It was December in 1940.,  Usually we didn’t have much snow in Ohio that early but Mom and Dad said Santa Claus would be coming to the square in downtown Newark on Saturday.,  I was a little puzzled because his reindeer and sleigh, it seemed, would have to make a landing on the bare courthouse lawn.,  But, there were a couple of days to go so maybe it would snow in time for the sleigh runners to use.

The days passed slowly as I got half-way through my,  Dick and Jane reader at Conrad School and the teacher said tomorrow would be the last day of school until Christmas. She said we would have our Christmas program the last thing in the PTA room in the afternoon.

Mom came to my program and brought Bill and Ann too.,  I can’t remember much about it now but the Rhythm Band played for the program.,  The PTA room was packed with parents and little kids.,  When it came time for the Rhythm Band to play the teacher had us all come up front and sit in the red wooden chairs.,  The sticks sat in the front row with the other kids around with their things to play.,  The tambourines stood up to play because they had to hit the side of their tambourines every once in a while to make a sharp sound.,  One pretty girl stood up with her triangle that had a metal stick to it for ringing at the right time.,  There were more shakers, the ones who sat by us, along with the sticks, than anyone else. My red sticks were okay but they just clicked.

I always wondered if the teacher would ever ask me to play the triangle or the tambourines, to make a pretty sound,,  but she never did. We played a song or two and everyone clapped.

Mom always talked to the teacher when she went to PTA meetings and programs like this.,  She didn’t say much so I thought maybe I was doing all right in school and maybe I would pass and be in second grade next year.,  I liked to read and use the big red pencil Mom got at Emersons Store.,  They cost a lot, five cents I think, but the lead was big and you could use both ends because they didn’t have an eraser. Finally the program was over and we all went home for our Christmas time off.

I dont remember how many days before Christmas it was but I think we all went in the old Hudson downtown the next day to see Santa.,  His red suit and snow-white beard made me scared but I knew I didn’t have to sit on his lap because he was in a little house.,  It was about as big as Grandpa and Grandma Pierponts outside toilet except it had windows on the sides and the front was open with a shelf and there sat Santa!,  I dont remember what I asked for that year either but he gave me some candy and Bill and Ann got some when they saw him too.,  Then we walked around the square and places and then got some food at Doniffs and went home.

Dad wasnt around at night because he worked at Owens-Corning late at night and didn’t come home until almost time for me to get up.,  Mom and Dad kept saying “Santas coming, youd better be good.”,  I knew from before if you werent good you might not get anything for Christmas so I tried not to hit Bill or Ann too much.

Our Christmas tree had short green needles and some pretty balls on it with silver tinsel and Mom had put a sheet around the bottom. That was where the presents would be when we got up on Christmas morning.,  We didn’t have a very big chimney for Santa but I thought maybe he could sneak in the front door if he didn’t make too much noise on the front porch.

Since I was six, I knew where to turn the radio knob to listen to Santa read letters from other little kids.,  He was on in the afternoon before supper and I think the program came from Columbus which I knew was a long way off, maybe over thirty miles.,  But I didn’t think they had any trouble over there tuning in to the North Pole because they did it every year. Santa had a friendly big voice and his laugh made me feel good even though I knew I had never mailed a letter to him.,  Other kids did and he promised them nice things so I knew he would have something for me too.

Finally the night before Christmas came.,  Mom never set anything out for Santa like other moms were supposed to do.,  But, I knew the letters of other kids had said he would be getting hot cocoa and cookies and sandwiches and things, so he probably wouldnt be hungry.

Dad was getting ready for work before we went to bed and I knew he remembered it was Christmas because of the tree and how excited us kids were.,  There was just a little snow on the ground now and it was pretty cold outside but the stove in the living room put out nice heat that reached my room and Bills.,  Anns little bed was in Mom and Dads room that was at the front of the house and the heat went through that door to her bed too, I suppose.

We never prayed before bed that I remember but we were excited this night because Santa was coming so we went right to bed.,  In later years I got to stay up longer than Bill and Ann because I was the oldest, but I think Mom put us to bed early so she and Dad could listen to the music on the radio sometimes before he went to work.

Sometimes Mom would have me stay up a little bit though, because we made Dads cigarettes on the little machine.,  I would sort out the little papers and have one ready to put in the little canvas swing between the rods on the machine.,  Then Mom would pour some of the tobacco from the Bugler bag into the swing where the paper was.,  I turned the crank and out came a cigarette.,  We were pretty busy sometimes because Dad took a whole Bugler package with them in it to work every night.

But, this was Christmas so we went right to bed.,  Bills bed was across from mine and had wooden sides like mine with a feather tick too.,  Our room had a doorway to the left of my bed with Bills bed on the other side.,  At the foot of my bed was the doorway to the living room.,  I was pretty excited that night but I finally got off to sleep anyway.

I usually thought of lots of things to do during the daytime.,  Mom got really mad at me sometimes because I would start fires.,  I think I must have started most of them when dad was away hunting or working during the day for someone to get extra money.,  One day I put a bunch of leaves in Dads trailer and set them on fire.,  One cold morning I put the bathroom comb in between the little slits of the gas stove Dad had put in the bathroom.,  I jerked it out when it caught fire and threw it down on the floor.,  Mom ran in and stomped the fire out. She was upset.

The fire I started in the outside basement window ledge must have been the worst one though.,  I packed the hole full of leaves and set them on fire.,  I think when the neighbor lady saw the flames licking up the side of the house that she called Mom on the telephone because she raced out and threw water on the fire.,  I dont remember if I got a licking for it but I probably did.

But, now it was Christmas Eve and I know I was really excited this year.,  I tried to think of waking up early and catching Santa at work putting things under the tree.,  It must have been about 12:30 that night that I did wake up.,  I even startled myself thinking, “Im awake and its not even Christmas yet.,  Maybe I can catch Santa!”

I got out of bed, scared, and tip-toed around the corner to see the tree.,  I was really surprised: under the tree were several things I had told Mom that I wanted Santa to bring me.,  Some other things were there too.,  There was no bike or sled like some of the kids asked for but I saw two wind-up little tractors that Bill and I liked.,  There was a doll there too, for Ann and some other things and a red wagon, I think.

I stood there in my night shirt that went down a little below my knees.,  For a while I looked at the tree with the presents.,  Then, I began to feel like I was doing something wrong.,  I thought, “I can’t help it if I woke up.,  At least I didn’t catch Santa.,  I better tell Mom, Im sorry I got up.”,  I turned around and went into Mom and Dads room.,  There was Ann, by the wall,,  asleep in her little bed.,  But, Mom and Dads bed was empty.,  I couldn’t believe it.,  Mom was still up.,  What if Santa had seen her?,  But where was she?

The basement didn’t have any lights and the floor was dirt.,  I knew she couldn’t be there.,  I ran to the back door and pushed it open.,  I looked around it down the long back yard.,  The light down to the old barn was on and it was hazy.,  Mom couldn’t be there.,  But I yelled for her anyway: “Mom!”,  “MOM!”,  “MOOOM!”,  She didn’t answer.,  She was nowhere around!,  What could I do!

Then I started to remember.,  Our neighbor lady, the one who told on me, had been asking Mom and Dad to come over.,  I didn’t think they ever would because they had a really nice house and things and I think Mom didn’t want to try it.

But I remembered, this was Christmas.,  Maybe the neighbor lady and man, who knew Dad was at work, had asked her to come over.,  But, even if not, maybe they could help me find her.,  I opened the front door and ran out onto the porch and down the two steps.,  When I hit the yard the cold snow under my feet shocked me.,  I hardly noticed.,  I ran past the big sycamore tree up toward the neighbors house.,  Buena Vista Street was on a big hill, too big even for the Soapbox Derby because they only ran it one year starting right at our house.

When I got to the neighbors high porch I didn’t know what to do next.,  So, I yelled!,  “Mom!” I called.,  I was really scared now and a little ashamed too. I was the biggest and there I stood in the snow, yelling for Mom.,  I yelled again, really loud.,  There were lights in the neighbors house so they must have been up.,  Just as I yelled again, the door opened and there stood the neighbor lady at the door.,  Mom ran out and they brought me into their nice room.,  Now I was really embarrassed.,  I saw they had little glasses with something to drink.

Moms glass was at a nice chair she went back to with me but I could see she was upset.,  I think she was very embarrassed too.,  She said, “Im sorry” and “Thank you” to the neighbors and then set her glass down and,  rushed me home.,  I dont remember anything else about it that night but I am sure she put me back to bed.,  And the next morning, sure enough, the tractors were for Bill and me and the doll was for Ann.,  We played with them.

Mom and Dad may have put our things for,  Christmas under our tree instead of Santa Claus.,  Maybe they put them there just before Dad left for work.,  Maybe Mom was lonesome and needed someone to talk to.,  Im sure it wasnt easy to raise two ornery little kids plus me.,  I guess, when I ran to the neighbors I was really thinking, maybe Santa Claus was next door.,  Now that I think of it, that was probably right.

The next time I saw the little red chairs like we had in Rhythm Band was the Sunday morning, not long after that, when Mom took us kids to St. Pauls Lutheran Church.,  It was what they called “Sunday School.”,  There, in the big room for boys and girls they had an altar, smaller than the one in the church, but it had candles on it with what I learned later was a Bible.
It was Grandma Sassers church, I found out later.,  I dont think we went there very often then but later we got started going to the church service.

Just before Christmas time the next year the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.,  Dad went into the Navy and we came to live with Grandma and really started going to her church then.,  When I was nine, all of us kids were put into the Youth Choir at church.,  Sometimes we went to Sunday school too, but I dont remember that much.,  We did take Mrs. Tiner to church with us though.,  Some people said things about people like her because she was German.,  She was very small so I know she couldn’t hurt anyone.,  Mom made Bill and me help her and Grandma into church.,  Everyone always came up to Mom and said what nice boys we were.,  But, I knew it wasnt true because most Sundays Mom had to pinch us during the service.

Sometimes I remember back to that night when I couldn’t find Mom.,  I think when she heard my frantic voice on the front lawn as she sat there with the little glass it did something to change her.,  I dont know if that was the time but I do know that several years before she died she told me, “Ken, I wish we had all been Christians when you were growing up.,  It would have been a lot different.”,  I felt sorry for Mom that night because I knew I had embarrassed her.,  In a way, though, I guess I was really just looking for Santa Claus.,  As it turned out, I think he really was next door.

Merry Christmas!
Kenneth F. Pierpont

By the time I had arrived in the world and was old enough to know them, my grandparents Pierpont were retired and lived in the lazy little village of Chatham, a few miles north of my hometown, Newark.,  Neither of them lived very far into my adulthood, so my memories of them were mostly as a child.

Grandpa (William) Pierpont passed away in 1955 while I was in the Navy and Grandma (Lily) lived only until about the time our daughter, Melony was born in 1956. Their home was simple and my grandfather raised gladiolus to make a little money selling them on the Columbus farmers market.,  He had lost “the old home place” early in the Great Depression.,  A deficiency judgment had been taken against him as a result.,  They had very little of this worlds goods but always radiated peace and contentment.,  They were members and workers in the Chatham Methodist Church, just on up the road from their home.,  Across the corner to the south Roberts Grocery and filling station presided over the village as its only business.

Their second eldest son was my dad, Kenneth.,  A sister had died in infancy and a brother, Elmer, and a sister, Dorothy, were older than he.,  The other children were brothers Orville and Arthur.,  Only my Uncle Arthur, in his nineties, is still living.

I begin my dads story with an experience his mother had as a young woman.

“One Of My Sons Will Be a Minister”

Whether a dream, a vision or a settled conviction is a matter of how it is remembered.,  But, Grandma Pierpont always claimed one of her sons would be a minister.,  And when he was, she insisted, he was to “preach the Bible and believe it from cover to cover.”

Grandma Pierpont was not to live to see her dream fulfilled, but eventually it was.,  For many years it did not appear that such would ever happen though.,  The boys, my dad and his brothers, were rugged and ornery farm boys, quite accustomed to slipping around their old-time Methodist fathers strict rules of conduct.,  The boys were not to be seen in public with sleeves rolled up.,  There was to be no smoking and certainly no alcoholic beverage.,  The occasional slipping off to the neighbors watermelon patch went unknown to Grandpa so far as I ever knew, to say nothing of imbibing upon their hidden-away hard cider.

Dad did know hard work, though, early in life.,  At nine years old he worked for fifty cents a day hitching, working and caring for a team of horses in the fields.,  The fields and woods there in central Ohio were a great love for Dad and he learned nature like the back of his hand.,  Dad loved animals and had a deep respect for Gods creation.   In later years, teaching my brother and me to hunt, he insisted that we never shoot a songbird, keep an undersize fish we had caught,,  or shoot game over the limit.,  In my case getting any fish or game was usually challenge enough. But, to tell you more I have to involve my mother.

Mother and Dad

In the tribute to my mother I told you the story of how Mother and Dad met.,  At age twenty-four my dad had dated numerous young ladies and had been around them in farm community social settings and church.,  By the time little Grace Sasser came into his life he knew what he wanted.,  Their courtship was brief.

On September 5, 1933, they stood side-by-side in the living room of the Methodist parsonage across the road from the church there in Chatham and were married.,  Their first home was Dads parents “Old Home Place” at the top of the hill northwest of Chatham on Ohio Route 657.,  A modern ranch house now occupies the place of their old house.

The young couple was not to live there long, however, for Grandpa lost the farm that year and Mother and Dad moved to Newark to stay with her parents, Grandpa and Grandma Sasser.,  At this point, my dads job at Owens-Corning in Newark materialized.,  Dad was a hard worker and not long after hiring in as a laborer he was able to obtain a place in the machine shop.,  From there he gradually learned the machinist trade.

With no car and my birth coming on, Dad decided he would “build” one.,  He made the rounds of the junk yards in Newark and obtained enough parts to put together a T Model Ford.,  Satisfying himself that it would run, he asked Mothers brother, Uncle Carl (Sasser) to tow him around the block to get it started.,  The engine was too tight to crank it, the usual means of bringing a T Model to life.,  Sure enough the old car coughed to life–they had a car.

During the winter of 1934 I was a baby and had experienced some sickness.,  The old car had no heater and they wanted to go downtown.,  Dad took several bricks into the house and deposited them on the coal stove.,  After ample heating, he wrapped them in burlap and placed them on the floor in front of Mothers seat.,  She got herself and me into the car and we were off to downtown.

After just a few minutes, they began to smell something.,  They remarked and guessed back and forth what the smell was.,  Shortly thereafter they noticed smoke curling up!,  It took only a few moments, then, to realize that the hot bricks had set fire to the burlap.,  The car quickly filled with smoke.,  Rolling the whole thing out into the snow, Dad was able to rearrange things and get going again with their shopping errands.

When they appeared in a couple of stores the noses of the clerks before them began to sniff.,  “I smell something,” one said.,  “Somethings burning,” another remarked, glancing around.,  The young couple could hardly contain their laughter after realizing that the burning burlap had left its telltale odor on their clothing and my blanket.   Mercifully, Dad was able to get a little better car not long after.

As I also related in Mothers story, the folks were able to get the little cottage at 151 Buena Vista Street in Newark.,  It was a simple cottage with two very modest bedrooms and a partial basement at the back of the house where, on the dirt floor, Mother washed our clothing on a scrub-board over two washtubs.,  Dad worked hard to keep us together.

A major incident occurred at approximately this time in Mother and Dads lives together.   Coming home from his second shift work one night, in their old Hudson bought from our neighbors as an upgrade in their transportation, Dad noted through the dim headlights the figure of a man in our front yard, staring through our front bedroom window.,  He instantly realized the presence of a “peeping Tom,” apparently observing Mother inside the house.

Dad decided not to slacken his speed as he approached our house so as to avoid scaring the man off.,  However, just as he reached the front of our house, Dad killed the ignition and bailed out of the car.,  The man turned to flee but Dad caught him just as he reached the sidewalk.,  I have heard my dad describe this decidedly one-sided fight many times.,  Knowing as I do, my dads ability with his fists, I would not have wanted to be in the intruders shoes that night.

As those early years quickly passed, first my brother, Bill, and a year and a quarter,  later, my sister, Ann, were born.,  Dads job at Owens-Corning met needs but times were difficult and Dad took extra work to help ends meet.

Across the street from us a vacant field boasted a very large sycamore tree, not unlike the huge one in our front yard.,  The owner wanted the tree removed and Dad offered to saw it up, once it was down.,  As I recall, one or two others came a time or two to help Dad on the two-man crosscut but, for the most part, he worked along, removing the second handle and labored away until the job was done.,  I dont know what Dad got for the job but I am sure he earned every cent.

Dad worked night shift and got the idea to cut corn for some farmers to make extra money.,  I remember the day he brought home the green-handled corn cutter, the blade was,  about two inches broad and about two feet long.,  When I saw it I had no idea how much hard work over several years Dad would do with it in his strong right hand.,  In all those early years I never heard him complain.,  Looking back now, I realize what is really meant by “moonlighting.”

Late in the evening in the fall, after dark but before his factory shift, Dad cut corn by the light of the moon.,  Very few times in my life did I ever hear my dad say, “I love you,” I assure you, he didn’t have to say it! His commitment to his family spoke for itself.

The War

The old floor radio blared out the news as I sat in front of it, age seven.,  “The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor!”,  I was thrown into confusion.,  Not so long before, I saw Dad go into action as he hung up the old black phone on the living room wall.,  That was the death notice of Grandpa Sasser.,  Now, another phone call and much excitement broke out.,  We were at war!,  I wasnt sure what it all meant, but I knew it was big.

Unbeknown to me, Mother and Dad were apparently planning for Dad to go into the service.,  A ride in our old 1934 Ford to see Congressman Ashbrook in Johnstown had me standing on the floor in back.,  It was winter and Mother and we kids waited in the car.,  Later it was warm weather and we were in a large park overlooking recruitment offices in Columbus.,  Dad and Mother had bought the three of us red and black balloons portraying Mickey Mouse.,  We played with them unaware that Dad was in the Navy Recruiting Office signing on the dotted line.

Just days later Dad realized that had he not signed up to be an enlisted man in the Navy Seabees, his warrant would have come through that the Congressman was trying to arrange.,  He would have been an officer instead of a first-class petty officer.

We moved to west Newark, combined our belongings with those of my Grandma Sasser, and the folks sold out on Buena Vista Street.,  Instead of being a third-grader at Conrad School, I would now be enrolled as such in Maholm School, just a strong block from the house at 51 Bowers Avenue.,  Dad shipped out with the Seabees to train in Providence, Rhode Island.

On his first leave home Dad took Bill and me into the backyard and showed us some of his “Judo tricks.”,  He became very good at it and was soon an instructor in hand-to-hand combat.,  I was hoping he was not intending me to use any of it on my school guys who didn’t like me.,  About that time Dad wrote home to explain that he would be a “diver.”,  This meant that he worked under water in both shallow and deep-water gear.,  One of his fellow trainees was killed under water during the training phase.   Later Dad told us how he passed the qualifying test to hold his breath for two minutes under water.,  He rolled a pebble around in his mouth to distract himself from the lack of oxygen.

Overseas

Mother and we kids got on a train in Newark and went to Providence to see Dad.,  I was not aware of all the circumstances but the last day there Mother and Dad clung to each other and us as Dad said goodbye.,  He would be going overseas to help win the war.,  It was most of two years before we saw him again.,  He was shipped to Guam with a Seabees battalion. The Seabees was a gutsy group of skilled builders and workers who did construction in hostile-fire zones.,  The initials “CB” on their dress blues stood for “Construction Battalion.”,  They were deeply respected by fellow sailors.,  Their motto was “We can build and we can fight.”,  They took Marine combat training as a part of their preparation.

From Guam Dad wrote home as often as he could.,  One Christmas, he was able to send home a $5 money order for each of we kids.,  We used it to go Christmas shopping for weeks!,  Dads stint on Guam lasted until the end of the war.,  Early on, he reported “the Japs run through the camp pitching hand grenades, yelling ‘Banzi — a guy could get hurt.”,  But, eventually American air power, including the dropping of two atomic bombs, finished the Japanese Empire forever.

On one occasion, an officer came to Dads shop.,  He needed someone who knew blasting.,  He heard dad was a demolition diver and blaster.,  Dad tried to explain that blasting under water and “topside” were probably far different.,  The officer insisted that Dad blast for him to cut out a road up a mountain there on the island.

Over continued protest, Dad set his charge as he would below water.,  When he detonated the powder he said “Rocks as big as pianos flew everywhere.,  It took two days to fill in the crater.”,  After that he wasnt asked to blast anymore!

Dads eldest brother, Elmer, a Seabee Chief Petty Officer was stationed on Tinian, another of the Marianna Islands.,  Dad and, perhaps, Uncle Elmer, were allowed to fly in a B-29 at least once, even though they had nothing to do with the air wing of the military.,  But the Seabees were very good at “commandeering” all kinds of things–food, equipment, fuel, et cetera.,  A ride on a military aircraft by an unattached serviceman is not unheard of.,  It was from the island of Tinian that the atomic bombs were delivered.

When on September 2, 1945 “VJ Day” (Victory in Japan) came, our family all rode round the square in downtown Newark to celebrate as did thousands of others.,  I was in the rumble seat of an Model A.,  What a time it was.,  Tears,,  hugs and kisses all round, wildly honking horns, shouts of victory, just about every means of celebration took place not only in Newark that day but throughout the world.,  The war was over and “our boys were coming home!”

Dad Back With Us

With a wife and three children at home, Dad had a priority number by which to “muster out.”,  In just a few weeks after wars end, we noted a big man in a white uniform with a huge duffel bag making his way proudly down little Bowers Avenue.,  We were ecstatic.,  The war was over, Dad was home and would soon be back to work at Owens-Corning.

About this time the factory came to be called by most “Fiberglas”.,  Dad always felt that years and years of exposure to the “glass wool” contributed to his eventual poor health.

I bounded out of bed on Dads first morning home to rush downstairs and join the action where I heard Dad talking at the breakfast table.,  I slipped on the floor and put a nasty slice in my left knee due to the presence of the floor heat register.   Dads first order of business at home was to administer first aid and to take me up the street to the doctor for stitches!

The next few years were filled with experiences with Dad that now flood my memory.,  He always had a big garden at the end of our street.,  He pushed a hand cultivator, with its steel wheel in front, over the big stony garden, many, many times during the course of a summer.,  I learned to work there as did the whole family: setting out plants and bulbs, sprinkling seed, taking weeds out by hand, row after row.,  Dad had an eye for flint and the garden soil yielded many artifacts from Indian days.,  Dad seemed to know the various kinds and even made educated guesses as to their differing usage.

Life was full of berry picking expeditions featuring my Grandma Sasser against Dad for most berries with the rest of us distant third, fourth, fifth and sixth.,  I have seen them both pick gallons of berries never raising even one to their mouths.,  Dad considered “picking and eating a disgrace.”,  No matter how hard we tried, we kids could not disguise our purple lips from his disapproving glance.

One Sunday afternoon Grandma had fixed us Kool Aid from the kitchen sink for our afternoon family fishing trip.,  She did not go.,  After a blazing afternoon on a creek bank, few fish to show for our efforts, we broke out the picnic fixings with a burning thirst.   The five of us, as one, began to gulp down the drink.,  In seconds we were all sputtering, “Lifebuoy!”,  Grandma had inadvertently swept the bar of hand soap into the jug as she made the Kool Aid.,  Our soapy and thirsty throats put a permature end to our day of fishing.,  Of course we kids jockeyed for position upon arriving home to register Grandmas error to her.,  Our much wiser parents contained their bemusement

Brownie, our old Beagle rabbit dog lived through the war to once again hunt with Dad.,  By now I was eleven and Bill was nine.,  Dad said, one fall day, “Shoot Bellerin Betsy and you can have your own shotgun.”,  The old twelve gauge had a much-respected recoil that we called a “kick.”,  Nevertheless, Bill and I both shot it that year and Dad got us each a shotgun.,  Mine was an Iver-Johnson single barrel sixteen gauge.,  Bill got a single barrel 410 with a modified choke.,  He quickly got very good with it and always came home with game.,  My gun was much more powerful but I wasnt as good but did manage to be carrying a few rabbits in my coat from trip to trip.,  Dads love for the out-of-doors took us hunting numerous times every year — in the fall for squirrels and in the winter for rabbits.

Dad went fox hunting some also — usually alone due to school for us and the bitter cold in which he usually hunted them.,  He was known to be able to start out through a snow-covered field, pick up a fox trail and follow it all day to get a shot at it.,  After trailing a fox many hours he would walk up on one from downwind and kick it out of a sleep before shooting at it.,  “They deserve a chance,” he would always say.,  Fox pelts he had taken provided a wrap for Mother but she seldom wore it.,  She always said, “Its looking at me,” as she glanced over her shoulder and the impressive wrap stayed in the closet.

Dad always seemed to have nerves of steel. On a trip in our old 38 Buick to New York to visit our aunt and uncle we topped a mountain only to slip on the hot rainy blacktop highway.,  The old sedan, packed with the five of us, instantly spun out of control and started down the mountain road backwards.,  Dad deftly let the car come all the way around before applying the brakes.,  A Plymouth coming up,  the steep grade stopped as we slid toward it.,  Dad brought the big maroon Buick to a stop about six feet from the other car.,  He calmly got out, walked back to the terrified driver, whose hands were locked on the wheel,,  and said, “More fun than a rolly-coaster,” got back into our car, turned around and drove away.

On yet another trip to Cincinnati where my Uncle Jim Sasser lived with his wife, Jean, and my cousin Bonnie Jean, Dads first aid skills were again tested.   My uncle was talking to Dad as he showed off his nice 39 Buick coupe.,  He had the right side of the hood up and, at fifteen, I was looking into the engine compartment with my left thumb resting on the hood cage.,  Uncle Jim gunned the engine and the vibration kicked out the hood brace.,  Instantly the hood slammed shut with my thumb smashed in the works.

They got me out of the closed hood.,  My cousin Bonnie, a first-year nursing student , at the time, insisted that I go to the hospital.,  Dad calmly asked if they had a Band-Aid.,  With it he fashioned a “butterfly tie” as he called it.,  They cleaned me up, he applied the tie and I was put down on their guest bed with my hand above my head.,  The thumping went on for hours.,  As I glance down at my thumb now, forty-nine years later, I note Dads handiwork.,  He didn’t quite get the end of my thumb back on straight so there is a major indentation. But, it still works!,  Though left-handed, I was able to do my work as clean-up boy at the Jean Frocks dress shop back in Newark the next day.

I learned to drive from Dad instead of the school driver-education teacher and got my license about ten days after my sixteenth birthday.,  During the early days of my driving though, Dad was instructing me from the right side seat of my old, green,  33 Plymouth.,  On this particular day we arrived at the end of Bowers Avenue with me going a little too fast to make the corner.,  I froze on the wheel unsure of whether to go straight ahead or to try to turn.,  Dad began yelling, “Turn it! Turn it!.”   Crash!   I went on across the corner and knocked down the sign to the photography studio of Shirley Childrens parents.,  The impact knocked the left support off my front bumper and it fell, unceremoniously onto the curbing.,  Dad got under the wheel and drove the car down the street slowly as I walked carrying the end of the bumper–right past Shirleys house.,  I liked her but was fairly sure the feeling was not mutual and I am certain,  this escapade didn’t add anything to my image.

The Later Years

In 1952, just seven years after Dad came home, I joined the Navy Reserve at Port Columbus using Dads old uniforms to trade for some that fit me.,  Some time later I was taken on active duty and was transferred to Glenview Naval Air Station near Chicago.,  Hence, my “combat” during the Korean Conflict was with a typewriter in a Navy mail office.,  I found Christ as my Savior through the witness of Christian buddies and knew I must win my mother to the Lord.,  Thank God she was saved before long and I finally got up enough courage to face Dad with the claims of Christ.,  Obviously Dad was a strong and decisive man and I wasnt sure what to expect.,  Really, I expected extreme anger.,  Was I surprised!

Sitting at our kitchen table, Mother on my right, Dad on the left, while at home on leave, I took my dad on with the witness of Christ.,  After a few minutes going through the gospel, to my astonishment, Dad began to weep.,  Then he, in very manly fashion told me and Mother that he knew what I was talking about and that he had been saved at the Old Methodist church in Chatham when he was twelve years old.,  No one, that he remembered, had dealt with him at the altar and he seemed to attribute that fact to his lack of growth all these years.,  “Dad,” I thought to myself, “if you were saved during all the years we were growing up, it was a well-guarded secret!”

Dad, as well as the rest of us, had taken,  part in the activities of St. Pauls Lutheran Church in Newark during our growing-up years.   We kids and Dad sang in the choir.,  All three of us took catechism classes and were in church every Sunday.,  In later years Dad taught our pastor to hunt rabbits with him.,  But, the gospel was not preached and we all had to find the Lord, through His grace, from others who knew and witnessed for Him.

From that day at the kitchen table, when Dads tears fell softly to the old oil cloth,,  to the day of his,  death, he was a changed man.   After I was released from the Navy we were able to help Mother and Dad get into a good Bible-preaching church under godly Pastor and Mrs. H. E. Doyle, at Pine Street Christian Union Church, just one block from Bowers Avenue.   In a couple of years Dad got the victory over the cigarette habit, became a trustee at the church and grew strongly in the Lord.

In 1964, while visiting us in our pastorate in Michigan, Dad confessed to me that he believed God was calling him to the ministry.,  He and I immediately began a two-year study course with a core library of about twenty-five books I recommended.,  I had never dreamed that one of my earliest tasks after graduating from seminary would be to teach my dad to be a pastor.,  Gods grace is truly amazing!

During most of the last years Dad lived he pastored Linnville Christian Union Church, worked his way to ordination in 1967, raised Hereford beef cattle on the farm they bought while I was in college,,  and continued his romance with the things of nature. Dad had a name for each of the 47 white-faced cows and steers he raised.   It was common for Dad to pile off his old tractor to pick up a four-leafed clover twenty feet away.,  He had amazing eyesight.,  He loved to play with snakes, which, to show off, he would thread around his body when horrified bystanders were watching.,  On one occasion a six foot black snake was on the side of the house one day when we were all present.,  This time the snake was big enough for him to pluck it off the house and fashion a knot at the front of his waist using Mr. Snake s unfortunate body and head!

Over the years of Dads younger adulthood he had a very short temper.,  I have seen him advance on men over some argument or traffic altercation.,  If they didn’t back down he would begin pulling them out of their vehicle until they apologized or sped away.,  Today he would probably be shot.,  Thank God, after he began living for Christ he displayed the heart of a child.,  His previous capacity to tell dirty stories was replaced by the keenest of memories for funny songs like “The Big Rock Candy Mountain” and good clean jokes.

Finally, after seventeen years fulfilling his mothers prophecy that one of her boys would be a minister, Dads body began to run down.,  His great heart began to fail.,  He grew tired from simple tasks in stark contrast to his zest for backbreaking work in the past.,  Short jaunts with his modest fishing boat became fewer and fewer.   Near the end, our son-in-law, himself an avid out-of-doors-man, found Dad sitting against a tree in very cold weather, out on a deer crossing.,  Dad was unable to rise from his position.,  Jim probably saved his life that day.,  Knowing Dad as I do, he would not have minded going to sleep in a woods he loved so dearly “to meet Jesus,” as Dad would have put it.

Honorable Christian gentleman, great talker and listener, deeply faithful to my mother, gutsy and humorous,  preacher that he was, Dad spoke from a stool to his prayer meeting group on Wednesday October 8, 1980 for what was to be the last time.,  Shortly after, he was hospitalized for the final       time. Dads heart failure was complete.,  I walked slowly down the hallway to the nursing station in the Newark Hospital and, speaking for the family, agreed with the medical team that is was time to let Dad go.,  At the prayer meeting hour on October 22, 1980, the greatest man I ever knew slipped out of this life into the presence of His Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.,  If there is nature to explore in Heaven the old champion berry picker, hunter, fisherman and student of Gods creation is sure to be on the job when I get there.,  I love you, Dad.,  Ill never forget you.

It is the smaller end of town so students in Junior High School went to Central as Mother did. My mother then went to Newark High. She had a quick mind and shared the Sasser family attribute of a saucy tongue. She did all right in school but dropped out at the end of the ninth grade.

My Grandpa Sasser was never in very good health after he was injured in a training accident during the Spanish and American War. It was a challenge to provide for the family of three boys and three girls. He and my grandmother were paper hangers and got a little money for their needs this way. Grandma baked and cooked and sold things at a stand on the market on Saturdays at the old market house in downtown Newark. Grandpa had a crippling stroke in early middle age and that further challenged the family’s ability to sustain itself. His disability did afford Grandpa a tiny pension as an injured war veteran that was eventually to be my Grandmothers sole income.

One Saturday in early 1933 my mother was helping at the family market house stand when the eyes of a young man whose parents had an adjacent stand fell upon her. Over a few days time they became acquainted.

Not long after, the family decided to go swimming at a water hole in the nearby South Fork of the Licking River. It was a nice warm day to swim and be outside and Grace, called “Tiny” by everyone because of her diminutive size, was sitting on the sand watching the family have a good time in the water. She didn’t know how to swim and so coupled with an inherently cautious nature, she had a certain dread of the deep water.

As the merriment continued the young people, including Andy Taft, married not long before to Graces eldest sister, Martha, were diving down into the water. They would raise their hands in mock distress from time to time. None was an especially good swimmer but they were all having a good time scattered around the large water hole.

Suddenly, my mother was startled from her gazing around with the realization that she had not recently seen her brother who was one of the young people frolicking in the water. Instantly her Sasser family impertinence came to the fore: “Where’s Fred?” she called in alarm. “Has anyone seen Fred?” Next to her in age, he had always been rather small and a bit quiet. Where was he? He was there a minute before. Now where was he?

Everyone began frantically searching around in the dark water as best they could. A minute went by, then two. No Fred! Calling his name as they searched, the family soon arrested the attention of two young Boy Scouts who were swimming nearby. They rushed to the area and offered their help. They began immediately to dive here and there for the missing young man who was about nineteen at the time.

Terrified, the family looked on as the young Scouts searched. In about another minute they dived down and emerged pulling the limp body of Fred from the water. They gave artificial respiration and a doctor was called. The doctor came to the water’s edge as the youth was reviving. The doctor administered help and after a time the danger had passed. Shaken, the family retreated homeward. Fred seemed to be all right.

The young man at the market house came to the Sasser home, that evening, just hours after the accident. “I wonder if you’ll go out with me?” he asked as he was invited in. Tiny’s lifelong vigilance asserted itself. She thought she liked the young man but instantly told him: “My brother almost drowned this afternoon. He needs to be looked after. If you want to stay here with me as I watch him, you can. But I’m not leaving.” The hazel eyes of the young man looked over this pretty seventeen-year-old. He accepted her offer. That was twenty-four-year-old Kenny Pierpont’s first date with my mother. Ironically, had the swimming party been a couple of weeks later, my dad undoubtedly would have been with the family. He was a very strong swimmer.

On September the fifth, just a few months later, they were married at the Methodist Parsonage in Chatham on a cool fall evening. “The belling,” as they called it, was to include a ride in the rumbleseat of a Model A Ford down the road toward Newark and around and back to Dads parents home where they were to start life together. Les Bell, a cousin, was to sit astride the bridge works across the run near Dry Creek and administer the community’s bucket of water on the newlyweds as they passed under him. He knew the young bride had a cold and somehow “missed” as they came.

At their wedding a few simple gifts were given the young couple. The most significant was a five-dollar gold piece. Mother put it back during those first few months of life on the old Pierpont farm. The Great Depression was in full swing. Grandpa lost his farm that year in foreclosure. Dad had tried valiantly to save the farm by putting in a large field of corn, with horses, of course. Then he used the corn to feed out to the pigs he would send to market. When he sold the pigs they didn’t pay for the corn seed. Grandpa moved into Chatham. Mother and Dad moved back to Newark and lived in the south end with Mothers parents.

In January of 1933, a near miracle happened. Dad got hired at “Owens-Corning” as a laborer. It was a bitter cold winter. Long lines of men stood daily at the factory gates to take the place of any man who had hired in but showed little inclination to work. Mother took the gold piece to the bank. With the five dollars she got Dad a winter cap, gloves and a dinner bucket. He walked the two miles to Owens every morning.

After a few months it was time for the arrival of the one to be known as “little Kenny.” I was born in a house on Second Street in Newark. A few weeks after my arrival I developed “the Quincy and Gathered Ear” as they labeled it in those days. The doctor came to the house. “When he sleeps, don’t you sleep,” he told Mother. She reached back for the strength to see me through it.

Dad made forty cents an hour. The couple was able to save a little money. Dad went to the junk yards and got together enough parts to put a “T Model Ford” together. It became their first car. Eventually they did better and were qualified to buy a house. When I was a little boy, I remember them pointing out to me a few houses they could have bought that were very nice. But Mother and Dad picked out a small humble bungalow on Buena Vista Street in Newark about a mile and a half from Owens Corning. An old patched up barn stood at the back of the lot on an alley and served as a garage. A coal stove presided over the living room as the means to heat the house. As I recall none of the interior rooms had a door except the bathroom, so Mother put up curtains to give some privacy.

One morning, Dad got off work after night shift and slipped quietly into the house. He wanted to surprise Mother. He heard her working in the bedroom just off the kitchen. He jerked aside the curtain and stuck his head into the room calling “Boo!” The surprise worked. But that is not all that worked. The Sasser mentality took over. She instinctively swung her small right fist up toward Dad’s six-foot frame and caught him on the nose. After that he always announced his arrival.

One lonely night when Dad was working I was in bed, across from my little brother who was asleep. When you’re five years old strange shapes and shadows can easily infest your bedroom. This particular night, at the end of the room, I began to make out the looks of a man, a scary man. It looked like he was ready to spring out of the corner and get me. As I lay in my loneliness, I began to think of the awful prayer my mother had taught me. In her Bible ignorance it was the only one she knew: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

“But what if He doesn’t take my soul,” I thought. “Then what?” Terrified, I called out: “Mom, Mom.” At that she pushed aside the curtain and came into the room. The light from the living room revealed the “man” who was going to get me. It was Dad’s hunting coat!

“What is it, Kenny?” she spoke, looking at me from the end of the bed. “Mommy,” I stammered, “Whats going to happen to me when I die?” She sat down beside me and looked at me, rather helplessly as I recall. Then, still looking at me she said, “I don’t know, but you need to go to sleep.” At that she left the room. Little did I know that the question my five-year-old mind conjured up that lonely night would be answered for both of us someday in the future the same year.

While Dad was away fighting the Japanese from Guam, Mother tried bravely to be both parents. As a mother she did great: able to get upset over my many transgressions and those of my brother and sister, and to be tough enough to be Cub Scout Den Mother in my Pack from our home. Mercifully, though, she wasn’t big enough to spank very hard. However, she could talk and, at times, I preferred the action option! As a father, she had to work pretty hard to cope. But, there were times when she was up to the task.

One Saturday afternoon, she stopped by the little “Grand Theatre” to pick up we kids after the picture show. She was double-parked and stepped out of the car momentarily to ask the lady at the window when the show would be out. In the seconds it took her to return to the car a local police officer sprang across the street and reached the car just as she slid back under the wheel. “Im going to give you a ticket for double-parking,” he announced. “No, you’re not,” Mother shot back. After a minute of heated debate, the officer ordered her to drive to the police station. As she put the car in gear the officer stepped up on the running board and held out his hand for oncoming traffic to stop. Mother accepted this as a galling humiliation.

This particular officer Mother knew so well that I could give his name yet today, having heard it from my mother’s lips in a very uncomplimentary manner not a few times. He also grew up in the south end and my mother considered him “a crook.”

As she drove toward fourth street and the police department she arranged her route to place the officer on the curb side of the street opposite the police department. The instant they arrived, she shot out of the car, ran across the street and by the time the portly officer got there she had explained the story. The officer lumbered in after her shouting, “She’s under arrest! Shes under arrest!” After a few moments with each “combatant,” the desk sergeant dismissed the case and the saucy lady made her exit.

Halloween came and all the neighborhood kids in the “West End” pulled tricks on their neighbors. I nagged Mother to “go out “Halloweening.” After chipping away at her resistance to the idea for many days, the night before Halloween came and she relented. That is I could go out while Bill and Ann stayed with Grandma. She would go with me!

To my never-ending surprise, she agreed to pin a car horn with me. We sneaked up on this forty-one Ford at the front of a house three streets over from ours. We quietly pulled open the door. “Yes,” I thought, “a nice big horn ring.” I slipped the stick across the steering wheel as Mother held the door, looking apprehensively at the peoples front window. Flipping the stick under the upper part of the steering wheel, the horn began to blare. We slammed the door and ran for our lives.

That was the good side: we succeeded in pinning somebody’s horn. There was bad news too, though. When we reached home some six or seven minutes later the horn was still sounding the alarm in the distance, albeit, noticeably weaker. We looked at each other and, without saying it, we knew: nobody was home. We ran down the car’s battery!

For two and a half years Mother wrote a letter to my dad every day! Every day! Once in a while Mother must have felt rich enough in the rationed gasoline to take our old 34 Ford downtown and mail the letter to Dad before we “parked on the Square.” We went there to watch what was going on with the other people who had parked to see what was going on.” On those days I was not involved in winning the war. On other evenings, though, as the eldest child, it was my solemn responsibility to fight the Japanese from a bus seat as I made my way back and forth between 51 Bowers Avenue and the post office. Dad’s letter, if not ready for the mailman at either the morning or afternoon mail delivery, would need be taken to the post office. At nine or ten years old, it often crossed my mind that I might be waylaid by some stranger bent on interrupting the war effort as I performed my courier service, it seemed like, nightly! But finally, the war ended and Dad came home safe and sound.

Just a few years later, during the Korean Conflict, I took Dad’s uniforms to the Navy Station at Port Columbus, and was allowed to trade them for smaller sizes that fit me so I could enlist in the Navy Reserve. I was called up to Active Duty in 1954. Finally, stationed at Glenview Naval Air Station, in Glenview, Illinois, I was asked to fight another war. This time I “fought” from a typewriter in Chicago.

While at Glenview, I was confronted by several young sailors, both at my place of duty and in the barracks. These guys knew Christ as their personal Savior. Through my Grandma Sasser’s death I got hold of Billy Graham’s book Peace With God. Before many months had passed, I stepped up to my rack [Navy name for bunk bed], put my head on the cold metal piping and turned my life over to the Lord.

Immediately, I became concerned for my mother. My constant thought: “I’m not going to let my mother go to Hell.” I began bombarding her with letters explaining about Christ in a personal way. We had always gone to church, were faithful members and all the rest but knew nothing about real salvation. Now, I explained to Mother about Christ. I sent her tracts giving the plan of salvation. About three or four months after Grandma Sasser’s death, Mother wrote to me to tell me she had claimed Christ through reading one of the Gospel tracts I had sent home.

Now we could both look back on those days on Buena Vista Street. “Mommy, whats going to happen to me when I die?” God had, in His grace and mercy, given us both the answer. “Since you have claimed, in faith believing, in a conscious act, Christ as your personal Savior from sin, you will spend eternity in Heaven.

Mother and Dad, you will recall, started their married lives with five dollars. By careful, disciplined spending they raised three children who never knew what it was to go without what they needed. To be sure, we were poor. But, somehow, Mother and Dad were able to mask that fact and we were all happy in what others probably regarded as poverty. They took care of my grandmother as we shared her home for many years. Later they bought a farm, then a house in town. Mother outlived Dad by twenty-three years and one month to the day. When God called Mother home, every penny of her care was covered by their savings and a small amount was left for we three children.

I didn’t always appreciate mothers cautious nature. “Youd better think about that for a long time,” she would say when she learned that one of us was about to spend some money or set off on some demanding task. But her Christian generosity was always at our side as adult children who would have a need. Unselfishly, she gave from her savings. She gave with caution. But she gave with love.

If you watched Mother out of the corner of your eye at the meal table, you would see that she always managed to take the smallest piece of meat or dessert. At the restaurant when others of us ordered steaks or other big meals, she would be “too full to eat anything but a hamburger.”

One day during mother’s final years she said to me, “Ken, if I had been a Christian when you kids were growing up, things would have been different.” I knew what she meant. I am sure they would have been different because, the moment she claimed Christ things were different. She began carrying her Bible to church, unheard of in our sadly Bible-deprived church setting. She prayed for Dad and before long he turned his life over to Christ and became a preacher of the Gospel.

Mother did a good job as a pastor’s wife. She kept her negative observations to herself and encouraged folks in the positive ones. In private conversations to one of us she would explain some deep feeling or conviction about something that involved someone else. Then, always, she would remark, “â€,¦ I see things but I dont say anything. I wouldn’t say a word.”

It took my wife quite a while to get used to Mothers “Sasser mentality.” Just after we were married Jane remarked one day, in her presence, “Oh, I have an idea!” Instantly Mother shot back “Frame it!” If she heard a loud sound behind her, as maybe somebody dropping something, shed call out instantly, throwing up her hands in mock surprise: “Dont shoot, Ill marry your whole family.”

Time and age eventually took their toll on my mother. Each of we three children helped take care of Mother in her last years in our homes. Finally her health complications became too much for any of us. She spent the last two years of her life in a care home in Newark. On what turned out to be the last time I saw my mother, I accompanied my sister, Ann, as we wheeled her back to her area after a visit. Mother’s mind was all but gone by this time. Her precious life and personality, only a shell of what she really was. But, as I said goodbye to her to head back to my church in Michigan she turned toward me and, to my amazement, gave me what I can only describe as a million-dollar smile. Just four days later, on September 22, 2003, she left this life with my brother, Bill, at her side and entered the presence of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Mother never really had what a lot of people would call “a life of her own.” My dad’s work companions were household names in our home. She knew every detail of their lives that my dad knew. She knew and discussed their personalities. One day, many years ago it suddenly dawned upon me. Mother never really knew Dad’s work or his buddies and bosses but she lived to know them through Dad. His life was her life. His struggles were her struggles.

One late fall night out on the old farm near St. Lousiville, Mother and Dad were struggling together to get hay into the barn before a rain. Finally, she turned to Dad and in disgust at their bone-jarring work called out, “You know, were stupid. We don’t have any business doing this at our age.” Dad apparently agreed. Not long after, they sold the farm and moved to town. There my mother continued to lay down her life for my dad as he got weaker and weaker with heart failure. The day came when we had to pull away from their home to head back to our parish with Mother standing alone in the doorway. Now, they are both with the Lord.

If Mother were here in church today, she would be sitting quietly with rapt attention to the preacher, regardless of who he was. She would still be cautious. She would still have a quick wit. But there is one question she could help anyone through: “What’s going to happen to me when I die?” I’m sure her swift answer would be: “Well, that depends upon what you do with Gods Son, the Lord Jesus Christ.” I hope you can answer her retort in the affirmative!

Every Sunday morning since Mother and Dad have passed away, I have touched their picture as I am getting ready for church. When I do, I always say the same thing: “I love you, Dad. I love you, Mother, I’ll never forget you!”

Dear ones, lets be mothers and fathers with a faith that can never be gainsaid or forgotten. And just before you walk away to reject my plea, please remember Mothers words: “You’d better think about that a long time!”

Amen

The Lord’s day of October 22nd was spent with some new-found friends in the Dayton, Ohio, area, where they graciously invited us to take part in their church activities of the weekend, speaking there three times. It was very nice.

After the evening service there, we said “goodbye” and left, making our way through the west central part of my native Buckeye state.

The evening for driving was nice. We made a food stop in Greenville and began the northern trek with which we are quite familiar, through the rural corn country in that flat land of western Ohio. We were quite alone on the highway and after an uneventful trip, we arrived home in Jonesvlle about 11:15.

After a slightly short night of sleep we loaded our luggage for our two-day stay in the Grand Rapids area at the Michigan Association of Regular Baptist Churches’ annual conference. I have a rather methodical way of loading for trips and always set my shoes I am wearing that day on the toe pan in front of the driver’s seat. On long trips I prefer to ride in stocking feet, so prepared that way.

Our morning trip north and west was routine, leaving home at 7 o’clock. As I entered the Battle Creek area on I-94 I suddenly realized my shoes were not with me–I had left them, apparently,
in the stairwell during the loading process! Wow!

Though we wanted to arrive at the conference a little early, we had no choice but to stop and shop quickly for shoes. I’m glad nobody (I hope) noticed me in the store in my house slippers.

On our way again in about 20 minutes, we made our way west and turned north on U.S. 131 that leads into Grand Rapids. There was a light rain falling and the traffic was moderately heavy. Running in the outside lane, I set the speed control at 64 as traffic moved around me at somewhat faster speeds.

As I was approaching a short patch of roadway where the finish was rough I suddenly realized I was having trouble guiding the car. Taken aback for a moment I took a firmer grip on the wheel and realized that I could guide but it was difficult. “Oh, I just lost power steering,” I called out to Jane.

Before I could process any of this, the charging system warning light, red, flipped on and stayed on. “Oh, we’ve lost the power steering pump and the alternator,” I called. “We must have dropped that serpentine belt that drives that stuff,” I remarked.

It was daylight, a little overcast, but I dumped all the electrical I could since we were running straight off the battery. As if that weren’t bad enough, after a minute or two the engine temperature warning light came on and stayed on. I immediately dropped my speed to 50 and began thinking what to do. To add to our problem, the “check engine” light came on and never blinked out. We were in a jam!

Since we pastored in the Wayland/Hopkins area many years ago we know the area fairly well. It is quite rural. At this point we were approaching Martin where there is one service station. The problem, though, I knew by now, involved water pump, drive belt and I didn’t know what else, well over the heads of service station people.

As we limped north I decided to keep going and felt a little helpless as we moved beyond the exit ramp at our now slowed pace. “Fourteen miles to Wayland,” I called to Jane. Oh, Lord help us make it,” she replied instantly.

Realizing the engine was, by this time, running hot, I tried to take stock of our situation. “If I pull off at the next exit ramp and call in a tow truck it’ll be hours before we can get lined up for service anywhere. There goes our conference,”I thought.

I’ve done my share of engine work and knew drive belt and maybe water pump are a handful. It is not done at ordinary service stations. Trying to remember, I vaguely recalled seeing a television commercial of a dealership in Wayland, but I didn’t know what kind. I felt this was our only reasonable option. But could we make it? We struggled on north.

As the Wayland exit ramp neared we began looking hopefully for an auto dealership sign. Suddenly, we saw one– a Ford dealer. They would have to order parts and even if they could work us in there would be a lot of time involved.

Just then, on the right, a big bright “Chevrolet” sign loomed up before us. “The full size Chevy runs the 3800 engine,” I called to Jane. “They might have the right parts,” I mused.

Quickly pulling in, I ran down my door glass and called out to a couple of employees standing at the drive, “Is the service entrance around in back? “Yes,” they replied. As I pulled away I could hear some unwelcome rattling in the upper valve train, but, fortunately, nothing worse. I pulled to the back door, shut the engine down and, of course, steam greeted us everywhere around the engine compartment. “Thank the Lord,” I said we’re here!

As if from nowhere, a mechanic appeared,opening the shop’s rear door. Upon seeing steam rising from around the car, he walked around, opened the driver’s door and popped the hood latch.

He and I peered into the engine compartment. Just as I expected, the serpentine drive belt was clearly visible, a loop of it sticking defiantly up over the top pulley to the right of the fuel injectors.
We both knew, without exchanging words, that serious engine work was required to correct this.

I made my way through the back door to the cubicle where the shop foreman’s station was. Explaining my predicament, namely that I was still over thirty miles from the site of our state conference which was due to start in an hour, I was expecting him to say he would schedule me for the next day.

To my great encouragement, he apologized that he could not start on it for “another hour or so.” Perhaps it helped that this was Monday morning and they were still in their first hour of work. Jane and I were shown to the lobby where there was a comfortable waiting room. We sat down and put our heads together to take stock of our situation and the likely outcome.

After about a half hour, the foreman opened the door from the shop and stepped into the lobby. “The belt wasn’t the main problem. Your water pump gave out and let everything go slack. Naturally the belt ran off and quit driving the systems it runs.” I was grateful for his candid report and what seemed to be sincere regret.

“Do you think you can get to it today?” I asked. “Oh, yeah,” he responded. ” We should have you out of here in early afternoon. We have the parts.” He then showed me the estimate. Water pump, drive belt, a few miscellaneous items and labor showed clearly on his “Mr. Goodwrench” form. I knew the bill would be stiff as in the transverse mounted engines like G.M.’s 3800, there isn’t much room to work and precise, clean work is required. The estimate total was just under $479. I didn’t think that was bad.

Before he left I quizzed him about any evidence of damage I may have caused by running the engine hot. “No,” he didn’t think it sounded bad. Praise the Lord.

We settled back in our chairs and I pulled out my New Testament to look over a passage I had been reading in the Sermon on the Mount. In a few moments a young woman, nicely dressed, stepped into the lobby and took a chair to our left. We greeted each other politely. I set my Bible aside and noticing her pleasant appearance wondered if we could engage her in a meaningful conversation.

“…you have a vehicle in for repair?” I asked her. “Yes, my Chevy pick-up. It’s in for an oil change and check-up,” she replied.

We continued to exchange comments about our vehicles which led to our relating the desire to get to our destination. In a few moments she pulled out her cell phone and offered it to us. “Do you need to call anyone?, she offered. I thanked her and explained that the shop had allowed us to call our son, Kevin, who was on his way into the conference from the north. He would be able to pass the information along to any of the other family members who might wonder what happened to us.

Slowly, we were able to work our way around to spiritual things. We related that years before we had pastored the Baptist church there in Wayland and the first building had been built there on our watch. We learned that the lady, “Rosemary,” was just months older than Ken, our eldest son. Jane related family facts and provided some pictures for Rosemary to see.

God seemed to open her mind and heart to us and we continued to talk for most of an hour. She had a nominal knowledge of spiritual things and mentioned her church which was the local “St. Teresa” with which we were acquainted.

In a few minutes we were able to provide her with some good literature and an encouragement to attend “our church” there in Wayland. She seemed interested in doing so.

At that point the foreman reentered and said, “Rosemary, your car is ready.” She came over to where we were, a few feet from where she had been sitting. She and Jane exchanged hugs. I looked at her and touching her left arm said, “Rosemary, let today be the day you trust Christ in a new way. I’ll be praying for you.”
She seemed deeply moved as she turned to make her way across the lobby to the billing office.

At that point, Jane and I tood stock of what we ought to do for lunch. Rosemary had left the office window and I walked over to the clerk there and told her, “I’m sure it will be some time yet before our Buick is ready. We’ll go across the street to eat and we’ll be back in plenty of time to get the car.” She nodded her understanding and we left for lunch.

After about forty-five minues we made our way back across the busy 135th Street there and into the lobby again. Jane sat down and I stepped over to the billing office again and was surprised to hear the girl say, “Mr. Pierpont, your car is ready,” as she approached me with the bill. Just as I was paying the bill, I heard voices and was startled to see Rosemary, this time with her mother in tow. They had come back together to meet us.

To summarize this event, the Lord had allowed us to have car trouble at the precise time He did, including the time we took out to get replacements for my forgotten shoes, in order to meet Rosemary. Jane had obtained her full name and address and we are communicating with her in an effort to see Christ take over her life. We are confident He will.

Our faithful “Tubby” Buick is no worse for the wear and God provided for the repair costs in a marvelous way. We are sure He ordained this “trouble” for His glory. In that light, “Tubby’s ordeal” was merely mild but so very meaningful

There must have been a city ordinance against discharging a firearm within the city limits for our hometown, Newark, Ohio, had a population of more than thirty thousand. If there was I never knew it and, apparently, no one paid any attention to it, especially on New Year’s Eve.

My maternal grandmother, Grandma Sasser and we made our home together. Her presence often pulled in many members of the family, particularly during holidays. She was a great cook and pie baker and our house was like headquarters for the whole family who came to pass the time of day, hash over jobs and life in general and to visit with each other.

This particular New Year’s Eve brought several family members: my cousin Clyde, recently returned from combat duty in the Pacific Theater of the war as a soldier; my uncle Andy and Aunt Martha and girls; Uncle Carl and his family including his toddler daughter, Marsha and a few others, as I recall. The house was full.

As the new year neared, my Grandma Sasser worked around the kitchen to provide raw cabbage for everyone to nibble on at the midnight hour, “for good luck.” After a bit she left the kitchen where the men folk, my younger brother, Bill and I were gathering to prepare to shoot our shotguns. Little Marsha stood in front of her dad, looking up to him. Uncle Carl had a reputation for hard drinking. This night was no exception. I will always remember the flask of whiskey in his left back pocket to which he had been reaching several times as the evening wore on.

I could tell my dad was nervous about the twelve-gauge pump gun Uncle Carl held, curled in his arms. He looked unsteady on his feet. At about four or five minutes to midnight my dad said to we boys, in a message-sending voice to others as well, ” We better go outside and load up, it’s almost midnight.” He started for the door as we began to follow.

What happened next is forever etched on my memory. As I turned to follow my dad out into the back yard, we had just reached the kitchen door when we were all subjected to a tremendous flash of fire and an ear-splitting roar. The men who had just returned from a combat zone, my dad, my cousin and one or two others were especially stunned, as I recall.

In a few seconds we began to recover from the initial shock. My Uncle Carl, full of whiskey, had apparently had his finger on the trigger of his shotgun and was shoving shells into the magazine. As he did so, he accidentally chambered a shell, the firing pin fell and discharged the shell into the middle of our kitchen. Little Marsha only moments before was standing directly in front of her drunken father. My mother, always one to be a little cautious, had reached out and taken Marsha’s hand with the words, “Here, Marsha, we better go in the other room.”

They had taken a few steps when the gun discharged. It was very close, but it was enough. The full impact of the powerful shell hit the wall across the room from where Marsha had stood. The main force of the blast struck the kitchen wall just above the baseboard. The ricochet tore into the refrigerator at the bottom hinge on the door. As it did so the refrigerator door came loose and swung crazily down, hanging from one hinge. We boys danced around the kitchen table, holding our ears and yelling in dismay to one another over the deafening sound we had just endured.

As I recall, Uncle Carl sobered up quickly. My mother was furious at her brother’s senseless act. Now that I think of it, I don’t remember whether or not we went outside to fire our guns that New Year’s Eve. It seems we had experienced enough fireworks inside. I am quite sure little Marsha never knew how close she came to death that night. The shock to all of us was so great, none of us probably knew.

Looking back almost sixty years to that night again, I am reminded of the goodness of God to spare us all a terrible tragedy. Eventually the refrigerator was fixed, although it always displayed a terrible groove and blackness in the metal leading to the hinge where the shot did its damage. My uncle, who later claimed Christ in his life is now gone. So is my dear mother who went on to become a Christian and a pastor’s wife. My dad died and went to Heaven in 1980 after a life of service to Christ for many years. I entered the Navy about seven years after that never-to-be-forgotten event. It was there that I found Christ as my Saviour. God is so good. That New Year’s Eve could have brought death to Marsha and perhaps one or two others. Instead, we can look back and chuckle. The old refrigerator was the only permanent casualty.

I’m Ken Pierpont, the Baptist pastor in Jonesville, Michigan.

Today our topic is: “THE CROSS AND THE ELECTRIC CHAIR”

“Anyone who is hung on a tree is under God’s curse” (Deuteronomy 21:23b). The enemies of Christ tried to rid the earth of him by hanging Him upon a cross. The execution of a person by crucifixion was the Roman government’s means of exercising capital punishment. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor over Israel in Jesus’ day, though under pressure from his wife to spare Christ, nevertheless finally gave sentence to put Him to death. The ignorant mob, manipulated into a frenzy by self-serving Jewish leaders, cried for crucifixion. Pilate acquiesced and the innocent Lord Jesus was led away to be prepared for execution.

When I was a young boy growing up near Columbus, Ohio, it was common to hear that the electric chair in the Ohio State Penitentiary in downtown Columbus was being prepared for the execution of a criminal. Some macabre comment often followed: “Well, old Sparkie is going to bite again,” someone might say. The electric chair was and still is an object of horror and revulsion.

Could you imagine someone making and having for sale miniature electric chairs on necklaces or earrings? Could you imagine a man’s tiepin with a silver or gold-plated replica of the electric chair attached to it? You reply, “Of course not! No one would be so foolish.” But, in light of that, think for a moment with me as to what we have made of the cross. This object of horror is on fine jewelry all round us!

I am not suggesting there is something wrong with displaying the cross on jewelry or our clothing. Many Christians choose to wear a cross because it reminds them or others of their faith in the Christ of the cross. On the other hand, it is not uncommon to see a cross on a chain or key ring of a person who professes no particular faith in Christ or Christianity. One wonders how much thought has really gone into the decision to displaying the cross on one’s person. Perhaps even we Christians wear the cross without thought as to its true significance. Wearing it because it is fashionable or merely because it seems to go with the outfit we have picked out for the day would be examples of the thoughtless displaying of the cross.

The cross should bring to mind the subject of death, agony and torture. Christ endured all these for you and me. In fact, apart from His suffering and death, bringing as it did His glorious Resurrection, no one could ever be saved.

The Bible says He suffered, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God (I Peter 3:18).

Most states in our nation, which practice capital punishment for certain offenses have abandoned hanging, the firing squad and the electric chair as a means to accomplish this. Mostly, if it is done today the means used is lethal injection. This is thought of as the most humane means of execution, according to authorities.

In light of modern attempts to administer justice mercifully, think for me a moment about the grisly nature of death by crucifixion, that which the Lord Jesus Christ endured.

Many volumes have been written on the technical aspects of death on a cross. It is said that the victim is eventually asphyxiated due to the weight of the body hanging on the cross, allowing for air to be inhaled, but prohibiting air from being fully exhaled from the lungs. It was not uncommon for the victim to hang on a cross for DAYS before death came. Imagine the horror, the suffering Surely anyone with a spark of decency is revulsed by such thoughts.

The next time I am tempted to think that sin in my life is “no big deal”,” I hope I think of what the Lord Jesus did on the cross for me. If you have ever been led to wonder why god allowed His one and only Son to die on a cruel cross, why it came about, then listen carefully to these brief passages from God’s Word on the subject.

Our next article will feature the Subject: “How could the Cross Offend?” Here now are our Scriptures on the necessity for the cross in the life of our Lord:

Read: I Corinthians 1:18-25
Ephesians 2:11-19

THE DAILY WALK WITH CHRIST’S CROSS

A few years ago, God impressed upon me the necessity of getting regular exercise. About the same time, I realized my Christian life was suffering from a dearth of prayer. One morning I decided to begin walking daily. I thought, “I’ll walk and when I finish I’ll go into my church auditorium and have a time of prayer with the Lord.”

As I began my walk, it suddenly dawned upon me to pray as I walked. That first morning my prayer-walk was might short. I was out of shape and couldn’t walk very far. I must confess that after waling only two or three hundred yards, I was tired. But, I stayed with it. Day after day, I increased the distance and expended more time in prayer. The church of which I was pastor was just over a mile from our home in the church’s parsonage. After a few days, I was able to walk to the church and return, praying as I went.

During that first ;year, I found myself concentrating on the speed of my walk, the length of my stride, dressing against gad or threatening weather and the physical side of my walk. I experimented with following different routes as I walked. Some days my walk took me down side roads and into remote places which barely had roads. It was a rural area and often dogs came out to the roadway to examine me or threaten to bite this “intruder.” I decided to stand my ground and, to my surprise, about the only thin that happened was that the dogs followed me, often taking them far from their homes.

One particularly friendly pooch even followed me home” right to the back door. I felt guilty for drawing the neighbors’ dogs so far from home. Nobody ever called or drove by to rebuke me. Either they couldn’t find me or it didn’t matter. I resisted the urge to reward any dogs for their inconvenience in following me. I was sure that would bring other problems.

I have walked here in Jonesville for a little more than two years now. I walk Monday through Saturday, taking the Lord’s day off for rest. Also, my Sunday schedule is more complicated.

When I began walking, I realized that approaching cars posed a danger as their lights didn’t pick me up very well. I was walking early to avoid complicating my work schedule. Often my walk began in full darkness. Other days were foggy or overcast. My presence was difficult for drivers to see with adequate notice. My wife went to work in her sewing room and designed and made a blouse or vest for me to wear. It is large enough to slip over heavy outer clothing but very durable. On both front and back she fashioned crosses made from reflective tape cloth. Passersby yell me the cross is very visible to them as they approach of a morning. Most speak in a positive tome. I must confess, I have wondered if for someone, someday, who is angry at God, my crosses might be thought of as a target. I hope not.
As I walked daily with the cross portrayed on both my chest and back, I thought of the symbolism of bearing the cross. For the Christian, bearing the cross of Christ is a daily marching order. Jesus said, “And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:27)

There has been an evolution of thought in my life as to this daily literal, visible bearing of Christ’s cross. At first, as I walked, I must confess to a certain amount of pride. “I’m doing something unusual.” Slowly, however, my thoughts began to change as I thought of my own sins and shortcomings. My first thoughts of pride worked their way to feleings of unworthiness, even shame. Noe, when I pull my “cross blouse” over my shoulders I feel most unworthy to bear
Christ’s cross. Nevertheless, now I feel I must. What started as a practical thing has taken on a distinctly spiritual mode. I now bear it because I believe it is a way to lift up Christ. Suddenly, on day, I realized that lifting the cross of Christ is every Christian’s job. We can’t all walk through the streets of a morning. But, every believer is ordered by Christ to be His cross bearer. I want so very much to be a better bearer of my Lord’s cross. If you are a believer, I hope that is how you feel too.

Next, we’ll talk about the Cross and the Electric Chair. Until then, let’s cherish the Old Rugged Cross.

Here is today’s Cross-Walk passage from God’s Word: Hebrews 12:1-3