Hope for Troubled Times

While we kept Howard's headquarters in New York and lived with Miss Woolward, we still kept contact with our families back in Oberlin. My brother Alden and his wife lived near the college, and Howard's parents continued to live in their home one block away.

   On his way home from a series of California meetings, Howard stopped off in Oberlin to see our families. To his great shock, he discovered that his dad was in the hospital having a battery of tests and his mother was under stress at home alone. In her attempt to keep us from worrying, her letters had discussed only news of relatives and childhood friends. But when Howard witnessed the sudden diminishing strength of his parents, he knew we were needed in Oberlin.

   At this point we were free to choose our home base — Howard was on the road most of the time — so we began to make our plans to move back to Ohio. But before we left New York, Howard held one more major crusade scheduled in the Big Apple. No, it wasn't in Madison Square Garden. It was at the Apollo Theater in Harlem — the hall that every black musician dreamed to be booked in. The first night of Howard's crusade there, I watched him — sitting on the platform singing the gospel songs with all his heart. He even played his sax one night. With a smile I realized God had given Howard everything

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he had ever wanted — including "playing the Apollo" — but on His perfect terms.

   Not only did Howard have the chance to play the Apollo, but our girls, then seventeen, sixteen, and fourteen, performed there as well. When they sang at the Apollo, they already had made two albums. Many of our friends from the early days at Bethany Church and Soldiers for Christ were involved in those meetings too. Everything we thought the Lord would take away when we chose His way had been returned to us ten times over.

   After that successful crusade, we said tearful good-byes to dear Doris Woolward and all of our New York friends and moved back into Howard's childhood home.

   Howard's folks were delighted to have us there. There were adjustments to be made of course, blending two families into one, but those days were darkened only by one cloud: the medical tests had discovered that Dad Jones had leukemia. The doctors tried to sound encouraging, but our best hope, they said, was for quality time.

   And for a while after Dad Jones was released from the hospital, we had exactly that — especially as David and his grandfather immediately became fast friends. David was in the eighth grade just down the street and had managed to make the football team. That fall, Dad Jones didn't miss one home game. On Friday afternoons, we'd load him and the most comfortable lawn chair into the car and head for the school. He had lost the physical strength for which he was well known, but it would be awhile before he lost that powerful voice. There, he'd sit all bundled up but yelling for the team to throw the ball to David. When David made a good play, Dad Jones would turn to whomever was next to him and say in typical proud-grandpa style, "That's my grandson!"

   Unfortunately, that powerful voice grew weaker in the coming months until it was stilled forever. As we stood by his grave, years of memories flooded over us, but we were thankful that we knew he was with the Lord; our good-byes were only temporary. Parents can leave no greater heritage to their children than peace about their souls.

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*     *     *

   While we had been privately battling against Dad Jones's leukemia, the public battles for civil rights continued to rage.

   Each morning paper and evening newscast presented an account of another clash. Howard and I and many of our friends continued to wrestle with our long-standing question: What part should Christians take in demonstrations? All of us had suffered repeatedly because of some white's idea that black skin was equated with inferiority. The public's conscience had been awakened by peaceful groups that had quietly remained seated while irate restaurant owners poured catsup over their heads. But when it was red blood that shone against black skin, Americans were forced to choose sides.

   One young minister from the South, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., had emerged as leader of the nonviolent resistance. It was exciting that God was using black ministers along with many committed whites to provide leadership for improvements for our people.

   Unfortunately, in the midst of the gains won, a radical group arose for which change could not come quickly enough. Their cries demanding the utter and violent destruction of the country sent chills along my spine. Some even tried to support their violent views with Scripture; they hung the label of "Uncle Tom" on anyone who didn't follow their militant paths. Something as simple as one's hairdo was judged. Those blacks who didn't wear the suddenly popular "Afros" were suspect.

   An incident comes to mind that took place during the civil rights turmoil. I was with Howard in Chicago one weekend while he was being interviewed on television concerning our mission to Africa and his views on the race situation in the States. After leaving the television station we walked along Michigan Avenue. A couple approached us, and the man blurted out in an angry tone, "Well, look what we have here — members of the black bourgeoisie!" This statement, along with some very uncomplimentary (unprintable) adjectives, was meant to provoke

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us into a verbal or physical confrontation. But we simply continued walking toward our hotel.

   To my great sadness, I realized that the very cause that should have been uniting us actually was dividing our race. Where was this going to end? Would only the second coming of Jesus bring peace among the races? Howard and I were very much aware of our responsibility to combat the cries of "burn, baby, burn." As part of that responsibility, we increased family instruction.

   Since the children had been tiny, we had concentrated upon developing their self-worth, motivation, and moral and spiritual values. Our dinner conversations with David and Lisa and even our letters back to the girls at school often centered on the outstanding history and accomplishments of black Americans. Determined to uncover for our children the history of our race that had been hidden so long by white historians, we made good use of Howard's large personal library. We learned, for instance, about Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, a black surgeon who performed the first successful heart operation in 1891, and about Dr. Charles R. Drew, the first director of the American Red Cross blood bank. We also found out that another black, inventor Benjamin Bannaker, had drawn the plans for the city of Washington, D.C. To convince the children that learning and reading about their heritage could be both enlightening and enjoyable, we made sure they were familiar with notable black authors such as Carter G. Woodson, a respected historian, and Gwendolyn Brooks, a Chicago poet and novelist who became the first black woman to win the Pulitzer prize for poetry. To keep abreast of current affairs and the accomplishments of black contemporaries, we read dozens of periodicals and daily newspapers.

   In our study of American history, we also taught our children about whites — both in the early abolitionist movement and in the civil rights struggle — who stood for what was right. Especially when we moved back to Ohio, our "lessons" included local history. Oberlin had been a major underground railroad station, feeding escaped slaves into Canada. A number of Oberlin's godly people also had been involved in the

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Wellington Incident, now recorded in history books; when a runaway slave was imprisoned in the nearby town of Wellington (to await return to his master), angry local evangelicals marched eight or nine miles to free him.

   Oberlin College, the first college formally committed to recruiting blacks, had been in operation a number of years when the evangelist Charles Finney became its second president — and the pastor of the nearby church. Finney's sermons rang with the sound of freedom — both spiritual and physical.

   From our base in Oberlin, I was frequently invited to speak before groups of black young people. There too I'd remind them of our heritage, but I'd also share my personal faith in the power of Jesus Christ, the One who is able to meet the needs of the whole person. Invariably such a comment would cause someone to challenge me.

   "How can you say that when the white man controls everything? If you get on a bus, he's the owner. If you take a plane, it's his. The name of the game is the dollar bill and the white man owns those too. How does Jesus fit into all of that? This religion stuff is nothing but the white man's way of keeping us as slaves!"

   Then another young person would shout, "How can you come and tell us we should follow Jesus? What has it done for us all these years? You talk about man's heart — look at Lincoln's heart. Did he free us because of his great love? No! He did it to save the Union. Nothing more!"

   After each challenge I'd send up an arrow prayer and then begin, "Yes, but the main thing is that Lincoln did it. And who was the moving force behind him? God gave our forefathers, even in their slavery, a desire for freedom and a desire to know Him. The Negro spirituals testify of their faith in Jesus and in the Bible. And since that time, we have come a long way by the help of the Lord."

   They'd scoff, but I'd continue. "Yes! We've continued to have terrible oppression, even from some whites who profess to be Christians, but we must not give up. God is our only hope! For too long we have looked only to the white people or to the dollar bill to get us out of our dilemma. No wonder we have

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become discouraged and disillusioned. Maybe it's time we stopped blaming 'the white man' for everything and started looking at our God-given abilities and brains."

   Sometimes I'd be shouted down. But often my daring to stand there would force them to listen as I continued. "Take an interest in what's going on around you! Ask God to help you. Get involved in His work. Remember, only Jesus Christ can change America and the world. He does it by first changing the hearts of people who forsake their sins and then receive Him as the one and only Savior. Let this be the day you take Jesus for yourselves, and you'll never regret it. What He's done for me and my family, He'll do for you."

   Some meetings left me emotionally drained. I wondered if I'd made any headway at all. But all I could do was commit each session to the Lord and ask Him to work in the hearts of our youth.

   As the demonstrations and sit-ins across the country continued, I wondered how our own children would respond. I needn't have worried.

   One mid-morning as I was cleaning the kitchen cabinets, I looked out the window just as David came up the walk. What on earth is he doing home this time of day? I wondered, and I hurried to the door to meet him.

   "David, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

   He nodded. "Yeah, I'm sick. Sick of kids telling me I've got to take part in their sit-ins. They're over there right now trying to lock themselves in the biology room."

   "A sit-in? Whatever for?"

   David shrugged. "I don't think they know either. They just said they're tired of unfair treatment. Well, so am I, but our education is at stake. I'm tired of not being able to go to class. There has to be a better way to deal with this race problem."

   Immediately, I was on the phone calling other parents. Many of their children were home too, and all with the same complaint: not being able to attend classes. It was time for the parents to band together, and we did exactly that, working with the school administration that suspended the ringleaders. All of us still felt discrimination at times, but we knew disruption of classes

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wasn't going to bring about the necessary changes. The place to begin was with the unjust laws. Of course morality can't be legislated, but changes in laws do call attention to the need for racial equality and new awareness can lead to other changes within our society.

   Unfortunately, the school issue wasn't the only problem. A few of our black friends questioned the motivation of any black, including Howard, who would work in a group with whites. "We should have our own group and let whitey have his" is one of the nicer ways they stated it.

   That attitude was frustrating for us since we knew firsthand that it is possible for blacks and whites to work together by old prejudices. But to work only with our own race would be to work against the gains we had won to earn equal rights under the law.

   One special friend at that time was Ruth Graham, Billy Graham's wife, whose genuine love for others helped me not to stereotype whites. I remember once when Howard and I were invited to a reception in New York, where a Graham crusade was being held. We were used to being the only black couple in a roomful of people, but I never got used to the snubbing we sometimes experienced in such situations. At this particular gathering, Howard and I were seated with ten other guests. We tried to be cordial, asking others about their work and families, but the answers were short, albeit polite. No one spoke to us first. No one even asked how our names had gotten onto such an impressive invitation list. I kept my smile intact, but inwardly I was seething. And those people were supposed to be Christians.

   After dinner, everyone milled around for a while. Howard finally was involved in a conversation with another man, so I glanced around hoping to find someone alone to chat with. Everyone was standing in groups of twos and threes, so I busied myself looking at a Boston fern, trying not to appear alone and out-of-place, even though that was exactly how I felt. Several feet away, Dr. and Mrs. Graham were talking with several other couples, when suddenly Mrs. Graham excused herself

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from the group and came over to talk to me! I sensed her warmth and love and was delighted by her graciousness.

   Not only did her kindness mean a lot to me personally, but it also helped reinforce the idea that the love of Christ could bring two people from different races together as friends and keep that friendship intact for many years. We still exchange chatty notes from time to time.

   If it hadn't been for people like Ruth Graham, I might have been more inclined to align myself with our militant black friends, especially after that terrible day in 1968 when the evening television reported that Dr. Martin Luther King had been assassinated. I was stunned, even though I had feared he would die for his stand against injustice.

   During the days after his death, I had to fight anger as I heard many whites — even evangelical Christians — murmur satisfaction about another "commie" being "taken care of ." How could they call him a "communist" because he dared to claim those rights granted in our Constitution? How could they, the same ones who uphold the American Revolution and the Statue of Liberty, say he had no right to stand up for his people?

   I knew even then that other strong and capable leaders would emerge. But I also knew I would forever miss Dr. King. He had many qualities so desperately needed in our country.

   Shortly after Dr. King's death, our family took the brunt of the anger and frustration that was running so high. By 1968 our daughters were attending Nyack College in New York State, and Cheryl and Gail had a black history class together. Their black professor, they told us later, often ranted about social issues in an attempt to get the class revved up. On this particular day, he insisted they all integrate one of the nearby white churches.

   Gail didn't listen long before she stood up. "I can understand marches, but when it comes to the church of Jesus Christ, I can't be part of a sit-in. If that church doesn't welcome blacks, we should prayerfully consider other ways to bring about a change in the congregation. Forcing our way into a church isn't going to promote — "

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   Before she could finish the sentence, the girl behind her doubled up her fist and knocked Gail to the floor!

   Later when Cheryl and Phyllis called to tell us what had happened, we were horrified.

   "Gail's okay now, but it's been awful," Cheryl reported. "This teacher has the students all upset."

   Immediately Phyllis cut in. "We can't stay here," she said. "We all want to come home."

   Howard happened to be home then and he quickly informed them they were to stay for the rest of the semester. But he also promised to call the college president immediately. The attacker was expelled, but the turmoil . . . was it ever going to end? It was a difficult decade for all of us.

*     *     *

   Later that spring, Jessie Reeder, a teacher from Murray Ridge Center, a nearby school for mentally challenged children, called. "Wanda," she said, "we desperately need teachers. Could you consider . . ." She had asked me the same question the year before, but I had declined because of Dad Jones's poor health.

   Without that reason, I now stammered, "But my certificate is in Christian education. I don't have the skills to teach mentally challenged children."

   "Wanda, you have raised five children. You have worked on the mission field with people of a different culture. You have far more skills than many people who look good on paper. Just come talk to our director and see what the children are doing."

   Within a few days I sat across from the director and answered her questions honestly, even adding that my college diploma hadn't been put to any official use and that the most experience I'd had with children was with my own. Her probing questions established that I had helped with the nursery school in Liberia and assisted in literacy classes. Still, I wasn't confident that I was qualified to teach at Murray Ridge.

   After hearing that confession, she folded her hands on top of her desk and leaned forward. "We need people who care about these children, teachers who will give them the love they

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desperately need. I'm convinced you're the type of person who can help us. The state allows us to hire teachers under a special certification. Let us decide whether or not you're qualified. Now will you join our staff?"

   "I'll pray about it," I promised and then I left the office — fully intending to turn down her offer. As I started the car and turned onto the avenue, I started talking to the Lord about it. "Lord, thank You for her trust in my ability, but of course I can't accept."

   The Lord was right at my elbow, and in my heart I felt His comment. "You can love them, Wanda."

   "Love? Well of course I can, Lord. But they need special teachers, people who are trained to teach the mentally challenged. I can't be that person."

   "They also need someone to love them. Won't you love them for Me?"

   I had lost the argument. "All right. But if You want me in this program, You'll have to give me the daily strength to do it."

   Right then Philippians 4:13 came to mind: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

   That afternoon I hauled out all of my elementary teacher training notes from college and reread them. Of course, they were outdated. the children I would be teaching were eleven and twelve years old — with mental ages of four and five. How on earth was I going to help these little ones with their vast special needs?

   During the next few weeks, I spent hours at the library, reading everything available on teaching mentally retarded children. I also spent a great deal of time in prayer, asking the Lord to show me specific activities I could use. I was suddenly especially grateful that I had an eight-year-old. It hadn't been that long ago since I had shared Lisa's four-year-old world. I began to make lists of everything I could remember doing with all five of our children. And I asked Howard to help in my "game." Gradually, a peace settled over me; with God's help this overwhelming assignment was possible. Soon I was excited about the challenge of a new ministry.

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   When school opened in September I was at Murray Ridge. After a teacher's orientation meeting (I tried to get every word into my notebook), I went to my room to finish putting up the bright bulletin boards — and to await the arrival of my students. Working with my hands kept me from nervously clutching them, and the activity also kept me from dwelling upon the suspicions of some of the other teachers, dubious about my being hired under a special certificate. I couldn't blame them, though I would have appreciated a smile or a "hang in there!"

   I had just finished writing "Mrs. Jones" on the board and had stepped back to check the slant, when the tall, gruff teacher from across the hall walked in. "Now, why did you write your name on the board?" she asked. "The children can't read it!"

   I bristled and countered, "Someday they'll be able to."

   Her laughter startled me. She turned to leave, and when she was out of sight, I could hear her telling another teacher what I'd done. I sighed. And this was only the first day?

   Just then the school bus pulled up in front, so I picked up my list of students and stepped into the hallway to meet the children. In Oberlin, special classes were housed in educational wings of various church buildings. Being assigned to the second floor of an old building, I worried about any students who would be on crutches.

   From my position near the banister, I watched the children come through the door, some running, some crying, some wobbling along with braces and crutches. Instantly a trail of stray hats and papers and lunch boxes spread around them. I gasped at the sights and sounds before me. "Oh, dear Lord, look at all of these children. What am I going to do?"

   As the words to the song "Jesus Loves the Little Children" flooded my mind, I smiled and stepped forward to greet the bewildered boy who was being directed my way by a veteran teacher.

   One by one, the children came down the hall, hung their jackets up on the hooks outside the door, and then timidly stepped into the room. On the tables, I'd placed stacks of old magazines and simple toys to keep them occupied until all had arrived. At last, all but one name was checked off. I stepped

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back into the hall, to see if someone was lagging behind. Sure enough, there was one girl leaning against a rack of jackets and sobbing. I hurried to her and put my arms around her shoulders.

  "Honey, what's the matter?"

   She shook her head, so I tried again. "What's your name?"

   Stammering, she managed to say, "Lillian." Ah, she was the missing child from my list.

   "Well, Lillian Honey, I'm your teacher, Mrs. Jones."

   Her sobs grew louder. "I don't want you. I want my other teacher, Mrs. Spurlock."

   At that moment, I wanted her other teacher too. Gradually, though, I coaxed her into the room and seated her near a girl who had been in her last year's class. It was time to begin.

   The first thing I did was point to my name on the board and ask them to repeat it after me. Twelve little voices chirped "Mrs. Jones" in unison. Now what? I wondered.

   "Well, how many of you like to sing?" I asked.

   All of their hands shot up, so we began with songs they could clap their hands to — including "Jesus Loves Me." (This was before harassment by groups that didn't want religion in the schools.)

   The next step was to see where they were academically. I passed out crayons and gave each child a piece of paper on which I'd written his or her name. "Your name is at the top of the paper." I said "Now I'd like you to write your own name." As they labored to copy the letters, I walked around the room, touching each child on the head or the shoulder and offering encouragement. But how my heart hurt as I watched preteens struggling over the simple shapes normal children mastered at half their age. Some of those precious lives entrusted to me had Down's syndrome, so their finger dexterity was limited. I praised all of them for trying so hard.

   By the end of the school day, I was exhausted. Yet I had a sense of how capable the class was. I also knew there was hope.

   Day by day, bit by bit, I sandwiched printing of names between songtime and playtime. I turned everything, including counting to ten, into a game. And every night at dinner, I gave

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my family a detailed summary of the day's activities. Some of my friends said I wouldn't last a month if I kept trying so hard; others gave me two months. My dear mother-in-law, bless her heart, gave me six months. But I had asked the Lord for the strength and creativity to make a difference in the lives of those children, so I was determined to make it through the year. As it turned out, He gave me eleven and one-half good years with those special little ones. While I was teaching the children, they were teaching me — patience and compassion, among other things. Often they shared their hurts of being called names. I'd hug them and soothe their wounds, but bristled at the thought of anyone hurting them. If we love the Lord and want to keep His commandments, we are going to love those around us — no matter what their skin color or mental capacities.

   During the first year, I faced only one painful situation that seemed to have racial overtones. Several weeks into the school year, the school held an open house, where parents could meet teachers and ask questions about their child's progress. We met in a large assembly room for introductions and then each teacher led the parents of her students to her own classroom. As my name was called and I stood, I noticed one couple quickly elbowing each other. Apparently, they hadn't heard the school now had another black teacher. Well, maybe I can win them over tonight, I thought.

  But I didn't get that chance. When all of the parents filed out of the room behind us teachers, that couple remained seated. The next Monday one of my students was pulled out of the school. Of course, the social worker checked into the situation; with downcast eyes she reported only that the parents thought another school would be better suited for their child's needs. I was too sad to be angry. Instead I was all the more determined to be a good teacher to the children still entrusted to me.

   Twenty years ago, there were several philosophies — depending upon which educational journal one read — concerning the teaching of basic reading to mentally challenged children. Some thought a teacher shouldn't even try. My philosophy was

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easily explained: How do we know they can't learn until we try to teach them?

   The students worked at recognizing and printing their names for several weeks until most of them could pick out their own names from a list. One morning, Lillian walked over to the board and printed a lopsided J.

   "That starts your name, huh, Mrs. Jones? Just like that." She pointed to my printed name, which was a permanent part of the board.

   I hugged her. "It surely does, Lillian, Honey."

   An achievement like that was too good to keep to myself. Without thinking of the response we'd get, I grabbed Lillian's hand and hurried to "brag" to the teacher across the hall.

   "Lillian just read my name on the board!" I exclaimed, hoping for an affirmation that would encourage Lillian.

   The teacher barely looked over her glasses. "You could have put a squiggle line up there and called it 'Mrs. Jones' every day for a month and gotten the same effect."

   I opened my mouth to argue but glanced down at Lillian. She was staring at the woman and the most incredible look of hurt spread across her face. Instead of speaking, I turned the child toward the door.

   "Lillian, I'm proud of you. Let's go see what other letters we can find."

   The teacher's remark lingered in my mind — longer than in Lillian's. Some of these children could learn simple concepts, and I was determined not to let some grump stand in their way.

   I decided to concentrate on stop and go and a few other simple words that could be useful to them. Of course, some of the students couldn't comprehend those concepts, so I let them color the pages. Some of the others, such as Lillian, had enough natural ability and perseverance to grasp the lessons, and gradually they progressed from those single words to simple sentences such as "I go to the store." I'd print each word on a big card, and have a picture of a girl standing in front of a store. As I'd pick up the word "I," I'd point to myself and say "I." Then I'd have the children repeat it. To the children it was

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another game, but some of them soon began to understand the correlation.

   During this time, I visited the homes of each of my students to establish a greater unity between home and school. To my surprise, many parents were reluctant to talk in depth about their child. To ask, "How's he doing?" at an open house didn't threaten them, but to have the teacher there in the living room was another matter.

   Some of them were terribly ashamed of having produced a mentally challenged child. Some even felt as though God was punishing them for past sins. Today, families are more open about having such children, thanks to the openness of people such as Pearl Buck, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Hubert Humphrey, and the Kennedy family. Because of that change in attitude, opportunities for these children have sprung up, including the Special Olympics.

   But in those early years, I discovered parents were hesitant about the child learning even to print his or her name. The barrier was high, as if the parents were saying, "My child was born this way. My child isn't going to grow mentally so don't even try!" It was just another example of one segment of society rejecting another segment, saying, "You're not as good as we are. You shouldn't have the same opportunities to learn that we do."

   But there were others, such as Lillian's parents, who were delighted with what was happening in their child's life. The day I visited their house, Lillian's father came home from work early just to be there.

   "Mrs. Jones," he said, "when Lillian was born, the doctors told us she'd never be able to do anything. They even suggested we have her institutionalized, but we were determined that she would have as normal a life as possible. We even bought her a little chalkboard to draw on. See it?"

   He gestured toward the dining room. When I nodded, he continued. "Well, that's where she started doing her school work this year. I didn't pay too much attention to what she was doing because she always liked drawing on it, but one day I

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came home and discovered she had printed, 'My name is Lillian. I can walk. I can run.' "

   He stopped for a moment, blinking back tears. "Mrs. Jones, thank you. I never thought she'd be able to do that."

   Somehow I managed to keep from bursting into tears.

   "Sir, I didn't know she could do that either, but we had to try. Thank you for telling me. I thank the Lord for what she has accomplished."

   I don't remember walking down the steps as I left their home; surely I floated.

*     *     *

   That first year at Murray Ridge, we used the Sunday school facilities of the local churches. While we appreciated their generosity, we really needed a building of our own. When the county and voters approved such a project, we eagerly watched that building go up.

   In 1969, just before the building was completed, the superintendent of the school asked if I thought Dr. Graham would come to dedicate the new school. I knew his normal schedule didn't include such activities, but I promised to ask him at the next team meeting, just a few weeks away.

   At the meeting, I wondered how I would bring up such a subject. I needn't have worried because Dr. Graham's first question to me concerned my own activities since we'd come back from Liberia.

   With joy, I told him about my teaching. Then I plunged into my request. "My superintendent asked if you ever dedicate schools. Our new one is going to be finished at the same time Howard and I are having our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party; we're hoping you can join us for both celebrations."

   He smiled. "If the Lord wills, I'll come for your anniversary party and, if it's on the same day, I'll speak at the dedication."

   And so Murray Ridge managed to get Billy Graham as their speaker. It rained heavily that day, but still the school auditorium was packed. Just before the program, Dr. Graham

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toured the building, including my room. The children didn't know who the tall blond man was, but they responded to his kindness as he stopped beside the desks to watch their activities.

   A few minutes later, as he spoke to the crowd gathered in the auditorium, he told of his friendship with Howard and me, even explaining that my teaching at the school was the reason he had consented to speak. Then he started the heart of his message.

   "Unfortunately, people look down on the mentally challenged, not realizing that we're all challenged when it comes to spiritual things. That's why Jesus came — to help us find our way to the Father."

   His talk that day would have been enough to make my heart burst with thankfulness at the Lord's blessings upon our lives, but the party that evening doubled our joy. Together with our five children, Billy Graham, and 350 of our friends, Howard and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary at the Oberlin Inn.

   Our smiles at each other that night held many wonderful memories, including the agreement that we had chosen well when we chose to go God's way instead of our own.

Chapter Nine  ||  Table of Contents