressed with the love

Page 78

the white parents lavished upon those four strong, handsome little boys, but I do wish they had chosen different names. The first pair was called First and Second Timothy, while the second set was named First and Second Thessalonians!

   When we returned to Monrovia, the ELWA staff welcomed us and showed us the improvements that had been made at the station during our tour. Even as he showed us the new equipment, Bill Thompson seemed to be holding something back. Finally he blurted out a plea. "Howard, Wanda, please come back and be part of our staff here. These people need you. We need you!"

   Howard and I quickly looked at each other. God had so often sent confirmation of our internal tugs. We hadn't mentioned our desire to return, and here we were, being asked. We knew that we needed more time to pray about it, but after lunch, Howard and several staff members discussed the areas where his skills could be used.

   The next day Sophie de la Haye, our hostess when we had first arrived in Africa, called me aside. "If you'll be coming back, you'll need a place to live," she said. And then we started to dream. "There aren't that many lots left along the ocean, and they might be gone when you return. Let's go stake one for you — just in case."

   Impulsively I agreed to go for a walk with her, toward the shore. Sophie was right; most of the lots were taken. But at the end of the road a perfect setting projected out along the water. I clasped my hands together in delight. "Let's pray right now and ask God to show us His will concerning this land," I suggested.

   Sophie nodded, taking my hands into hers. The image of our contrasting skin colors blurred as we prayed; we were two sisters asking their heavenly Father for His direction and blessing.

   As we raised our heads we agreed to act on faith — and hope. At my feet I found a stick and a nearby stone. Like young children playing in the dirt, we drove that stake into the ground. But for us it was no game. It was a sign of our trust, even our covenant with Him.

   Not all of the missionaries were that open to us, however.

Page 79

At one place, our host greeted us warmly, then turned to introduce his wife. She hooked a piece of her hair back over her ear as she sighed resolutely; there was no smile in her eyes. I could have dismissed her lack of warmth but for the commotion she raised at a later church service.

   As we walked into the church building, the benches were already filled — except for a portion of the third row, being held for the missionary's family. Our host touched Howard's shoulder and gestured toward the platform and reminded his wife that I should sit with her. As he and Howard walked away, I started toward the middle of the bench. Suddenly the twelve-year-old son spoke sharply to his mother, "Hey, why're you pushing me? I don't want to sit next to her, either!"

   I turned around just in time to see the missionary wife take a tight grip on the child's arm and maneuver him into position between the two of us. As I sat down, I tried to smile at the African gentleman seated on the other side of me, but my heart was thumping from the insult of my supposed sister in Christ. I closed my eyes and sent up a quick prayer for grace.

   It was difficult for me to concentrate on the service. How could a white missionary have rapport with black Africans and yet refuse to sit next to me? Did my being an American black and the wife of a respected black evangelist intimidate her? Was she trying to make me understand she didn't accept me as her equal? The negative thoughts kept multiplying.

   "O Lord," I prayed again, "help me with this. Help me repay her rudeness with kindness and with Your love."

   I paused as my human nature struggled with God's divine order: "Pray for them who despitefully use you, and persecute you" (Matthew 5:44). I gave way to one mighty sigh and continued to pray. "All right, Lord, You know my heart. You know I'm doing this only out of obedience to You. Forgive my resentment and please bless Your work here." Pause. "And bless this family . . . all right, bless this woman — in a mighty way."

   When my prayer was over, I glanced over the head of the boy squirming next to me and I caught the eye of the woman. I smiled, but she set her jaw and looked away. Oh, boy, I thought. It was going to be a long day-and-a-half in this place.

Page 80

But at least I knew I had been obedient to the Lord by praying for her; I'd have to leave the rest of the problem up to Him.

   In Ghana, our schedule was tight. As many as four or five times an afternoon Howard was expected to say "just a few words." One day was especially hectic. We had visited several schools in the morning, had attended a number of governmental teas in the afternoon, and Howard was scheduled to speak at a special meeting of women at a large Presbyterian church later in the day. I knew Howard was about "talked out" but I never expected the outcome.

   About five hundred women gathered at the church, a beautiful modern structure decorated with African scenes. Four interpreters had been brought in to accommodate the needs of the crowd. As our team soloist, Wilfred Quimby, sang, my eyes kept wandering over to Howard, sitting on the platform. To anyone else, he surely looked quiet, even dignified, but I knew from the look in his eyes that he was exhausted.

   When Howard was introduced, he walked to the pulpit, surrounded by interpreters. He opened his Bible and then glanced toward me, as if for strength. Suddenly he broke into a smile of relief that I didn't quite understand.

   "How wonderful it is to be with you dear ladies today and to bring you greetings from your Negro brothers and sisters in America."

   He waited for the four interpreters to finish, then continued. "I have a special surprise for you today. My wife, Wanda, is here with me, and I know you women would rather have her speak. Amen?

   The crowd applauded, so he walked toward me. "Come on up here, Honey," he said.

   I sat there for one awful moment, stunned. In front of this crowd, I couldn't refuse to speak and I certainly couldn't argue with him. In my dumbfounded state, there wasn't time even to give him a dirty look. O Lord, what am I going to say? Help me!

   Howard led me to the pulpit, squeezing my arm thankfully as he did so. I refused to look at him for fear a you-just-wait-till-we're-alone look would escape. As he sat down, I gripped the side of the pulpit. The four interpreters turned

Page 81

toward me, waiting for my words. I didn't want to speak; I wanted to bolt out the side door. Despite my New York street evangelism and my short talk to the Liberian women, I wasn't accustomed to public speaking — especially when I had not a minute's notice. I had no choice but to dig in and start talking.

   "I'm here today because of John 3:16: 'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' That is the first Bible verse my mother taught me and it means everything to me. It can mean wonderful things to you too if you'll give your life to Christ."

   Even within those few words, I had to pause between phrases as each interpreter took his turn. And if I didn't pause soon enough, the first interpreter rolled his words over mine, with the others immediately following. By the time it was my turn again, I had almost forgotten my next point. Somehow, I told them what God's love means — and how He wants to help us with our problems and how He wants to give us His peace.

   It seemed as though I was up there forever, but surely it was just twenty or thirty minutes. When I finished, the crowd made those clicking mouth noises, expressing their pleasure; Howard escorted me back to my seat while the musician announced his final number.

   Under my breath, I muttered at Howard. "Don't you ever do that to me again. You didn't give me one bit of warning."

   He nodded. "I'm sorry. But think of it this way, Honey — the Lord's just given you a new ministry. You're going to be a speaker too!"

   During the remaining weeks in Ghana and Nigeria, both Howard and I spoke often, and the travel demands began to tell upon us. Although we'd kept in contact with the children through ham radio at each mission station, I ached to see them. I also was saddened by some of the missionaries we met, who'd obviously gone into another culture to help "those people." They had such a chip on their shoulders; some even insisted their congregations sing gospel songs the American way — without hand clapping or age-old instruments. I shook my head over the intolerance and plowed ahead. We still had a long

Page 82

assignment before us. But for one reason or another, my health began to decline. Eventually, I couldn't travel over the roads and we had to be flown to Lagos, Nigeria.

   What a contrast the city was to the countryside where we had spent so much time. Here, so many people knew English that Howard didn't have to use an interpreter. Many of them had studied in England and had brought back those beautiful old hymns with their majestic images of God's grandeur. In the countryside, we hadn't been able to understand the words of the ancient songs, although the rhythm and cadence made them immediately identifiable with our Negro spirituals.

   In the city, bright lights and neon signs lined the streets. In the countryside, the darkness of night had been broken by the light of lanterns swinging at people's sides. But in both settings, we were touched by the believers' vast love for us and our Lord.

   I rested in Lagos but was still weak when we went into Nigeria. There, in Egbe, my body gave out. When I "came to," I was in a hospital in northern Nigeria. We'd been flown across the country and met by an ambulance, but I didn't remember a thing. As the medicines began to take effect, I awakened in a strange hospital, hearing a crying baby somewhere down the hall. I was convinced I'd just given birth! I was grateful to a doctor who came in just then and explained what had happened.

   As I recuperated, a young Hausa nurse took a special interest in me. When I could talk, she constantly asked me questions. "Who are you?" she asked. "You aren't European. You aren't African."

   Even as I explained that I was an American, that our country included many different races, she remained unconvinced. She'd never seen a black American before. One morning she brought her Hausa hymnbook to me and asked me to read it aloud. She was so intent, I was sorry to explain that I couldn't read it automatically; I would have to learn — just as she had. Her devoted care touched me, deepening my love for her and her people. When I was well enough to travel again, I

Page 83

carried the memory of her challenge with me. Would I ever be able to read her language?

   Eventually I was well enough to finish the trip with Howard, touring the hospitals and schools sponsored by the various missions in Nigeria. In northern Nigeria, we visited a leper colony where I learned a valuable lesson about God's ability to work wonders. One particular patient was so disfigured that a pitying compassion welled up within me. When he saw that I was looking at him, he timidly smiled at me, gesturing with fingerless hands.

   "O dear lady, I see pain in your face for me, but I'm thanking God for my leprosy. Because of my disease, I found Jesus when I came here. Otherwise, dear lady, I would have been doing what Satan wanted me to do. But now the peace of Jesus is in my heart instead of evil thoughts. I have found the pearl of great price!"

   That evening, Howard and I couldn't get the man out of our minds. As much as we wanted to get home to our children, we knew we someday would come back to Africa. But how? When? We would have to start praying about the circumstances.

Chapter Six  ||  Table of Contents