It was the summer of 1944.
The world was at war. The beaches of Normandy had been stained with the blood of thousands of young men. The terrible battles of Iwo Jima and Okinawa were yet to be fought on the Pacific front in our quest to destroy the forces of evil which threatened to enslave us.
That same summer in the dry and dusty fields of Western Oklahoma a seed was sown in the heart of a farmer, a layman who had a heart for God. He and his wife had a vision of a Vacation Bible School to be held in a local abandoned school house which served as a community center.
There was no church nearby to sponsor it but Clarence Killingsworth and his wife somehow effectively shared the dream with enough people it came to a reality that summer. My dad was a believer, although I don’t remember ever going to church before that time.
We had barely survived the depression and were beginning a fresh start. He, along with my mom and four children, myself included, were involved in that first VBS. I was age 7 at the time and I remember very little about the event that was to play a part in my eternal destiny. I do remember Mrs. Killingsworth, our teacher, sharing about how God had answered prayer regarding the healing of her husband during a serious illness.
In God’s eternal plan, that seed about the power of prayer, found a home in my heart and caused me to search for God and his plan and purpose for my life.
The VBS ended, but there was enough interest about spiritual matters it was decided the ministry would be continued in the form of a Sunday school which would meet weekly to nurture the children in the community and the adults as well.
In those days, there was a family on about every quarter section so the need was great. There was no pastor or any denominational ties — just a group of farmers, who with their families, gathering together each week to study the Bible.
It was never very large but it continued for at least ten years. I remember a lady named Glennie Spencer, who taught the children’s class. At one point we were challenged to memorize the Ten Commandments. For those who did so she would give a little, pocket sized New Testament. After completing the task I received the reward and it became my prized possession, the only Bible I had for many years.
Occasionally, a preacher would come by to preach to us. One Sunday a Methodist pastor from a nearby church filled the “pulpit.” I don’t recall much about the sermon. But I do remember his statements about hell. They convinced my tender heart I wanted to become a Christian. But I didn’t know how.
Two or 3 years later, at the age of 12, some men from a little country church came by our house. They asked my dad to lead the music during their upcoming revival. He agreed to do so. Our family, of course, would be involved.
For whatever reason, my mother and I did not attend that first night. This gave me a chance to pour out my heart feelings to her in private. She agreed it was time and as they say, “the rest is history.”
The next night on the first note of the hymn of invitation I was down the aisle sharing with the preacher I wanted to become a Christian. I don’t remember the words I said, I just remember the feelings in my heart and will.
I wanted to give my life to Christ, to live for Him. Now 72 years later, I’d like to say with the Apostle Paul in Acts. 20:24, “…I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me — the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.” And it all began with a dream of a farmer.
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