Dear Shepherdess: How wonderful it is to have happy memories of one's home. This is a heritage that each child should have, but that is lacking for so many.
We read, "In many a home the wife and mother has no time . . . to be a companion to her husband, no time to keep in touch with the developing minds of her children. There is no time or place for the precious Saviour to be a close, dear companion. Little by little she sinks into a mere household drudge, her strength and time and interest absorbed in the things that perish with the using. Too late she awakes to find herself almost a stranger in her own home. The precious opportunities once hers to influence her dear ones for the higher life, unimproved, have passed away for ever." —The Ministry of Healing, pp. 368, 369.
"The father should do his part toward making home happy. Whatever his cares and business perplexities, they should not be permitted to overshadow his family; he should enter his home with smiles and pleasant words." —Ibid., p. 392.
Thank God for our fathers, and may we keep their faith. With love, Kay.
I was a preacher's daughter, a child of his old age, greatly beloved. There were never any feelings of regret or resentment on my part as to my family's community commitment. We lived in a neighborhood of Methodists, Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Catholics, and Jews. My playmates and friends were from these families, and I was a Seventh-day Adventist, going to church on the seventh day instead of the first.
But then that wasn't so inconvenient, because it made it possible for my friends to go to Sabbath school with me and for me to go to Sunday school with them, which I frequently did. Always we children made the rounds of the Christmas programs no matter which church, so long as it was in our neighborhood.
My father's strong belief in Christian education prompted him to enlist his congregation's investment in a church-administered day school. This too could have separated me from my friends and playmates. But it didn't. Whenever I had a holiday different from theirs I would visit the public school with them, whether grade school or high school, or even college, as when I visited Bible and literature classes with my friends in a Quaker college and in a Holiness college. And sometimes they would visit my school.
Another difference between me and my playmates was evident in choice of foods. Mother had been taught in the Battle Creek-Kellogg tradition, and we served no meat. My diet consisted of oatmeal or cornmeal mush, poached eggs, zwieback, graham bread, potatoes, all sorts of garden vegetables, and Battle Creek health foods—protose, amnosia, and granola. There were also some delicious health chocolates that Father kept on hand especially for his Christian Scientist customers. Along with his pastoral work my father kept a storeroom full of the so-called health foods to sell to all those he could interest in "health re form." There were cases of grape juice, Nuttolene, Granose flakes and biscuits, and, best of all, huge brown jars of malted nuts to sprinkle over our fruit and cereal. Sometimes my friends would be invited to eat with us and try these strange foods.
There were also times when I was invited to eat with them. In the Dutch family there would be white bread torn off a loaf on the table, pickled pigs' feet, boiled potatoes with the jackets, and pigeon. Most of these foods were strange and unappetizing to me. In other homes there would be garden vegetables and pan-fried steaks along with bits of white bread soaked in milk. It was easy for me to turn down the pickled pigs' feet; the white bread seemed doughy, and I really never envied my playmates' food, not even the bread-and-milk mixture.
Clothing decorations were normally denied in our home. No flowers or feathers on our hats, no rings or beads or ear baubles, no shoulder-strap evening gowns or spangled ballroom regalia, no rouge or lipstick. Nevertheless, I had a bartering game going among my friends whereby I could acquire in trade long strings of amber beads, sparkling ruby rings, and precious boxes of rouge. By watching the neighbors' disposal cans we children could frequently rescue beautiful brooches, rings, and bracelets, or sometimes fall heir to some of the big sisters' discards.
By also collecting the neighbors' throw-away clothing we could "dress up" in flower-bedecked hats, high-heeled shoes, and feathers and bows. Thus by playing in fancy clothes, the desire to dress with adornment was dispelled, and in reality jewels and fashion held small appeal. When Mother would call me to family worship in the midst of such play, I would respond, "Wait till I get this junk off me; I can't pray with this on." How wise my parents were not to refuse their child this innocent play. Display in dress to me has never felt comfortable.
Another difference met in growing up in a minister's family was the continual responsibility of "being an example to the flock." Normally this might have been a heavy burden for a child, but my parents were comfortable with their own example and didn't find it necessary to use me as a "front" for themselves. They were tolerant of my follies and not threatened by them. Loving support was available when I was disappointed in not being able to do as other girls did. Some compensatory surprise usually salved my wound. My mother would make me a new dress of pretty material or make one for my dolly.
As I grew older, my friends would invite me to attend the theater with them, and usually I could easily decline. However, an afternoon matinee at the Orpheum was especially enticing when my friend's mother suggested to my parents that I be allowed to accompany them. It sounded so educational and in formative to see the little midgets per form. My wise parents permitted me to choose to go, providing the money for the ticket.
Truly the elegance of the theater was a new world to me, including the vast stage, rich curtains, and fascinating lighting effects during the beautiful dancing of these little people and through a simulated snowstorm. The loveliest scene of all was their dancing under a rainbow in a love scene. It would be untruthful to say that I didn't enjoy it.
When I returned home toward evening, my mother had prepared an appetizing welcome dinner, and for a special she had sewn a lovely, lacy garment. It was this return of a "wanderer" to love that gave me the desire to please my parents' expectations of my behavior. There was no harping and carping about my sins when I strayed from "the straight and narrow way." It wasn't hard for me to respect their position as leaders and examples for the church.
In many of my friends' homes grace was offered at mealtime. At Hansons' it was said in German, at Bond's in good Presbyterian language, at Wrights' in Holiness style. But in none of the homes did I encounter morning and evening worship as was established in our home. In the summer my father would arise early and go to the garden while it was yet cool while my mother prepared a hearty breakfast. Meanwhile I would become involved with my friends in play.
About 9:00 A.M. Mother would call me in to "worship." If we were playing in my yard, I would invite my chum in to the family devotions. I knew this was strange for them, but Father was always so kind and jolly with my friends that I was never self-conscious about it, and neither were they.
Another advantage my family provided was fun. Father was a jolly person who always mixed good times with his business. Sometimes on his missionary trips to the Woodbury County fair grounds to distribute "truth-filled" literature (Present Truth or Leaves of Autumn) in the parked cars (they were open touring cars in those days), he would take me along to help. When we had finished, we stopped by the fence to watch, the horse-trotting races, or we walked among the concessions and watched the strange people on display.
Once when Mother was away for a weekend, he took my Catholic girlfriend and me to the county fair, where we sat in the grandstand and watched the wonderful trapeze artists and the colorful fireworks. All my friends loved my dad, even my boyfriends. He liked to "josh," as he called it, and tell stories about the early days in Illinois when he went coon hunting and encountered panthers.
He paid attention to the little boys in the church, especially those who had no fathers. "You want to go fishin' next week, governor?" he would offer. And so Clifford or Charlie and I and Preacher Papa would walk off toward the river on a summer morning with our poles over our shoulders and our lunches in a pail to spend the day in blessed solitude, interrupted only by pleasantry or tales of his boyhood fishing days. And, of course, the boys liked it when he called them "governor." That really sounded important.
Not only did my preacher father take time for fun but he also took time for caring. When I was sick with fevers, he would sit by my bed all night if need be, keeping cold cloths on my forehead. And as I tossed in escape from the aching pains of the "grippe," as he called it, I was comforted by his presence, the touch of his hand on my head, and the sound of his whispered praying.
Smaller problems than illness would draw his compassion and attract his special attention. Once at a church picnic I lost 50 cents. For me that was a lot of money, and I was feeling a great loss. Soon my girlfriend and I observed my father retracing her steps through the grass along the lake shore, his lips moving in silent prayer. He and God found my 50-cent piece.
Surrounded by an atmosphere of love, abiding faith, honesty, gentleness, industry, and generosity, what was there to rebel against? The bond between my mother and father was strong and true, completely cooperative. There was fun and laughter at home and in church affairs. He did not push nor pull me into religion. There were gentle, sometimes playful tugs. He allowed others to persuade and teach me "the way of the Lord." Then, following the pattern of my mother's visible acceptance of the bonds of church membership, I was baptized in Clear Lake with my friends at the age of 13 by my preacher dad. And I never envied any other girl her parent age. I respect the faith of my father.
Prayers from the parsonage
by Cherry B. Habenicht
The organ prelude sets my thoughts to music in this hushed moment before Ron and Mary's wedding.
What a joy to watch the growing closeness of two young people who have given their lives to You! Each has wisely sought to be the right person and has therefore found the right one for a life long commitment. They will be more effective together than apart.
Ron flashes a smile as the bridal march begins. Radiant, Mary comes to meet her beloved. When they stand together, Ron begins to sing—not a tribute to his bride, but a song of love to Christ: "Nearer, still nearer, close to Thy heart, Draw me, my Saviour, so precious Thou art ..."
Bless this fine young man who has learned that only in submission to You can he lead and love his wife. May he and Mary continue to see You first, studying Your Word, praying together, and listening for Your promptings.
Bless Mary in her position as companion and helpmate. May her example inspire, her influence encourage.
Father, they'll need help in the inevitable adjustments of married life. Keep them communicating their hopes and dreams as well as their doubts and worries. Though they will eventually know each other so well that a look or a touch can take the place of words, may they never stop discovering new facts in their personalities. Help them each to respect the other's individuality, allowing room for differences.
Grant them the satisfaction of successful work, but don't let them neglect taking time for each other. May they be careful stewards of their money without resenting some expenditure for beauty and delight. Even as they rejoice in their love, turn their gaze outward to this world's desperate needs.
"Will you love, honor, and cherish in sickness and in health, in prosperity or adversity ... so long as you both shall live?"
I never hear that question, Father, without holding my breath. Is there re ally enough faith in this time of disillusionment, infidelity, and divorce for a man and a woman to agree, "I will"?
In spite of their present confidence, Ron and Mary cannot keep this solemn covenant on their own. But as they unite their lives in Your unselfish love, they will succeed. Give them, I pray, many years of happiness.
