Madonna of the Sawdust Trail—3

Dear Shepherdess: Miriam Wood continues to bring us a touch of nostalgia for bygone days in this third installment of "Madonna of the Sawdust Trail." Whether or not we personally remember these "beginnings," our anchor must be in the inspired words "such testing of your faith breeds fortitude" (James 1:3, N.E.B.).* I might add that they can bring a sense of humor, too, which will carry us through many frustrating and humiliating experiences. Paul reminds us also that God allows trials to come in order to develop our patience, faith, and strength of character. Wherever He is needed, God is there.

Confucius said, "The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. " So let's meet each day with confidence in God. With love, Kay.

When Berniece Gackenheimer and her husband held a winter series of meetings in Lake City, Iowa, the weather seemed bent on proving it could bring puny mortals to their knees. Every member of the small church seemed to be in bed with influenza at the same time. Ber niece, though not a nurse, rushed from home to home changing bed linen, preparing soup, and praying with the sufferers.

"One awful day I arrived at a home where all seven were sick and found that one of the girls, a diabetic, had died, right there in the bed with her twin sister. There she lay; I'll never forget it." Neither will Berniece forget the sad funeral. The father, though seriously ill himself, was the only family member able to get on his feet to attend his little daughter's funeral.

Death was possibly the only thing allowed to interfere with evangelistic meetings. Certainly broken bones did not qualify, as Joan Holley discovered. Traveling from Texas to Pennsylvania, where she and her husband were to hold meetings, Joan had the misfortune to slip off a curb during a stopover in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and break her ankle. All the way to the hospital she kept assuring herself it couldn't possibly be broken—but it was.

"You'll just have to leave me here in the hospital while you go on to Pennsylvania," she told Roger, blinking back the tears. "The meetings are scheduled and there's no other way."

Reluctantly, Roger agreed. After Joan was able to negotiate her way around on crutches, she flew to Pennsylvania. But the meetings had started on time. That was her consolation.

Emergencies involving storms and tents were so common as to be almost run-of-the-mill, but Nellie Vandeman added a new wrinkle in Muncie, Indiana. When a storm struck, husband George leaped from bed in their little tent, urging Nellie to throw on some clothes and help him with the big tent. In his concern, it probably escaped his mind that Nellie was very, very pregnant. No matter. She didn't give it a moment's thought. There they were out in the dark and wind and pouring rain, both of them at the ripe old age of 21, holding onto the tent ropes for dear life. "It didn't do me a bit of harm," Nellie laughs, if anyone offers belated sympathy. "I was indestructible, but the tent wasn't."

Sometimes emergencies arose with friend husband's apparel—always a problem because the miniscule budget allowed for no clothes; yet a preacher had to look the way a preacher looked then. (Leisure suits, jeans, and sport shirts were yet in the future for men of the cloth!) Evalyn Striplin remembers that at the beginning of their life together her husband, Eldwin, had purchased one dark suit for his wedding and for his subsequent pastoral duties. That was his professional wardrobe—one suit. But his "wardrobe" must needs go to the cleaners now and again suits at that time were always 100 percent wool with total wrinkling capacity—and three-hour cleaning service was unknown. How would they manage?

When the young couple mentioned their dilemma to Eldwin's father, he insisted on giving one of his suits to his beleaguered son. Eldwin's gratitude was profound, but Evalyn's was strongly tinged with misgivings. At that time Eldwin weighed at least forty pounds more than his father, and he was barely able to get into the suit! Evalyn refused to con template the possible disasters as the seams strained to the limit.

She proved to be more of a prophetess than she wanted to be. Though Eldwin's morning duties consisted of cleaning the old theater where the meetings were being held, it was unthinkable that he walk through town in "work clothes." So with a broom and a dustpan, he set about his rather unpreacherly but very necessary duties clad in his form-fitting suit. As he leaned over to place the dustpan in position he heard a terrible ripping and rending. The seam of his trousers had disintegrated from fore to aft! Evalyn chuckles that it was a shaken and crestfallen young man who crept home in anguish that someone might notice his predicament.

Of course, she had to contrive some way to protect his dignity, his modesty, and his professionalism until the next day, when his other suit would be ready at the cleaners. Just how she managed is shrouded in the misty past, but she re members that at meeting time that night she admonished him to lead the music very, very carefully.

The senior evangelist, upon being told of the trial, added insult to injury by bursting into raucous laughter. "All the way from Dan to Beersheba, huh?" was his mirthful query.

Like her sister evangelistic wives, Evalyn Striplin seemed to careen from accident to crisis to emergency. She re members the rain wreaking such havoc on the ancient piano in one series of meetings that each evening she despaired of actually playing the monster. In spite of her husband's regular attentions with pliers and a screwdriver, the pitch was never better, she says, than a "near miss." An accomplished pianist, she found it disconcerting to come down on a note that simply stayed down for the remainder of the song!

In this same effort the dampness combined with the winter fog and the saw dust on the floor to produce an allergy that finally swelled one eye completely shut and reduced the other to a small slit. But she continued as pianist night after night.

Evangelistic crises had their lighter side, as well. Evalyn remembers a small Arizona town where a few women and one solitary male made up the church membership. When the Striplins came to conduct an effort, they found no church building (the little group met above the fire station). They couldn't pitch a tent; the city fathers informed them that wind and dust storms would blow it down. What to do? The logical conclusion was to erect a building that could later be finished into a church. The conference president and treasurer agreed and arrived at a budget.

After long days and weeks in which Evalyn served as a carpenter's helper, the building was in sufficient shape that Sabbath services could be held. The evangelistic meetings would soon follow. In describing the benches, Evalyn says, "The seats were made of boards held together with metal seat brackets. These worked very well if long-enough boards were used to stabilize the bench; shorter boards had a tendency to per form much as a child's teeter-totter." This peculiar characteristic soon precipitated a crisis.

A bench sat at the front that first Sabbath for the use of the Sabbath school superintendent and secretary. By an in credible coincidence, the superintendent—Mrs. Stout—had proportions amply justifying her name! In contrast, the secretary was a dour, string-beanthin woman who rarely, if ever, smiled, explaining that "the Lord has commanded us to sigh and cry for the abominations."

The two women took their places, sit ting down simultaneously. Evalyn was at the piano; Eldwin was leading the music. When he announced the opening song, both women stood up together and sang. He offered prayer, and both sat down. All was well, but fate was crouching in the wings. Mrs. Stout stood to make her remarks. Without her solid presence, that end of the bench went flying into the air, and the grim, hapless secretary was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor! Her glare of outrage was so formidable that no one dared offer help. Only her dignity was injured, but this precious commodity had received a near-fatal blow. She struggled to her feet, straightened her dress (which unfortunately was somewhat shorter than her slip), tugged at her hair, and remarked loudly through clenched teeth, breaking each syllable apart as though it were a separate word, ' 'I—am—mor—ti—fied!"

Try as she would after the services, Evelyn was unable to mollify the lady, who marched away with her back straight as a ramrod and her head high as it would go. In spite of the humor of the situation, Evalyn's heart went out to her, since she obviously suffered deeply.

(To be continued.)

Prayers from the parsonage

by Cherry B. Habenicht

Father, I'm so weary of company that I'd gladly move to Antarctica! I feel as if I'm running a restaurant and motel with out a slack season.

Sometimes I ride high on a wave of people coming and going. It doesn't bother me to lay aside my work and mix juice for drop-in visitors. I quickly calculate how to stretch dinner and invite folks to stay. Without resentment I dig out extra blankets and towels for unexpected overnight guests.

But other times I'm depressed by the inconvenience and drudgery that go with entertaining. I don't want to plan another menu or clean another table. I've washed enough sheets, pillowcases, and dishes. Rather than guiding out-of-town visitors to local attractions, I'd like to stay home pursuing my own projects.

I mutter to myself about people's thoughtlessness, "Why couldn't they call ahead? Why don't they say how long they'll be staying? Why can't they realize it's almost suppertime?"

Lord, these aren't the poor and home less in need of a warm meal and comfortable bed. Nor are they strangers who just might be (how exciting!) angels in disguise. They are acquaintances, col leagues, friends.

"Be hospitable to one another without complaining" (1 Peter 4:9, N.E.B.).*

All right, Lord, but for my own sanity I need to maintain a schedule, to simplify routines, and to organize jobs so every one can help.

Help me to relax and enjoy my guests while making them feel genuinely welcome. May invitations born of obligation lead us to new friendships. Let gatherings with friends bring us closer to each other.

"The glory of the house is hospitality" an inscription reminds me. Father, our door is open. I pray that those who enter will find love, joy, and blessing.