Living in Two Worlds
Phyllis came home from the hospital shortly after I arrived, early in 1961, and soon our family returned to its familiar African routine, complicated by one factor — a squirming baby. In her bassinet, Lisa accompanied us to the station each day. And I was grateful that she slept through most of the programming. Although Billy Graham himself had toured Africa in 1960, the work of the Graham evangelistic team continued follow-up work and organizing evangelistic meetings at which Howard spoke. Since he traveled a lot, we often taped several programs in one day, when Howard was home.
David began to take longer roles in the children's story hour, especially parts that called for sharing the gospel. When I'd think of his "passing the Word" to the villagers, I would smile, sure he would grow up to be a minister. Cheryl, Gail, and Phyllis continued to sing as a trio on the radio, at churches, and even at special evangelistic rallies at the Executive Pavilion. Often as I watched them, I couldn't help but contrast the lovely young women of fifteen, thirteen, and eleven to those little girls who had once leaned against me as we sat together at the piano. Time was passing all too quickly, and I found myself locking special scenes into my heart for safe-keeping, as though I knew our time in Liberia all too soon would be over.
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With a sense of urgency, I wanted the four oldest ones to absorb as much of the Liberian history as possible. We set aside our Saturday afternoons for side trips to the landmarks. At Providence Island, Howard and I re-created the story of the freed American slaves who had landed there with the vision of founding a free nation. Occasionally Howard spoke at the services of the Providence Baptist Church, a fellowship that had been built as a memorial to the tiny, brave band of believers who had started a church on board the ship that took them back to their ancestral land.
We also made sure the children met many black missionaries so their view of the mission field would be accurate. Little did I know how important that simple activity was going to become as we would face future accusations that we were following a "white man's religion." There in Liberia, we had no way of sensing the intensity of the brewing civil rights movement in the States; we knew only that we wanted our children to meet black pioneer missionaries. Of course, we repeated stories of the faith of Mother Mae Davis whose school still nourished her impoverished area. And as often as possible we urged the children to work with our fellow black missionaries. One pioneer missionary, Eliza Davis George, known in Liberia as Mother George, served many years and founded a mission. One of her most promising students is Bishop Augustus Marwieh, one of the outstanding evangelical leaders in Liberia.
Another pioneer was Gladys East, an outstanding teacher and head of Liberian Missionary Fellowship for many years.
Frances Watkins and Barbara Harper served with the Killingsworth Mission, and Edith Johnson and her co-workers staffed the Salala Mission Station. Willy and Betty Quimby served in Liberia as heads of the Bopolo Mission. The dedication and outstanding work of these black American missionaries inspired us and our children.
Two special friends, Naomi Doels and Cora McCleery, served with the Monrovia Bible Institute. When Naomi and Cora expressed an interest in obtaining land for their Bible Institute and future day school, Howard went to President
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Tubman and asked him to grant land on which a mission school could be built. The president, appreciative of what missions had done for his country, generously granted twenty-there acres of land for the project.
Even after the president had given his approval, Naomi and Cora approached the area chief carefully. "We want to build a school here because it's important that children learn books. If you want your children to be able to represent your village before the president and before Liberia, if you want them to be good Liberian citizens and get good jobs, they need to learn books."
Spurred on by that logic, the chief called his counsel together; soon the plans for a simple school building were approved. The first-year curriculum called for the use of basic first-grade primer texts. Then a new grade was to be added each year until all twelve grades could be offered. And how that school grew! Some children traveled as far as thirty miles each way. There were no rooming facilities, so if such students didn't have relatives in the town, they rode the lorries. Even now I can see those adorable children hanging onto the sides of the bus, their faces shining with anticipation.
While the goal for completion of all twelve grades was long-term, Naomi and Cora set out to meet an immediate goal — to establish a church. Aware that the school's success made an impression on the local chief, the missionaries took the next step. "Is it all right," they asked, "if we teach your people about God in this school?"
They held their breath as he glowered at them. Finally he spoke, letting them know his people could choose what they wanted to hear.
Of course the people chose to attend. Years later, when we went back to visit, we were amazed to find a thriving mission school where children gathered daily for a secular education balanced with a knowledge of God's Word. Also, the Monrovia Bible Institute, under the capable leadership of men and women trained at Carver Institute in Atlanta, Georgia, was in full operation, preparing Liberians for Christian service. When the Carver Foreign Missions Board discovered we were
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in Liberia, they asked Howard to be the school's first president. As we saw the ways in which God used the school, we were especially thankful it had been started by two black American women missionaries who had dared to believe what Dr. F.B. Meyer, the English preacher and contemporary of Dwight L. Moody and Charles Spurgeon, once said: "You'll never know the resources of God until you attempt the impossible."
During our stay in Liberia, I often had the opportunity to share my testimony in the church that was started in connection with this school, and also at surrounding mission stations. That spring of 1961, I was even asked to speak at several graduations. Liberia had maintained close ties to the U.S., so the young people in the cities dressed much like the teens in the States. But even if they hadn't, my theme would have remained the same: "Make Christ first in your life." As I shared my courtship struggle of telling Howard that Jesus had to be first in my life, I could read the pain in the eyes of the girls before me. The same choices faced many of them.
I wanted to promise them that their boyfriends would choose Jesus, as Howard had, but I knew that was impossible. All I could do was stress that in the long run they would not regret choosing Jesus, who would satisfy their hearts. Occasionally one of the girls, in her American fifties-style skirt complete with crinolines, would glare at me until my heart ached over her defiance. I thought of the apostle Paul's admonition to Timothy: "Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity" (1 Timothy 4:12). Always I tried to stress that God's blessings are dependent on our obedience. If we choose to go our own way, we must be prepared to suffer the bitter consequences.
In addition to speaking to local groups of young people, I often accompanied Howard when he spoke. When I was first invited by an out-of-town church, my response was concern about who would stay with the children. But as I prayed, I felt God's tug. He wanted me to go, and when God asks us to do something, He always provides a way for us to accomplish it. Two young teachers at the Carver Mission, Mary Stevens and
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Henrietta Herron, readily volunteered to stay with our children in our home by the sea. Not only did we become fast friends, but their youthful enthusiasm, tempered by their strong spirituality, made them marvelous role models for our girls.
Their presence also allowed me to accept a special invitation from the Council of Women in Nigeria, which wanted me to travel through the interior, speaking to the women. As I thought of all the retreats and luncheons in the States, I contrasted those settings with the few Christian meetings available to the tribal women. The needs here were so great. How I wanted to share my faith. And yet my family — how could I be away from them for five weeks? What did God want my ministry for that time to be? Of course Howard and I got on our knees, again asking for direction. As I read the Word and as Howard encouraged me to go, emphasizing the care the children would receive, I realized nothing but my fear was holding me back. And fear was no good motive for staying home.
Finally, with Isaiah 41:10 firmly in mind, I set out: "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."
Jessie Magill, one of the advisors of the council, offered to be my driver for the entire tour. As soon as we left the city, I was grateful to be in such capable hands. Over mile after slow mile of those washboard roads, she'd confidently grip the steering wheel and keep up a steady flow of encouraging stories about the women of each village we approached.
At one point, while I clutched the arm rest to steady myself, she murmured a low, "Well, look at that."
I glanced up and saw a long, thick pole in the roadway. But just as my mind thought pole, the thing moved!
Jessie called a cheerful "Hang on!" and proceeded to bounce our vehicle over the middle of the twenty-plus feel of African python. Even in the safety of the Jeep, I yelped and pulled my feet up.
Jessie stopped and began to back up.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
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"Look, he's getting away. I'm going to run over him again. He really must be strong if he wasn't even fazed by our first assault."
To battle a python on a hot afternoon, even in a Jeep, wasn't my idea of a good time. "Oh, Jessie, don't bother with it. Let's just get out of here."
With one of her quick Canadian grins, she did exactly that.
At the first church, I was welcomed heartily. The women wore their national dresses and beautiful scarves wound around their heads. As we drove up, the smiling and waving group stood in front of the church, decorated with freshly cut palm branches.
Suddenly the monumental size of my task hit me. What could I offer these women that would make a lasting difference in their lives? The talks I'd prepared seemed to shrivel up in my mind and look so dreadfully inadequate in the face of these tribal women.
I wasn't scheduled to speak until that evening, so when someone offered to show me my room, I graciously accepted. I needed to be alone with my Problem Solver. Once my gentle hostess softly shut the door behind her, I collapsed onto the bed. "God, their needs are too great; I can't do this."
As the tears came, I sensed God's voice. "Wanda, of course you can't meet those needs, but you can show them the One who can. Tell them about My Son."
As that encouragement sunk in, I was able to sit up, dry my eyes, and again face the task ahead of me.
That night, I sat on the platform and looked into all those faces, eager to hang onto every word I spoke. When I was introduced, I took a deep breath and whispered another quick prayer. I glanced at the interpreter standing near me. With God's strength, I was ready to begin . . . "First of all , I bring you greetings from your American sisters, many of whom are praying right now for these meetings. I wish I could tell you in your own language how much we love you."
Because I was obedient and stood before the crowd, the Lord
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took over and touched hearts in special ways that night. Afterward, many of the women — babies asleep on their backs — came up to speak to me, sharing the burdens of their hearts. The interpreter spoke rapidly, explaining the problem each one wanted to share and expressing thanks for my having loved them enough to come. I had to fight the tears, remembering that I had almost refused this blessing!
In town after town we were greeted by a waiting crowd, standing before a decorated church. Often as I stepped down from the vehicle, the women, who because of hardship had aged so much faster than I, turned to the missionary and said, "But the speaker is so young." After this happened a few times, I used the opening minutes of each talk to tell about my life, the way I cooked, how I raised my five children. I tried to draw our similarities even though we were from different cultures. I'd tell them about the resentments I had felt and the tears I had shed — when Mama had died and when Howard had been away early in our marriage. I wanted to show them I understood their hurts; my life as an American wasn't all that much different from theirs.
In every place I spoke, women told me of their hurts. Because of her devotion to Jesus, one woman had had most of her teeth kicked out by her husband. Even though we had to talk through an interpreter, I could sense the power within her. It didn't surprise me to learn that she was the leader of the Christians in her area.
In one outpost I closed the meeting by by asking if anyone wanted to ask Jesus to take away her burden of sin. When I realized that none of the interpreters was translating my words, I prayed, "Lord, break through the language barriers and speak to hurting hearts."
Later, several women told the missionaries that they seemed to know exactly what I had said! One woman said she had suddenly felt a burden of sin so heavily on her back that she couldn't stand it. She had to confess her guilt in order to be free. Repeatedly, I whispered my thanks to the Lord for allowing me to be part of His great work.
Day after day, I rode, then spoke. The towns and outposts
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would have all blurred if it hadn't been for the love I felt in each new place. I especially remember Zambuk, in northern Nigeria, where the temperature hovered around 120 degrees.
In the afternoon heat I spoke from the platform sheltered by palm branches and decorated with flowers. I was amazed the blossoms didn't immediately melt in that heat. As the women gathered, I saw they carried their babies on their backs. That was nothing unusual, but these women also balanced large baskets on their heads. Noticing that and a variety in their tribal dress, I asked one of the missionaries how far the women had come.
With kindness in her eyes she answered, "Many of them have walked forty miles. That's why they carry the baskets. It's the bedding and food they'll need for the week."
Something inside of me broke, and I started to sob. As the missionary put her arms around me, I tried to explain. "Those women have walked forty miles in this terrible heat, yet in the States we can't get some people to walk across the street to go to church!"
When the five weeks were over, I was the one who had received the greatest blessing.
* * *
Once I was back home with Howard and our family, as I shared the news of my trip, I again sensed that God was preparing us for another major change. I didn't know any details, but I was quite certain we wouldn't be staying in Liberia beyond our five-year commitment. During the next two years, we stayed busy with station and family responsibilities in addition to Howard's travel schedule. But too soon our routine was interrupted by a good-bye that every mother dreads.
Cheryl, soon entering her senior year of high school, started to ask if she could graduate from Wheaton Academy in Wheaton, Illinois. When Howard and I readily agreed, Gail and Phyllis timidly said that they wanted to go there too, so the three could continue singing together. Now that was a request I wasn't ready for. I looked around our cozy home and out
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through the front window toward the wide ocean before I could trust myself to answer. How empty this place would be without the three of them. And yet I knew ... they were right. They needed to be together.
That night when Howard and I were alone, I made a request of my own. "Howard, yes, we should let the girls go to Wheaton, but I just can't send them back alone. We have to take them, help them get settled in."
I heard no resistance from Howard, stretched out on the bed.
"Of course," he said. "We'll all go back for a few weeks in August."
During the next two months, we busily taped ahead several weeks of programs to free up our late summer schedule, and then we set off back over the Atlantic to deliver our girls into someone else's care. The first busy weeks of visiting our families and friends, and sharing our African life with concerned churches didn't erase the ache I tried to hide. The most difficult moment came when we walked down the steps of the Wheaton girls' dorm, heading to the car. The girls stood at the top of the stairway at the door and waved good-bye. Even though I knew we would see them again soon — when they saw us off at the airport — my feet that day seemed to be made of lead. All the way down the steps, I thought of how we had presented each of our children, as babies, to the Lord. Now he was asking us to trust them to His care. God's comforting promise came to me from His Word: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths" (Proverbs 3:5-6). My every thought was a prayer. Lord, I'm calling upon You and trusting You to watch over our girls. Please help me accept this challenge of letting go as from Your hand."
All too soon, we faced the more permanent parting, when Howard, David, Lisa, and I returned to Liberia.
Many friends and relatives came to the airport to see us off. Wanting our time together to be a joyful memory, I was determined not to cry. But when our flight number was called in the midst of my motherly list of instructions to Cheryl —
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make sure you all study well; take care of the younger girls; stay out of trouble — the tears suddenly flowed down my cheeks; soon the whole group was crying.
When the "last call for boarding" was announced, Howard and I hugged Cheryl, then Gail, and Phyllis once more before gripping Lisa and David's hands and walking toward the waiting plane. The group followed us out to the chain fence that enclosed the runway. From my seat, I could see the girls frantically waving. Any remaining restraint was lost right then, and quietly I started to sob. Howard, sitting across the aisle from me, was busy settling Lisa and David, checking their seatbelts and such. And the sensitive woman on my left immediately wrapped her arms around me; she made those soothing sounds that a mother makes over a child in great distress. Her arms were quiet earthly reminders of our heavenly Father's concern. By the time the plane was airborne, I was calm, confident that God's protection would surround our daughters. Still, for those first few hours of that long flight, I repeatedly quoted to myself 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."
The days ahead would be full ones, calling for all our energies. The radio work was waiting, and a few weeks after our return, Howard was scheduled to hold a large crusade tour across Nigeria. I was to go with him, so as soon as we got to Monrovia, our work load was heavy. But when we received word that Howard's brother, Clarence, had died, the work came to a halt.
For several agonizing hours, Howard wrestled between professional commitments and personal grief. Should he cancel his trip? Should he return to Oberlin? There were no planes scheduled to leave Liberia until the next week, so getting home in time for the funeral was out of the question. Via ham radio, Howard spoke with his parents. They reassured him that they could manage without him. Then they prayed and rejoiced together that in every crisis "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble" (Psalm 46:1).
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Howard, still in a quandary about what to do, paced the living room, then walked the beach, then fell to his knees in prayer, asking for God's direction and peace. Meanwhile, our friends at ELWA surrounded us with prayer until the Lord assured Howard that he was to go ahead with plans to travel through Nigeria. And how God did bless those meetings! Thousands attended, and hundreds made commitments to the Savior.
Howard's effectiveness can largely be attributed to the Holy Spirit working through Dalhatu Abdu, the Hausa interpreter. Before we arrived the young man had studied Howard's ELWA sermon tapes to grasp his voice pattern and inflections. The missionaries, understanding both Hausa and English, were amazed at how quickly Dalhatu translated even the most difficult American idioms into expressions his countrymen could easily understand.
We had told no one in Nigeria about the sorrow we carried over Clarence's death, and our silent grief was lessened for me when I heard Dalhatu's story: His high-ranking Muslim family had bitterly opposed his conversion to Christianity. Not only had he been publicly ostracized, his life had been threatened. Because he knew it was no idle threat, he traveled in groups and ate only what he or his Christian friends had prepared. The knowledge of Dalhatu's sorrow added to our own compelled me to silently pray for the unknown hurts of each new person we met on that trip. The tour became a tangible reminder of God's power and comfort in the midst of sorrow.
* * *
Shortly after that tour, our premonitions that our African work was drawing to a close became reality. After Clarence's death, and considering our girls' need for us to be near them, Howard and I prayerfully decided to return to the States. This caused no problem with the Billy Graham Association since Howard's ministry would continue wherever he was based.
We had said good-bye to our friends at ELWA before. But
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then we'd been confident of our return. This time was different. Now a sadness hung over our packing. Even if we came back for special events, Africa would never again be our home. Never again would Howard study for his sermons in the little library overlooking the sea. This move back to the States was a grief of sorts, another loss. I took a deep breath. Well, the Lord's promises had held us through every other challenge; they were no less binding in this one. There was nothing left to do but finish packing.
Even with that comfort, I sighed as our plane lifted off from Liberian soil. Howard clasped my hand in understanding. Returning his squeeze, I smiled. We weren't "leaving home," nor were we "going home." Wherever our family hung our hats and spread our table — that would be "home."
* * *
On our trip back from Liberia, we stopped over in Switzerland, enjoying dinner at a charming mountain-top restaurant. As we were escorted into the dining area by the Swiss hostess, I spotted a group of Americans. Even before we were close enough to hear the English, the clothing and animated conversation of the three couples betrayed their nationality. Delighted to see fellow Americans in a foreign land, I smiled. But for one horrible moment, they glanced up, stopped talking, and just stared at us. It had been several years since I'd felt the brunt of one of those lips-pursed, eyes-narrowed, what-are-you-doing-here glares.
The smile died on my lips and I concentrated on getting Lisa settled into a children's chair. I had expected a warm, so-glad-you're-here smile, as if the strangers would know I was one of them — an American traveling through. But instead I was faced with the all-too-familiar attitude.
Immediately I knew I had choices to make. I could allow those strangers to ruin my family's dinner: I could ignore them and pretend the incident hadn't happened; or I could accept the fact that prejudice was so much a part of their minds. I was not about to give
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their rudeness the power to ruin a special time with my family. Nor could I ignore those awful stares — which continued as we started to eat. There was nothing to do but accept their prejudice, consciously and with kindness.
Throughout dinner, as I chatted with Howard and the children, I often looked over at the other table and smiled my sweetest God-loves-you smile. One of the women took on a personal challenge — to glower all the harder with each of my smiles. I was tempted to gloat, but knew I'd be accomplishing nothing if I let this ugly matter consume me.
I might not even remember this incident if it hadn't proved to be our introduction to the massive civil rights movement that was churning in the West when we came back.
Each evening, the TV news was filled with vivid scenes of the struggle for equality. Lisa was almost four when we arrived so her knowledge of the civil rights movement of course was limited. The first time she saw a news program, she hid her face in my lap and sobbed. "Mama! Why are they hitting that man's face?"
How does a mother tell her child that it's because the man is black and dared to drink from a "whites only" drinking fountain?
Even as we visited the girls, Howard's parents, and other relatives, most conversations soon turned to one question: What part should black Christians take? The peaceful prayer vigils in the South had ended when police had released attack dogs. Pressure hoses had been turned on those who dared to stand in groups. The very rights a war had been fought over were still being denied to the descendants of those whose muscles and blood had built our nation. We had struggled with the race question before. Soon we would discover that there were no easy answers — even within our own race.
* * *
As soon as our beloved Miss Woolward heard we were back in the States and moving to New York, she insisted that we stay with her again. She had moved out of her cozy
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apartment and into a house in St. Albans, Long Island — just fifteen minutes from Kennedy airport.
Since our new home was too far to attend Bethany church, we were especially happy to discover that Irene and Henry Granderson — friends from that long-ago youth group — lived nearby. Their five children were close in age to our own so it made for wonderful visits. Their seven-year-old Michael quickly won my heart with his beautiful smile and willingness to read to Lisa.
Since Howard was traveling a great deal, the thought of having a home base with Miss Woolward appealed to me. She even had extra bedrooms for the girls when they visited during school breaks.
Within a few weeks, we were comfortably settled and felt very much at home. David enrolled in sixth grade and Lisa in Kindergarten in the neighborhood school. While I missed the excitement of the busy radio schedule, I enjoyed having time each morning to write magazine articles or letters to the girls. In the afternoon, when four-year-old Lisa arrived home from kindergarten, we enjoyed long walks in the nearby park before starting supper. When Howard was away, I eagerly anticipated his scheduled phone calls three evenings a week. One afternoon was especially long as I waited for news from him.
Howard and several other Graham associates had left the previous day for London — to prepare for the upcoming crusade at Earl's Court. Another black minister, Ralph Bell, had been added to the team and was scheduled to join them in England later in the week.
That next afternoon, when Lisa and I were out for our usual walk, I bought a paper. I glanced casually at the headlines and stopped dead short when I read the big black letters: "Howard Jones, of Billy Graham's team, kicked out of hotel."
Stunned, I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and kept reading. Howard had been asked to move out of his quarters because of his color! Lisa tugged at my skirt and begged to go on; finally I grabbed her hand and hurried home. How dare they ask him to leave! The injustice made me just boil with fury.
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By the time we arrived back at the house, family members and friends had begun to call. "What happened?" they asked, but I had no more details than they did. Even Walter Cronkite's evening news didn't answer my questions. He reported that Howard — "one of Billy Graham's aides" — had been asked to leave his assigned apartment because of his color! Poor Howard. I wished for arms long enough to reach across the Atlantic. Where was he right then? If only I could be with him, help him.
Every time the phone rang, I grabbed it, hoping, hoping it was Howard. But no. Another friend wanted to know details or express concern. Howard wasn't able to get a connection until early the next morning. When I heard his weary, "Hi, Wanda, Honey," I shouted back at him, "Howard! What's going on over there?"
He correctly read the panic. "Now just calm down. I'm fine. They're trying to find me another place. I'm staying with another team member across the city until this thing is settled."
Gradually the story unfolded. Howard and several other associates had been assigned to a certain apartment complex. A couple of days after Howard had settled in, Walter Smythe, one of the team directors, had the unpleasant task of calling Howard's room and asking him to come downstairs. "I have bad news," he said. Howard explained, "Honey, I thought something had happened to you or one of the children. I ran down those stairs two at a time. So I was actually relieved to hear that there had been complaints about me being in the building. They wanted me to move and I didn't argue." He had packed his bag and gone across town to live temporarily with Walter.
Even though he hadn't argued, a cloud of despair started to settle over Howard. As the cab driver put the suitcase into the trunk, Howard mussed. I don't have to take this. I have a wonderful wife and family at home. Why am I hitting my head against a brick wall here?
When he arrived at his new quarters, he stayed in the bedroom, and on his knees — reading the Bible and praying for God's direction. But Walter sent word of Howard's predicament to Billy Graham, who was crossing the Atlantic by ship.
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Dr. Graham immediately wired his response, demanding that the entire team move out of those quarters; if Howard couldn't stay, none of them could.
Once Dr. Graham arrived in London, he asked to see Howard, expressing his regrets and concern. Maybe he saw strain in Howard's eyes; maybe he just put himself in Howard's place. But he insisted that I join Howard, and I was in England by the end of that week.
When my plane landed, Howard's welcoming hug said all that his phone conversations hadn't. In our London quarters we talked and talked. Those who had been excited about Billy Graham's team staying in their building had a change of heart when they realized one of them was black. It still amazes us that people claiming to believe the Bible can be some of the most racist people in the world. How can they say, "I believe the Bible cover to cover; I believe Jesus died upon the cross for the sins of the world; I believe that no one can be saved from eternal torment unless he or she has faith in His shed blood," and then turn around and hate someone because of the color of that person's skin? What do they do with what Jesus Himself said: "By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love one to another" (John 13:35)?
How many white people in this country would have taken what the black race has put up with? But when we speak out against injustice, we're branded "radical," or worse yet, "communist." Won't there be true unity among Christians of different races without divine intervention? Will we achieve that only when Jesus comes again?
Howard and I aired all those frustrations. As we talked and prayed, the Liberian phrase "walk your talk" kept surfacing. If we truly are His children, we must begin to show evidence of that kinship. We must "walk our talk."
Howard's momentary thoughts of leaving dissolved because of Dr. Graham's sensitive action and our days of talk and prayer. And as often happens in a trauma, we emerged from that trip stronger than before. It was good it happened that way, because our faith was about to be put to an even greater test.
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Several months after the London Crusade, Howard and Ralph Bell, the other black evangelist, were invited to preach in Ghana. Howard was to give a series of meetings in the capital of Accra while Ralph was to travel into the interior for meetings. At the end of the four weeks, they would meet back in Accra and fly home together.
On the morning of the day Howard was due home, I gave David and Lisa an extra squeeze before they left for school. They were as excited as I that we'd all go to Kennedy airport that evening and meet Dad. Phyllis was home for a few days from Wheaton, so she and I spent the morning happily preparing several of Howard's favorite dishes for supper.
Just before noon, Sue King, a friend from New York, stopped by. As I chopped onions we chatted away, the radio playing softly in the background. Suddenly the music was interrupted by a solemn voice.
"We have a special announcement. The Kwame Nkrumah government in Ghana has been overthrown. Fighting has broken out in the streets, and President Nkrumah has fled. The rioting soldiers have killed many of his supporters, and no planes are permitted to leave the country until further notice. Communication lines are broken at this time, but we'll bring you more details as we have them."
My knife remained poised above the cutting board. Ghana? That's where Howard is!
"Wanda? You all right?"
I looked into Sue's questioning eyes. "Howard's right in the middle of that coup!"
Suddenly weak, I leaned against the counter. Sue enfolded Phyllis and me in her arms, and we prayed aloud for our Father's protection upon Howard and Ralph, for His peace in that corner of the world. As soon as we'd talked to God, we called the State Department. Unfortunately, they told us nothing more than what we'd heard on the radio.
Sue called many of our friends, activating prayer chains in several churches. Still, I paced. I waited as long as I dared before calling Cheryl and Gail. Then David and Lisa came bursting through the door after school, shouting, "Just four more hours!
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Yeah!" Their excitement made my news harder for me to bear. I gathered them close and as calmly as possible told them that Howard wasn't coming home tonight. Right then, all of us knelt by the sofa. With Phyllis on one side of me, and the two youngest on the other, we again asked God for His protection for Howard and Ralph. As we stood up, Miss Woolward came home, having heard the news broadcast. We embraced and prayed, as we continued to do . . .
For four days I waited for the phone to ring and someone to give me more news. I didn't want to think about the worst, yet horrible images flooded my mind. Had Howard been shot? Was he being held captive at gunpoint? Was he suffering? Would I ever see him again?
I prayed for peace for myself as well as for the men's protection. Satan loves to torment us with lies.
Praying and continually whispering the name of Jesus was the only thing that worked to chase those tormenting thoughts out of my mind. At one point, I even put my hands over my ears and prayed aloud. "Holy Spirit, take control of my thoughts. Take control of this fear and foreboding. Fear isn't from you: it's from the enemy. Take it away and take control of thoughts that come. I can't stand this otherwise."
None of us slept nor ate much. As we'd sit down to a meal,
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Miss Woolward or one of the children would start to ask the blessing but would start to cry instead, overwhelmed with uncertainty.
I was in constant contact with Ralph's wife, Jean. Did she have any news yet? The answer was always no. We'd pray together over the phone, then promise to call as soon as either one of us had word.
I also talked to Billy Graham. "Wanda," he said, "there's not a thing anyone can do right now — not even the President of the United States. But you and I know that God is in control and can do the impossible. Just remember that we love you and are praying for you."
As much as I appreciated everyone's encouragement, it still didn't fill the long hours. To keep myself busy, that Saturday I scrubbed the woodwork and washed every slat in the Venetian blinds, constantly praying for peace as my hands moved back and forth.
To the rhythm of my work I repeated verses I'd memorized through the years: "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee" (Isaiah 26:3); "Casting all your care upon him; for he cares about you" (1 Peter 5:7).
Finally though, I had to come to grips with this thought: It might not be God's will that Howard return safely to us. Could I accept sadness as willingly as I did the happiness? Did I have to return again to the lesson I thought I'd learned as a teenager: That I had to let go and let God?
"Well, Lord, You gave me Howard and we've had many wonderful years together. You gave us five wonderful children. He and Ralph were in Ghana in accordance with Your will, so I know whatever happens is in Your will as well."
I swallowed hard, knowing that I'd said that much before. It was the next step that was so difficult. "Well, Lord, if this is the way You want to take Him, then he's Yours. I can't control anything on the other side of the world, and I can't control what You want. I truly want only what You want — no matter what that means. And whatever comes, I accept it as from Your hand."
Of course, by the time I had finished the prayer, tears
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streamed down my face. But I had released Howard totally and felt calm for the first time since hearing the news. Blessed victory was mine through Jesus Christ.
The next morning we attended church as usual. It just seemed as though every hymn and Scripture was a direct message for me, assuring me the trauma and wait was almost over. I felt as though I could float right out of there, although of course I didn't; I drove home and was beginning dinner preparations when the doorbell rang. I'm not even sure why I was the one to answer, but I did. And there stood Howard, clutching suitcases in both hands!
To this day, he maintains that I cried out in surprise and then slammed the door right in his face. I remember only that Miss Woolward and the children suddenly were swarming around us, hugging both of us, and crying with joy.
When he and Ralph had landed at Kennedy airport, Howard had been so anxious to get home that he had taken a cab — without first stopping to call home. To make matters worse, they had gotten out of Ghana yesterday morning, landed in London, and grabbed the first plane to New York without thinking of calling home! It's a good thing that a bit of information didn't slip out until Howard had been home for a couple of hours; I had a few words for him! "How could you not call and let us know? . . . didn't you know we were worried sick?" Now if that wasn't just like a man!
He gave me one of those slow grins. "I'm sorry," he said. "After all these years, we're still rehashing that first argument: I know I should have thought to call but I was exhausted. We knew we were safe; I guess we assumed you knew too."
I stared at him in disbelief. If I hadn't been so relieved to have him sitting right in front of me as he said that, I would have kept firing at him. Instead, I leaned my head onto his shoulder and cried with sheer thankfulness.
Chapter Eight || Table of Contents
