It was bitter cold, that night in January. I was committed as a volunteer that evening for The Mothers March of Dimes. I had a dilemma. Normally I would have worn slacks to keep the wind from blasting my legs and a warm scarf would be around my head to protect my delicate ears.
But my dilemma was that The Mothers March was not the only destination I had for the evening. After I was done with the first obligation I had promised myself I would attend the first night of the revival my church was having that week. When I was raised in the 1940s and 1950s ladies did not wear slacks and scarves to
church. They wore dresses and hats. What to do? There was no time between my first obligation and my second commitment to myself to change my outer wear. Oh well. I canít be that cold as I hastily decided to wear a wool skirt, heavy sweater, long winter coat . . . and a hat.
By the time I had hastily covered all the houses in my assigned territory, pausing for pleasantries at each open door, and turned in my receipts to the chairlady of the Mothers March I felt like Iíd never be warm again. The walk to the church did not help.
The service started shortly after I had taken my usual sixth row from the front seat. I listened intently as Rev.
Palmer opened the service. After the congregation had sung a couple hymns and Rev. Palmer lead us in prayer he introduced the guest revivalist.
I donít recall the revivalistís name, but I remember he spoke about Fellowship, and I distinctly remember he said if a church did not have fellowship and did not invite the stranger in their midst to join their fellowship, the church would eventually wither on the vine and die.
Then at the conclusion of the service Rev. Palmer came to the chancel and announced an altar call. I donít
remember going to the altar or returning to my seat, but I do remember Rev. Palmer introducing me
to the revivalist and both of them putting their hands on my head and offering up a prayer on my behalf.
I didnít know what had just happened to me, but my eyes filled with tears on the way home. I had decided to
call Daddy, who was quite a Bible scholar, to find out what had happened to me and what, if anything, I should
do about it.
After I had explained the occurrence to Daddy he told me God had spoken to me. He had His plans for me, but
I was not to question His will for me.
What did God mean at that long ago church service when He spoke to me? I honestly believe He was telling
me to continue writing. I feel every time I write some article or story, or even letter, that if I resonate
with one person, I have put a smile on Godís face.
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