Life with my Daddy.
Zachariah 4:10 – Do not despise small beginnings…
Daddy was born at home in a “holler” in Roane County WV on St. Patrick’s Day 1915, the 6th of 8 children, into a “Hard Shell Baptist” church family. His mother died from pneumonia at age 33 and his dad married a 17yr old girl named Fanny to help care for his younger children. The family moved in and out of town and school attendance was only occasional, nevertheless Daddy managed to finish 5th grade and learned to read the bible and memorize scripture.
When Daddy was a teenager, he attended tent meetings held by a Christian Baptist Evangelist, A.W. Baldridge, who believed God had called Daddy to preach, ordained him, and had him preaching at the tent meetings. Before long, Daddy got a job in a small town as janitor at Nitro High School and there he met my Methodist mother. She accompanied him to the meetings which she enjoyed and sometimes played her Hawaiian guitar. In the middle of her senior year, Daddy convinced her to marry him. It was 1937. She was 17, and he was 21. Soon, he got a full-time job at American Viscose, and I was born three years later, June 9, 1940. When I was two years old, in September 1942, my mother gave birth to a baby boy that they named Charles Ray. He only lived 19 hours as a result of Rh Factor problem.
Also in the early 1940’s, Evangelist Earl Hissom came to Nitro and held meetings. When not out preaching in the country, Daddy and Mother attended his services and got acquainted with the Hissoms—even had them over for Sunday dinner on several occasions. Eventually, however, it was Daddy’s sister and brother-in-law, Sylvia and Joe Leshon, who encouraged them to attend the Church of God (Anderson) in Nitro that had been started earlier by the Pauley Sisters – Sidney and Delsie. From then on, when Daddy was not out preaching, the family attended the Nitro Church.
During my first five years, my parents were youth directors at the Nitro Church of God. Mother loved to direct the seasonal plays and after practice the characters were treated to a popsicle from Valley Bell. When Pastor Harvey Burchett resigned in 1947 to take a pastoral position in Toledo, Ohio, his daughter Joyce stayed with us in Nitro to finish her senior year of high school. That was fun for me. I had a baby sister, Virginia, born in April 1945, but I now also had a big sister Joyce. When Joyce graduated and went to Toledo, I was very sad. She married soon after high school and later named one of her daughter’s “Yvonne” after me. I felt so loved. Many years later, I took my husband to Toledo to spend some time reminiscing with Joyce.
Off and on, daddy still went to preach out in the country, and our family always went along. Church service was different in the country and my first 10 years were the most impactful years of my life. I was surrounded by godly country people, joyful church services, and lots of testimonies about the goodness of God. I especially enjoyed hearing the shouting as my daddy preached. The words of many of the hymns were sealed in my memory during those years.
As a child, at home the popular Egermeiers Bible Story book was read aloud every night. At age eight, with my child-like faith and daddy by my side, I made the decision to follow Jesus. Three years later at age 11, I confirmed that decision when we gathered with others for baptism at Coal River just outside St. Albans. My little sister, who was six years old at the time, still remembered that the top layer of ice had to be cracked on the Coal River that November day. Among others, my two friends, Gloria and Shirley Dobbs and I were baptized by our Dads, with our arms wrapped around each other.
Times were different in those days and it didn’t bother me that my daddy’s grammar was really, really bad, and obviously it didn’t bother those congregations either. I just knew that people loved to hear him preach out in the country churches where he was often invited to hold “revival meetings” that lasted two or three weeks. The churches were packed and in warm weather, church windows would be open so people could stand outside and look in at the services. There were no microphones, nor were there fans—except those occasionally given by a funeral home. Sometimes we would have to stay till midnight for someone to “pray through.” I remember some of the saints praying long for a man at Alum Creek. At midnight, he finally put his pack of cigarettes on the altar and those who remained joined in the shouting. He was saved! I loved the country churches!
When Daddy wasn’t serving as interim pastor or otherwise preaching on a Sunday, we attended church in town and participated regularly. Daddy had no education beyond fifth grade and no theological training. One time he was interrogated by some Church of God ministers who had been asked to consider ordaining him in the CHOG, but it didn’t happen as there were several negatives. Daddy couldn’t answer questions about the millennial reign or other doctrinal issues. He was a simple man who stuck with the simple things of the bible: “You must be born again! You must follow Jesus to end up in heaven.” The second issue was that my parents did not handle their finances well, which was no doubt their main weakness over the years. Surprisingly, ordination was not important to the country churches, and they continued to invite Daddy to preach.
My sister Virginia Ruth was born April 8, 1945, and my little brother Rich came along on February 5, 1950. Today, my family would be considered “poor,” yet my Daddy still had a job but he had been moved to working shifts. During the evening shifts, Mother would prepare the supper and drive us to the factory where Daddy would come out to the car and eat with us. The precious folks at the Institute CHOG prayed that he would get back to working days, and God answered their prayer.
During my last few years of high school, although Daddy was still called to serve in an interim situation from time to time, he no longer spent as much time in the country churches. He was still daddy at home – cheerful, telling jokes, making us laugh—and my life was full with school classes and clubs.
In May 1958, at the end of my senior year, I went to the altar and Pastor Haynie, whom I dearly loved and who knew I loved Jesus, asked why I was there. I said I really don’t know… I don’t “feel” saved so I guess I want to get saved again. That very wise pastor prayed for the Lord to RESTORE unto me THE JOY of my salvation! Ah! That’s it! No matter the climate or the problem or the family life, Daddy always had “joy!”
That was it! Over time, I had lost my joy– not my salvation! That did it! Never again have I felt “lost” — Nehemiah 8:10 has been my reminder … ”The Joy of the Lord is my strength!” It’s not my joy that’s my strength …. it’s HIS JOY. It was not joy of being in the city or in the country … it was not my daddy – though I loved him dearly and he exuded joy.
After finishing college in three years, then teaching at my high school for three years, I left my home, my daddy, my mother and siblings, my home church as well as my home town to go to graduate school at Michigan State University. Life was often complicated, and there were times I had to search for JOY, but ultimately I could always find JOY. “The old account was settled long ago.”
Upon completing an MA Degree, at age 26, I was invited to teach at our church college in Indiana. In spite of everything being new and me feeling so inferior … the Joy of the Lord rose up in me as a major encourager. It was there that God gave me the perfect husband whom my daddy fully approved, and we went to Indiana University for more degrees.
Right after my daddy retired from his Viscose job, Alzheimer’s began to invade his mind. However, throughout the years that followed, we all knew that he never let go of the “Joy of the Lord.” On a visit, I would start a hymn and he would sing along—knowing every word. He would quote scriptures, one after another (“Holiness without which no one will see God”). His roommate, a retired Army guy, would cuss up a storm, and my dad would call out from his bed: “Praise the Lord!” No bad word came from his mouth. He did not know who I was—he would just say “I think I know you….” He didn’t know my mother, his wife of 58 years. But he knew Jesus … and he was full of JOY! I will always remember a song of my childhood: : “It is joy, unspeakable, and full of glory and the half has never yet been told ….” My daddy had that joy! I shall forever be grateful of those early years when I was introduced to the Joy of the Lord at home and church by my Daddy, then by my pastor.!
“Do not despise small beginnings for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin” Zachariah 4:10. “The joy of the Lord is my strength!” Nehemiah 8:10.
Musings by Yvonne. Selah! 