Room at the Cross

Room At The Cross

by Franklin L. Foust

Forward You should write a book! I've been told this a number of times. Although my life has been far from typical, I've never considered it interesting enough to warrant writing a book about it. However, my high school classmate and friend, Everett King, has pestered me enough to give a try!

Dedication I dedicate this book to my foster mother, Virginia (Dunton) Burley, who “took me in” and has loved me, inspired me, given me a few kick in the pants as needed (quite often I'm afraid), and tolerated me for over fifty years! She is currently 89 years old (I know you should never tell a woman's age) and has moved into an assisted living facility. I am sure she will be the resident missionary doing what she has spent her entire life doing – loving, caring, praying, listening, encouraging, and etc.

Not only has she been my mother, but also my counselor, confidant, comforter, and countless other things. Whenever I have needed her in the fifty plus years, she has always been there for me.

Obviously, her two biological sons have a tremendous love and respect for her. My love for her is not the same. She bore them, but she chose me and grafted me into her heart as a wild vine into the olive tree. Rest assure it was no easy task to take an untamed and undisciplined teenager into her nice, orderly family. Very few people here on earth would be willing to do what she did! I am forever in her debt and I'm so thankful she gave me the mother I dreamed about, but at times I thought God had given me a Marine drill instructor! I'm standing up straight - at attention – I salute you!

Long ago while eating breakfast at her table I looked up and saw a plaque, which read, “Only one life will soon be past; only what's done for Christ will last.” For over fifty years I've quoted that plaque and attempted to live a life for Christ. That same plaque now graces a special place in my home.

A couple of months ago my special friend Peter Mahoney mailed me a card, which also included the last half of the verse: “Only one life will soon be past; Only what's done for Christ will last; And when I'm dying, how happy I will be If the lamp of life was burned out for thee.” ~ C. T. Studd Mom, I pray that your lamp will burn for a while longer as I need you to give me a few more “kicks in the pants!”

Thank you for my life. Thank you, thank you!

Love, Frank

Childhood & The Johnsons I was born on November 1, 1945 in the historic city of Oregon City, Oregon. I spent the next eighteen years of my life growing up in the city of Molalla, Oregon, which is about fifteen minutes from my birthplace.

I'm not sure if my earliest memories are really mine or if they were handed down to me by my mother's siblings. My mother died at the age of twenty-three from Tuberculosis. I was only three years old when she died and do not remember what she looked like. Sadly, I only have a few pictures of her and those were taken from a distance. The only clear memory that I have of her is during the end stage of her disease.

At the time of my mother's passing my father abandoned me and gave me to my mother's parents who were very poor. They struggled to raise the last seven remaining children at home (they had a total of nine children). Of course, I was an additional burden, another mouth to feed.

My grandfather immigrated from Sweden and my grandmother was the daughter of a prosperous Eastern Washington wheat farmer who had lost everything during the Great Depression!

My grandfather was a very violent and abusive alcoholic. My aunts and uncles told me stories of hiding their mother in the attic to keep their father from finding her so he wouldn't beat her. My grandmother had very long hair and my drunken grandfather would drag her around the house by her hair during the frequent beatings she received.

She died in her forties – probably from being pounded on the side of the head. She died the night of her daughter's (my Aunt Gladys) eighth grade graduation, which she had planned to attend. She told my Aunt Gladys shortly before it was time to leave, “I'm sorry, honey, but my head is hurting and I can't come.” My Aunt Gladys had no idea that those were the last words she would ever hear from her mother's lips. When she returned home from graduation, her mother was dead!

One time in a fit of rage my grandfather threw the baby (my Uncle Robert) out of the window. On another occasion when my mother was a young girl, my grandfather beat her with a dog chain.

These particular memories are not mine but recounted to me by my aunts and uncles as I was too young to remember them. Since there was not much of an age gap between my younger aunts and uncles and myself, they were more like brothers and sisters than aunts and uncles to me.

Even now, in the beginning of this book, I am finding it very difficult to write about these memories! I would rather block them out rather than to have to relive them, dredging them up from the pit of despair. The intense emotions that I am now feeling as I write this are difficult for me to handle. We shall see how it goes!

The next memory could possibly be my own – what my Aunt Lillian told me or a combination of both.

When I was about three years old, we were living in an old tumbled-down log house (this I do remember). My Aunt Lillian was home alone with my dying mother and myself. My Aunt Lillian became hysterical as my mother took a turn for the worse. Aunt Lillian needed to go to the neighbors and they lived about a half mile away. She was afraid to leave me alone, but knew she had to. She sat me down beside a fence and told me not to move until she had returned. When she had finally returned with help, I was still sitting in the spot where she had left me.

Shortly after this, my mother was taken to the Tuberculosis hospital in Salem, Oregon. Once again, I don't believe the memory is mine, but I was taken to the hospital where my mother was allowed to see me. She looked from her window to see me in the lawn outside.

I do believe I have a dim memory of my mother lying near the window in the log house before she was taken to the Tuberculosis hospital.

My mother was only twenty-three when she passed away. At that time we were living in Redland, Oregon near Oregon City.

From Redland we moved to Wilhoit Springs – many miles up into the mountains above Molalla.

Molalla sits at the foot of the Cascade mountains. During the winter it would not be uncommon for Molalla to not have any snow and there would be a foot of snow at Wilhoit Springs. Oh yes, lest I forget, there really was a spring that had minerals in it (a lot of sulfur). It smelled like rotten eggs and tasted unbelievably bad! Nevertheless, many of the old-timers swore by its health benefits. I chose to be among the less healthy!

Wilhoit Memories I remember a big gray house and a big red barn. I remember our getting some beautiful black chickens.

In my eyes they were the most beautiful chickens in the world Their black feathers shimmered in the sun. When they were released they all flew away – never to be seen again.

There are some good memories and not so good memories during our time at Wilhoit Springs. I remember one time when my Uncle Melvin became angry at his father (my grandfather). My Uncle Melvin attempted to stab him with a huge butcher knife. On another occasion when Myrle (Aunt Lillian's husband) angered Melvin, Melvin came after him with a hatchet!

I was about four years old at this time and was scared of the cows. Melvin would take me out into the pasture and put me on a tree stump and leave me there. Because of my fear of cattle I would stay on the stump yelling, screaming, and crying for help. Sooner or later someone would come to my rescue.

One day my Aunt Lillian and I went into the woods to pick blackberries. Well, as it turned out we got lost. Aunt Lil had a panic attack. I remember taking her by the hand assuring her I would find the way back home. Well, miracle of miracles, I did just that. Somehow I remembered certain spots I had observed on the way into the forest. I remembered reading “And a little child shall lead them...,” and that's what happened.

At the elevation of Wilhoit Springs we received an abundance of snow. There was a large steep slope on our property. My two young uncles – Uncle Buster and Uncle Robert – had a sled. They used to slide down the hill and when they got to the barbed wire fence they would lie flat on the sled and zip under the fence. I do not remember any injuries – thank God! I cringe even today when I think of what the barbed wire could have done to their backs had they not lain as flat as they did.

One day when they went sledding, they took me along and let me slide down the mountain in a huge wash pan. When they looked back to see how I was doing, I was nowhere to be found! They trudged back up the hill to find me. After a great amount of searching they found me buried in a snow bank. I and the dish pan had hit a soft spot and down we went. I was taken to the house – dried off – given dry clothes and then told I sat near the old wood stove to thaw out. No severe after effects other than a “cooling of the pride,” so to speak.

It was while living at Wilhoit Springs that my grandfather died. Every Friday night (payday) we would go to Oregon City. Myrl, Aunt Lil and I would go to the movies, usually a western. We would watch cowboy greats such as: Roy Rogers, Gene Autrey, John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, and etc.

While at the movies my grandfather would visit his favorite watering hole – the bar – the Claimont.

One night at the movies Aunt Lil said to Myrle, “Let's get out of here. Something has happened to Dad.” He told her to hush and to stop being so silly. After her persistence we finally left the theater and she was right! That night it was really foggy and my grandfather left the bar to go to another bar across the street and was hit by a car. He died three days later.

The day he died the dog started to howl and did so for a few days. Many years later my Aunt Gladys told me, “The day my Father died I didn't shed one tear. I hated him more than anyone in the world.”

Gladys was my mother's youngest sister. She was almost like a mother to me. I know what she said about her father's death seems heartless, but from a human standpoint it is understandable. All the

years of heartless abuse – doing without the essentials of life – even food at times so my grandfather could nurse his favorite vice – the bottle. It would cause most anyone to become bitter.

Crazy Looking back now I realize that Melvin was, in fact, insane – for which he had a good reason. As a young child my grandfather and his brother teased and tormented Melvin unmercifully. They would pour salt on his hair – jerk his hair. The first words that Melvin spoke were vulgarities that would cause the Devil himself to blush. My grandfather and his brother were delighted to hear such words out of the mouth of a small boy. They literally drove him crazy! I know this because my Aunt Lillian told me of seeing those things happen to Melvin. Melvin was, in fact, quite an intelligent person. He was a con artist if ever there was one. In his earlier years he was quite the ladies’ man in that he was very handsome, but it didn't take long for the true Melvin to emerge and the ladies quickly faded away.

Melvin was in and out of jail most of his life for various crimes, some petty and some not so petty. As I have already said, he was quite a con man. Melvin never learned to read or write, never learned to drive an automobile, but he was able to keep himself drunk with the many “friends” he had in Molalla.

After moving from Wilhoit Springs we moved to Mulino – a small community seven miles from Molalla. I started first grade at Mulino grade School at age five. My teacher was a young pretty lady named Mrs. Keepers. Eighteen years later I began my teaching career at the same school. The school had grown large enough to have a classroom for every grade, grades one through eight. I was hired in 1969 to be the sixth grade teacher. More of that story later in the book.

While we were living in Mulino, Melvin broke my leg. We were sitting on the couch when he became angry at me. He took my leg and twisted it. It broke in four places – the knee, the ankle, and two other places in between.

At first nobody believed the leg was broken. They said I was just faking it and thus they kept trying to make me walk on it for the next few hours. Obviously, the pain was terrible! When I was finally taken to the doctor it was discovered that my leg was, in fact, broken. The reason that was given for how the leg was broken was that I fell off the couch. What an amazing feat! Fall off the couch and break your leg in four places. Of course, who knows, maybe the couch was fifteen feet high!

In those days abuse was seldom reported or confronted. Nobody wanted to get involved. I was in a cast from my hip to the bottom of my leg for a number of months.

One of the most precious memories that I have is that my Aunt Gladys (a young teenage girl) would put me on the school bus in the morning and every afternoon, without fail, would be there to help me off the bus.

Because of having to miss so much school in regards to my broken leg and that I had started school at age five I failed the first grade. When showing my report card I remember someone saying, “Oh hell, you're so damn stupid. You'll never learn!”

There were many other occasions of physical abuse – such as the time Melvin hit me on the side of my head with a shoe that had a horseshoe cleat on it. The whole side of my head swelled and turned black and blue.

When I was in the fifth grade, I had to have my appendix removed. When I came home from the hospital on that day, with clamps on the incision, Melvin kicked me in the stomach.

That's enough of the physical abuse – obviously there was much more! Not only was there physical abuse to be endured, but there were also mental and emotional cruelties to be endured as well.

One day Melvin came out of the barn with my kitten. He had stuck a pitchfork through it and shook it in front of my face while he laughed and laughed.

Melvin had a friend named Charles. They were true soul brothers. It was hard to tell who was the sickest of the two. One day they caught a frog and took a razor blade and skinned it. They had a grand old time watching it hop around. They, of course, insisted that I should watch the results of their cruelty.

My Aunt Lillian made somewhat of a prophetic observation: she said, “Any man that is cruel to an animal will be cruel to his wife.”

Many years later Melvin beat his wife with a chain just as my grandfather did to my mother when she was but a girl. Charles ended up going to prison for murdering his wife.

Melvin died in his early sixties from alcohol abuse. By the time he passed away I had long forgiven him. But except for the grace of God I could have lived and died the tragic way he did.

Uncle Buster & Uncle Bob Uncle Buster (Clarence) and Uncle Bob (Robert) were the youngest of my grandparents’ children.

They were pre-teens when their parents died. I put them in together in this chapter of the book because they were always together. There was only eleven months difference in their ages.

Uncle Buster had a light complexion, was short, and broad-chested. Uncle Bob was a number of inches taller – tall, dark and handsome!

Both boys were keenly interested in hunting and fishing. Venison was our main source of meat. Open hunting season was any season when it came to Bob and Buster.

As long as they lived they were never apart – which was not for a long time, I'm sorry to say. They worked together as loggers and were as close as any two brothers could be.

I was more like a baby brother rather than a nephew. Both of these uncles were very good to me. They were my heroes and I will never forget their love and concern for me.

One of my happiest memories is when they went to the carnival where they would win baby ducks and baby turtles, and bring them home to me. You want to talk about one happy little boy!

When they were old enough to own cars they would put me on their laps and let me steer. Boy, was I proud! Incidentally, they worked for the money to purchase their cars or anything else they had.

Neither of them were ever given anything. They were hard workers and self-sufficient.

Uncle Buster was seriously injured in a logging accident. A tree slid down the side of a mountain and hit him on the side. He sustained multiple injuries – lost a kidney. Shortly thereafter, he was diagnosed with cancer. He was engaged to be married but withdrew from the engagement when he knew he had cancer.

Uncle Buster died a slow horrible death. He withered away until he was nothing but skin and bones.

He was always cold. He would burn himself on our oil stove trying to get warm. Poor Aunt Lillian, she cooked about everything hoping that Uncle Buster could keep it down, which was usually not the case.

During this time Uncle Robert had married a beautiful young girl – Aunt Betty. They were very young, but very much in love. They asked Uncle Buster to come and live with them. At this time Uncle Buster was nearing the end and taking very heavy doses of medicine.

One night he got up and took his rifle and shot himself. He was only twenty-four years old. Whenever I am in Oregon City I visit his grave along with my mother's.

When I think of all the life I've lived these sixty-eight years and how their lives were cut so short I've realized how blessed I've been.

Uncle Buster was the one in the family who seemed to be the least damaged in our horribly dysfunctional family. He was truly a good person and he loved me as I did him. Uncle Buster's memory will always hold a special spot in my heart.

After Uncle Buster's death Uncle Robert was never the same. He never got over losing Buster and this great loss affected him throughout the remainder of his life. With Uncle Buster's passing it seemed as if the lights had gone out of Uncle Robert.

Uncle Robert and Aunt Betty became the parents of three very beautiful girls. Bob, following family tradition, became an alcoholic. When he drank, he became mean – just like his father! Aunt Betty finally gave him an ultimatum – he could have his family or he could have his booze, not both. He wisely chose his family. Uncle Robert and Aunt Betty were able to raise their daughters and enjoyed seeing many of their grandchildren.

After the girls were grown and married, Uncle Robert reverted back to his old ways. Rather than living with the abuse Aunt Betty chose to divorce Uncle Robert. The divorce totally destroyed Uncle Robert.

Betty had been his anchor. Without her Uncle Robert completely fell apart and for a period of time he had to be institutionalized. Shortly after being released Uncle Robert took a butcher's knife and slit his wrist and bled to death. A few years after that Aunt Betty died from cancer. Aunt Betty, her mother, and all of her siblings died from cigarette smoking. Unfortunately, she died young!

Until now I have focused on my mother's younger siblings because they were the ones that I spent my childhood with. The oldest in my mother's family was my Aunt Edna. By the time I came along she was married. She and her husband, Uncle Don, had six children. She and her family lived a relatively normal life because of Uncle Don. He was a good, stable man – worked hard- the solid rock of the family. I've always envied my cousins, wishing I had a father like theirs.

Aunt Edna served as the matriarch of the entire family. She was especially good to me- probably because I was her deceased sister's child.

My Uncle Ray was second in line. He was somewhat of a loner. Very selfish and self-centered. He married a good woman who had two children. Ray abused them all – not physically, but mentally and emotionally! As part of the family tradition he became an alcoholic.

After Aunt Mary died he became somewhat of a recluse, just him and his bottle. Ray was not a violent drunk, but he was obnoxious. The only time that I had seen him behave violently was when I was thirteen years old and announced that I had become a Christian. He pinned me to the floor and said, “There has never been a Christian in this family and there never will be.” He then proceeded to pour whiskey down my throat!

Well, if the truth were to be known, he was most definitely wrong on one count and most likely on two.

I have remained a Christian for the last fifty-four years of my life. So there goes “...and there never will be.” Now the other part, “There has never been a Christian...,” well, I believe, my mother was a Christian!

I've already told you about my mother's death from Tuberculosis, of her having to see me through the hospital window. Well, it just so happens that my Aunt Lillian told me about the Sunday mornings my mother would get dressed and walk three miles in the rain to go to church. I'm speculating that she didn't do it for the sake of her health.

As she looked at me from her hospital window I would guess she prayed for me. She was leaving me in a home full of alcohol and abuse. She was leaving me with a father that had beaten her with a dog chain. I believe her prayers followed her beyond the grave and that my salvation was an answer to her

prayers. I also believe that one day in Heaven my mother and I will hold each other in our arms and that I will at last see her face – a face that I wasn't able to see while on earth. “When we all get to Heaven what a day of rejoicing that will be. When we all see Jesus, we'll sing and shout the victory.”

Next in line after Ray and my mother (Dorothy) is my Aunt Betty (note: this is my mother's sister. Not to be confused with my Uncle Robert's wife – Betty).

Aunt Betty was mentally retarded. As a small child she suffered from scarlet fever. It left her very mentally challenged. She married a terrible man. He was quite intelligent, but a lazy, sick person.

Everyone in the family kept their small girls clear of him. John and Betty produced six children. They lived mostly off the state and eventually Child Welfare took the children away – never to be reunited with their parents.

My Aunt Lillian was the next child of the Johnson household. Looking back now I see her as being “socially retarded.” I believe she was born with average intelligence, but her dysfunctional childhood retarded her from normal mental growth. I remember her telling that as she was leaving for school one morning her father said, regarding her mother, “Take a last look at that old #$%^&>. She'll be dead when you get home!” That's the life Aunt Lil lived until her parents died. Aunt Lillian quit school in the seventh grade to help care and watch out for her mother. She was able to read and write. I still have a number of her letters sent to me while I was in various places.

Aunt Lillian married a man old enough to be her father. I'm sure on her part it was a marriage of convenience. She needed someone to help and raise her younger brothers and sisters. The man she married was a good man except when it came to finances. Even though he didn't drink and he worked long hard hours at the sawmill, he would throw away his money on anything that caught his eye. We were always moving from one place to another because we couldn't pay the rent. We were often without electricity and sometimes food.

Aunt Lillian became the “Mother” to all her young siblings – left as orphans at the passing of their parents. Again we find her washing clothes on a washboard, cooking meals on the stove, ironing clothes on the ironing board, and she kept an impeccably clean house. Aunt Lillian also tried to keep the peace in the family as much as possible (I'm sorry to say she failed at that most of the time, but I have to give her credit for trying).

Aunt Lillian and Uncle Myrle were able to purchase a small house and five acres of land with a low down payment and forty five dollar installment payments. This is, of course, over fifty years ago. My Aunt Lillian was so thrilled – at last a home of her own. She kept that little house sparkling clean – every day was spring cleaning day!

They lost the house due to non-payment even though Uncle Myrle was working. It was this time I believe my Aunt Lillian actually had a mental or nervous breakdown. She went from being clean to being sloppy. She gave up all hope when she lost the house!

By the time my Uncle Myrle died Lillian was but a shadow of her former self. I have pictures of her when she was young. She was very beautiful with reddish, brown hair. Somewhat a beauty!

She went on to live with an old drunk. They lived in a filthy shack. She stopped caring about her appearance, her personal hygiene, and started going to bars with Melvin and her companion - “Keeping up the old family tradition!”

A number of years later her companion died and she went to live with Ray (now a widower) and with Melvin. She became the cook and the maid (familiar roles) and they frequented the bars whenever possible. In a few years Melvin died in his early sixties due to heavy drinking and smoking. Now Ray and Lillian were living alone until Ray had to enter a nursing home because of alcohol related problems. Amazingly he lived for about ten years more – just lying in bed and wasting away.

This is where I had to step in. At this time I was residing in Florida – where I still live. There was no way Lillian could live alone. There was only one thing I could do and that was to bring her to live with us. This idea went over like a lead balloon with Aunt Lillian. It was unthinkable to her to leave Molalla! After all she had lived there for more than forty years. Her life revolved around that small town and she wasn't about to leave it without a fight. The sad fact is that there was no other choice!

Upon my insistence she relented and moved to Florida, where she lived until she died. She surprisingly made the adjustment and seemed happily content until the day of her passing.

An interesting side note: Lillian was a heavy duty chain smoker when she arrived in Florida. When she came to Florida she insisted on bringing her stash with her – about a half a suit case of cartons of cigarettes. Upon her arrival I kept expecting her to ask for her cigarettes. Day after day, week after week, and month after month, she never mentioned the cigarettes, which I eventually threw away. She would occasionally tell us that she was still smoking and that no one was going to make her quit. She seemed quite unaware of the fact that she herself had made that decision.

Aunt Lillian was a simple person with many flaws (as we all have), but I loved her. She was the only mother I had for the first fourteen years of my life. Without a doubt she loved me – especially since she never had any children of her own. Life for her had been extremely hard – so much abuse, almost always living in poverty. She laid down her life for her orphaned siblings and for ME! I'm so thankful that God allowed her to be with me during the last few years of her life. I was able to see that she had everything she needed plus her few wants. She was neat and clean – ate whatever she wanted and was actually waited on instead of having to wait on everyone else. This was actually an answer to my prayers. For years I asked God to permit Aunt Lillian to one day come and live with us so I could take care of her – take her to places she would have never been otherwise able to go.

She has now been gone for a number of years but she'll always be near and dear to me. My favorite picture of her is kneeling down next to an orphan lamb she helped me raise (In the picture she's wearing an apron – Aunt Lillian was hardly ever seen without her apron on – seems appropriate in that an apron somehow reflects servant hood.) So like her and her life caring for an orphan lamb – fourlegged or two-legged. God only knows how many unwanted lambs she cared for. I, being one, of the many!

The last time I saw her was shortly after she died. When the hospital nurse allowed me to see her she looked so peaceful, so at rest. Rest at last for one whose life was not easy, a life that had been without so many things we just take for granted. A life of poverty, toil and abuse. Though it was hard to let her go, I did so gladly knowing she had made peace with God. She was now in a place where her hard journey was now over, where her life of toil had ended. No more abuse, no more dying, no more crying. No more worrying where the next day’s food will be coming from, no more moving from place to place, no more having your house torn from you. No more red and chapped hands from scrubbing on a washboard. No, thank God, all that is now behind her. Now residing in an Eternal City, (who knows, might be somewhat like Molalla) a city that needs no sun because of the Son that shines in that place where there is never night.

No, Aunt Lil I cannot wish you back to this old broken world. It won't be too long and this “little lamb” will join you up near the Throne. What a happy day that will be.

It would appear that I've possibly gotten overly emotional. Well, so be it. I've had to stop and wipe away many tears thus far in writing this book.

The next in line after Lillian were her younger siblings which I have already written about. The only one I haven't yet detailed the life of is my Aunt Gladys (“Gladdy”).

Gladys married at sixteen years of age, being beautiful as a movie star. She married a railroad engineer, Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill was a big, strong, handsome man. I was about eight when they married. Gladys brought me to their home regularly. I was so impressed to have an uncle that “drove a train” and, to top things off, he really cared for me. He showered me with love and affection, something I had never known from a man. Uncle Bill had only one dark side, he was a Heavy Duty Boozer, but he was a “nice drunk,” never abusive.

Gladys and Bill went on to have four children, three girls, and one boy. Following the “Family Tradition,” Aunt Gladys became a first class alcoholic. Her house became the local drop-in center for drunks. They came and went night and day.

One of my saddest memories of Aunt Gladys was when I saw her in Molalla on her way to the bar to get drunk. I said to her, “Gladdy, do you remember telling me how much you hated your father?” She said, “Yes, yes.” I then said, “Isn't it a pity that out of all of his children you have become the most like him?” She just turned and headed toward the bar.

The reason I said this to her was she, like her father was a “mean drunk.” By that I mean, when intoxicated, she was like a completely different person. It was as though a devil would come into her.

Maybe that's what is meant by “Demon Alcohol.” Sober she was the loveliest woman in the world.

Drunk, “hell” almost literally broke out.

Aunt Gladys did untold damage to herself, her husband, and to her children. Her only son picked up the torch and has destroyed most of his life with booze. He is currently “on the wagon” through the help of the Salvation Army, but has wasted thirty to forty years of his life.

Over twenty-five years ago I was working at a church in Chattanooga, TN when Aunt Gladys was not doing well. She and her mother-in-law came to visit me. They came and spent about two weeks, and it was a wonderful visit. Obviously, Gladys didn't drink while at my home. I was able to take her to the Grand Old Opry in Nashville, which was a lifelong dream of hers.

A few months later I called her and invited her back. I said I would pay for her ticket if she would come and help me thoroughly clean my house. I was moving and wanted to leave the house clean, (Remember that I was still single at this time). She was happy to jump at the chance.

This time she was with me for three weeks. Another wonderful time together, no drinking, going to church and loving it along with hours of remembering old times. A sweet and final memory.

After three weeks Uncle Bill drove all the way from Portland Oregon to Chattanooga in order to get Aunt Gladys so that they could do some sightseeing in Washington, DC, before returning to Oregon together.

When Uncle Bill arrived at my house he said to me, “Frankie (That's what all of my family called me), I can't believe that this is Gladys. She looks twenty-five years younger.”

They left for DC and in a few weeks were back in Oregon. About a month later my phone rang around 3:00 AM, and someone informed me that she had taken a pistol and killed herself while in a state of drunkenness. Shortly before taking her life she had said to Bill, “I want to go see God, maybe he will accept me. I'm so tired.”

The next day I received a call from someone in Gladdys’ family requesting that I be the one to conduct her funeral, which I agreed to do. It was during the service that I faced one of the most difficult challenges of my life. The soloist was singing, “Well I'm tired and I'm weary but I must travel on till the Lord comes and calls me, calls me away; where the lion will be gentle, and the rough places plain, and I'll be changed from this creature that I am. Oh there will be peace in the Valley for me, someday, there will be peace in the Valley oh Lord I pray. There will be no sadness, no sickness, no parting I see, yes there will be peace in the Valley for me.”

Remember Aunt Gladys’ last words about being “so tired”? There I am sitting and waiting for the song to be over, and then I'm supposed to give words of comfort to this grieving congregation. I remember saying to the Lord, “Oh God! I can't get up and do this, but God, I have to. The only way I can do this is to have you do it through me.” Well, praise God! That's exactly what happened.

Bill and Gladys lived in an old but nice home in NE Portland. Gladdy was a stay at home mom, and thus became the unofficial babysitter for the neighborhood children. Children absolutely loved her. She would tell stories (often of her own making, made up as she went along) by the hour to her “little captive audience.” She greatly dramatized her stories with facial, vocal, and physical effects. With singing, dancing, etc., etc. The children would sit transfixed by this amazing lady. They would laugh, cry, shout for joy- express the full range of human emotions. Nothing on TV could come close to this!

When hearing of Gladdy's untimely passing, these children (now grown adults) collected money among themselves and sent a beautiful spray to her funeral. It was signed, “To the Magic Lady.”

Yes, indeed, Gladdy was a magic lady. As her name would infer, she spread a great deal of gladness during her time on this earth. With her striking looks and her exceptional gift of acting, she could have become a successful actress had she been given the chance. To top it off she had a beautiful singing voice.

One of my earliest memories is hearing Aunt Gladys singing, “Oh listen to the Mocking Bird, listen to the Mocking Bird, the Mocking Bird is singing on the way.” Strange song for her to sing in Oregon where Mocking birds are unknown. On the other hand, in the south where I live, there are an abundance of Mocking birds. So much that a number of southern states choose them as their state bird.

Quite often when I hear a Mocking bird sing, I think of Aunt Gladys. I remember her beautiful face, her lovely voice, and best of all, her great love for me. Sorry to say that song was taken away, taken away from us by “Demon Alcohol,” and by family and supposed friends who loved this “demon” more than they loved her. Regardless of the fact that they knew she was struggling to rid herself of her addiction, they would still come to her home and get drunk. I hold them as responsible as if they pulled the trigger of the gun that killed her. In a real sense they did, at least partially, “pull the trigger.”

Aunt Gladdy's mortal remains lie in a grave in Uncle Bill's family cemetery. Twenty years later Uncle Bill was laid to rest beside her. I know how they loved each other but “Demon Alcohol” had stolen from them the happiness that could and should have been theirs.

I spoke to Uncle Bill shortly before his death, of which he was dying of cancer. It had been over twenty years since I had spoken to him at Aunt Gladdy's funeral. I blamed him and his family for Gladdy's death.

Something I failed to mention about Uncle Bill was his hatred towards Christianity. He said that religion was for the weak, for old ladies and children. He sent for a bogus ministerial license and married people in the bars (I guess more honest that those who marry in church and then go to the bar to celebrate). He was even written up in the newspaper for his unusual marriage ministry.

The reason I called Uncle Bill after so many years was his daughter told me he had become a Christian.

Uncle Bill a Christian? This man who taunted and demeaned Christians (except me). This man now proclaiming to have been “born again.” This man singing “Amazing Grace.” Oh yes, I definitely needed to call Uncle Bill. When I called he began to weep and asked if I would forgive him for what he had done to my Aunt Gladys. I said “of course I forgive you, but better yet, Uncle Bill, God forgives both of us, of both our sins.” He confirmed that he had, in fact, become a Christian, and was “born again.” Yes, God's grace is amazing, so amazing that He was able to reach one whom I deemed “unreachable.” Praise God! Praise God! Praise God! The last words I remember him saying were, “Frankie, all my life I lived in a dark cave, then suddenly I entered into a beautiful room, full of light. My only regret is that I hadn't found it long ago, so many wasted years.” How true to the scriptures that tell us, “you who were the children of darkness have seen a Great Light.”

I believe that this basically tells about my biological family. Further into this book I will relate other instances regarding the Johnson's, but they will hopefully reflect some funny and happy times.

Oh Rats I used to say we were so poor the rats wouldn't live at our house. Well, as you will soon see, that wasn't quite true. We, in fact, had quite a colony of them living under the house.

The living room of our house was, shall we say, “a straight shot” from the kitchen, to be more exact, the kitchen sink. The problem was there was a big hole on the wall near the sink. And at night our unwelcome guest would steal the bar of hand soap kept near the sink unless Aunt Lillian remembered to put it elsewhere. If, in the morning, our night burglars had gotten the soap, Aunt Lillian was not a happy camper. The sky would turn black at the words she spewed forth in regards to our long tailed thieves.

As it turned out there were a couple of serious hunters and fishermen living under our roof, uncle Buster, and uncle Robert. Late at night they would sit on the couch with their twenty two rifles. I was stationed at the light switch. We had to be completely quiet until we heard the rats rustling about the kitchen. When I heard “Now,” I flipped on the lights and the bullets began to fly. I must brag, my uncles were very good shots. Though Aunt Lillian had to clean up the blood after our “midnight slaughter,” she was happy to do so. The sky turned black to blue for a while until the rats recruited new troops, and then “hunting season opened up again.”

I mentioned that my uncles were expert hunters and fishermen. Well, in all actuality my Uncle Robert was the fisherman. One night before bed Uncle Robert took out his fishing pole, baited the hook with cheese and dropped the line down the hole. Almost immediately he got a “bite,” and up comes a big rat.

My uncle Robert was the one who taught me to fish, but only for the fish. “Oh Rats!”

This might be the appropriate time to tell about my foster brothers Vic and Lynn. My foster mother tells of the time they came to her and said, “Mother, why does Franklin always tell all those lies about his experiences with his family?” She said to them, “Boys, those aren't lies, they really did happen.”

Well, most of those experiences were ones I wouldn't have wished to share with anyone. However, the “Rats” experience is one I would have shared with Vic and Lynn. It would have expanded their cultural horizons. Who knows, they might have even picked up valuable clues on “hunting” and “fishing”.

Happy 4th of July The town of Molalla's claim to fame is two fold. The first being the annual Molalla Buckaroo, secondly being that it has more bars and churches than any other town with the same population.

The rodeo goes from July 2nd thru the 4th. On the morning of the 4th there is a very big parade. People from all over the northwest come to participate and rodeo contestants come from all over the US and Canada. The parade is about a mile long. Horses, horses, and more horses. Be careful where you step!

As a boy I remember the rodeo stadium was located at the main intersection. In those days the population of Molalla was about a thousand people. Many years ago the stadium was moved to the outskirts of town, a much more convenient location, somehow not nearly as memorable as its original spot. After all it was there I saw Roy Rogers and his dog Bullet. I assume very few young people remember them, but what an unbelievable experience for a ten year old boy in those days.

In those days I lived with my biological family, and the 4th of July was the highlight of the year, even overshadowing Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Presently living in the south I hear a lot about the Hatfields and the McCoys. Well, let it be known that we in Molalla, Oregon had our “Johnsons, (my family), and the Rhores,” who could easily have kept up with, and probably out done their southern counterparts.

Let’s see now: The parade, rodeo, big picnics, carnival and fireworks display. After all of that, the “real action,” the main event, and most exciting of all occurred at the end of the fireworks, just outside of the most popular bar in Molalla. A few hours before the Johnsons and the Rhores were “fueling up,” so to speak. After becoming as “Drunk as a Skunk,” both parties headed for the street (women included of course, women's equality had already been a long part of our western tradition). Once on the street the real fun began. You must realize there were no set rules other than men vs men, and women vs women (that is, until things got so completely out of hand that even this rule would occasionally be broken).

Giving credit where credit is due, the ladies’ warfare was the best of all. While the men were boxing, pounding, and wrestling, the ladies were yelling, scratching, screaming and, of course, pulling each other’s hair. I saw one woman drag another woman down the street by her long hair. I don't remember any serious injuries occurring during these annual brawls. Black eyes, swollen jaws, lots of scratches, loosened or lost teeth, and many women who had patches of hair missing.

My Uncle Robert Johnson, and Claurence Rhores were the main stars in this annual “Molalla mixin’ it up street brawl.” Oh those good old days. After all the steam was over, both parties would go back into the bar for a few last drinks for the sake of friendship. For the rest of the year both parties bragged how they had been the victors and hardly able to wait until the next 4th of July. One positive thing about this performance was that it was free, and all were welcome to “join in” or just stand back and watch a much better show than the rodeo had to offer (even the bull riding, which is still my favorite).

Oh yes, where were the police when this street show was occurring? They would show up when everything was winding down and make it appear as they were maintaining the peace of Molalla, that is, until the next 4th of July. The 4th of July is a much quieter and peaceful event these days. After all, Craig Roberts is now sheriff (my former student). I'm sure he'll tell you he learned the most about keeping “law and order” from his old 6th grade teacher. “Keep up the good work Craig!”

Oh No! You're Not One of Those Are You? This incident happened after I became a teacher in Mulino Oregon. For many years my foster parents would take a brother and sister to Sunday school and church. After they grew up the girl moved into a house in Portland with a number of other young people. Her mother became alarmed, believing her daughter was caught up in a cult. She called my foster mother hoping she might be able to help. My foster mother told her she would see what she could do. As is turned out she “volunteered” her #1 foster son to go into Portland and check what the real story was in regards to the supposed cult.

After visiting with the young woman that her mother was concerned about, I discovered she was a part of a legitimate Christian ministry. I conveyed this information to my foster mother who in turned shored it with the concerned mother who was greatly relieved. Having given you this little bit of history I will now proceed to tell you that shortly thereafter this same lady hired a young teenager to work on her farm. The father of this boy just so happened to be a very wealthy man who had decided his son needed to learn to work. Well, working was not high on the son’s agenda, so he stole the boss’s car and took a day off to go to the beach. This obviously didn't cause the boss to smile.

When the boy returned to Molalla, the boss told the father, “You can't intimidate me just because you're rich. I plan on pressing charges against your son unless you contact Franklin Foust and ask him to help your boy.”

This is how I came to be involved with Donald1 who was attending one of the most exclusive schools in Oregon. Donald wanted to live at home and go to school with his friends, but was forced to go to the private school. One day he said to me, “I know why I have to go away to school. It's because they want to get rid of me.” What could I say?

There was a woman in Molalla who had at one time been Donald's babysitter. Donald asked me to take him to her house so he could visit with her. This woman was quite a notorious person in Molalla, known for her overbearing ways, and not so polite behavior. In spite of this fact I agreed to take Donald to see her.

Upon our arrival Mrs. __________ was delighted to see Donald, and invited us into her house. Shortly after our arrival, she began her inspection of me. She said, “Franklin Foust... Foust, now that doesn't sound like a familiar name in Molalla.” I told her she should remember me in that I had been her neighbor when I was a young boy, and described the house that I lived in with my Aunt and Uncle. She asked, “What was their last names?” I told her Johnson. When she heard Johnson, she screamed “Oh my God, don't tell me you are one of those! Why, those people had all these children running around, and no one knew where they came from! Do you know where you come from?”

I assured her that I did, in fact, know where I came from. I told her I also had come to the place in my life where I realized that anyone who would judge me because of my family background really didn't matter. I told her that I was a teacher, worked hard to get to where I was with the help of God, and my foster parents. She gasped a few times and said, “Why, you're right, absolutely right.” The subject was changed and we proceeded to have a very pleasant visit.2 I lost contact with him until a number of years later; he wrote to me telling me of his wasted years, but 1 Not his real name 2 After note: On many occasions I shared the Gospel with Donald. He was always attentive, and polite, but didn't make any commitment. He proceeded on his downhill slide, drugs, alcohol, etc., ect.

had finally come to the point where he understood what I had tried to share with him. He told me he had become a Christian, and that his life had been turned around thanking me for being his friend when he was a lonely, poor, rich kid.

Thank you Lord for your power to change lives, mine and Donald's, and so many others. “For I am not ashamed of the Gospel, for it is the power of God that brings salvation to first the Jews, then to anyone who believes” (Romans 1:16) Those days are long gone. Molalla has become a bedroom community for Portland for those trying to escape big city life. I don't know Molalla's current population, but with a McDonald's, and a couple of big chain stores, our sleepy little town is “Gone with the Wind.” Ron Dickens' store, a Molalla tradition, gave way to Safeway, as well as so many of the small family owned businesses having to close for progress, not an improvement, at least as far as I'm concerned. However, I know “progress, progress, progress.”

More Molalla Memories The classic 1940's high school was destroyed by an earthquake many years ago. When I pass where it once sat, a flood of wonderful memories come upon me. I can still see the Volkswagen sitting on the roof of the school, and the teachers who owned it, trying to think of a way to get it down. I remember so many wonderful teachers and classmates from this memorable time in my life. This is the year (2014) that our class of 1964 will have our 50th reunion. Hopefully I will attend it. It's always so much fun to be with my classmates. There were only eighty some of us who graduated that year. We were like a family, many of us attending school together for twelve years. An old TV program that played for a number of years was called “Happy Days.” The program was set in about the same era, maybe a little earlier. Well we had our “Happy Days” at Molalla Union High School in our special little town of Molalla.

Thank you God for all of the memories of Molalla, and for all the special people I knew and loved.

Mr. Knopf The 8th grade was a very difficult time of my life. The situation at my Aunt Lillian's, and Uncle Myrle's was getting worse and worse, and so was my behavior at school. I had a major blowout with a teacher (other than my own), and had stopped going to school. If it hadn't been for Mr. Knopf, I might not have ever returned. He came to our house and pleaded with me to return to school.

I remember the first day I saw, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Knopf. He was a very big man, an athlete. I remember being amazed at the size of his fingers at how they looked like hot dogs. He wore dark rimmed glasses, and so did I. He was a wonderful teacher, and a mentor for a boy who never really trusted most men up until then. Most men I knew were not to be trusted, most were non-caring, and often abusive.

Mr. Knopf was the football coach and encouraged me to be on the team. The truth of the matter is I was no more interested in football than going to the moon, but since Mr. Knopf wanted me on the team, so be it, and so I joined the team.

The next year Mr. Knopf was admitted to the Oregon State Mental hospital (I'm sure many who knew me would have accused me of being the reason). It seems his problem was from a chemical in-balance.

He spent many years in the hospital until the doctors were finally able to prescribe medications that returned him to his normal self.

By the time he was released from the hospital I was teaching the 4th grade in the same school where he had been my teacher.

Shortly thereafter I, determined to find him, searched long and hard until I found him on the Oregon Coast. He was remarried and working as a commercial fisherman. He had become a Christian and was doing well. When we sat at his table, I thanked him for what he had done for me. I told him how much he meant to me and that God had placed him in my life to rescue me. He wept and so did I. It was the last time I saw him.

He passed away a number of years ago. I will never forget the “gentle giant� whose heart was even bigger than his hands.

Thank you God for Mr. Eugene Knopf. I know you sent him to me when I needed him so bad.

Aunt Edna Aunt Edna, my mother's oldest sister, and her husband lived about fifteen miles from Molalla. They had six children, but the three eldest ones were the ones I was closest to. Sharon being three years older than me, Roger a year younger, and Larry about two years younger.

Almost every weekend we went to Oregon City to see Aunt Edna and her family. Probably one of the most memorable events was the day Sharon decided to do some sun bathing. There she was, lying out in the lawn sporting her new swimming suit, taking in some rays. Now it just so happened there was a beautiful climbing rosebush nearby. I quietly snipped off a nice vine and ran it over the back of Sharon's legs. Need I say, “She came forth.” It's lucky for me that during those days I was very thin and was quite the runner. She chased me around the house a number of times before finally giving up. It's fortunate for me that she wasn't able to catch me, or I wouldn't be here to tell this most memorable moment. Forgiveness isn't exactly Sharon's most redeeming virtue. Though this “thorny” event occurred about fifty five years ago, Sharon's eyes get big, her voice loud, and she stares at me whenever she recalls (quite frequently) my “special delivery” of roses.

Believe it or not, Sharon and I grew to be very close. She married at the age of sixteen, which I was totally against. The man she married was a number of years older than she and was a heavy drinker. He was in the Army and took her around the world, and they had two sons. After thirty eight years of marriage, and living with an alcoholic husband, she finally forced him to choose between the bottle and her. He chose the bottle.

Her second husband, Terry, was a Navy man who took her around the world again. This time I approved, he's a “teetotaler,” or no booze. To top it off, he's a nice guy and we have become good friends.

Oh yes, I failed to mention that when Sharon and Terry retired, they bought a house eighteen miles from where I live. We now see each other on occasion, and I believe that we're happy to be able to see each other after being away from one another for so many years.

Back to the Rosebush (sub-chapter) As is usually the case, life seems to eventually come back on you. Something about “reaping what you sow.” Well, not too long after Sharon became “The Rose of Sharon,” she was chasing me around her grandmother's house for some “perceived injustice,” or some slight “misunderstanding.” I tripped and fell on a large butcher knife that was lying in the woods, and it stuck right in my knee. I went to the front steps, sat down to see the damage (it was bleeding profusely). About this time, my frigidity cousin Mary Lou said, “What's the m-a-t-t-e-r?” fainting on the spot. It took a number of stitches to patch me up, though I still carry the scar.

Ok Sharon, can we call it even, bury the hatchet (be careful nobody falls on it)? Still doesn't seem quite fair. You got “rosy cheeks” while I got a butcher knife and a big scar.

The Apple Cannon (sub-chapter) I earlier mentioned my mother's sister, Aunty Betty, and our not so popular Uncle John. It just so happens that Aunt Edna lived at the top of a hill, a very steep hill, in Oregon City. Well, one day Betty and John showed up at Aunt Edna's. John drove his car up to the top of the hill and parked it in front of the house pointing it downward. (He did this to help the car to start easier).

In Oregon, we're blessed with an abundance of apples. So much that it isn't unusual to see apples rotting on the ground. I think of those apples when I pay outlandish prices for apples here in Florida.

Now, on with the story: It just so happened that there was a huge apple tree behind Aunt Edna's house.

Knowing “waste not, want not,” Roger, Larry, and I decided to do some “recycling.” We filled a big bucket with apples, got a broom, and proceeded to Uncle John's car. We took the broom-stick and packed the exhaust pipe with apples. We really packed them in tight. We then sat down and waited until John and Betty were ready to leave. We boys innocently looked on for the show. John cranked the old car up, and man, you never heard such sounds come from an automobile. It “huffed,” and it “puffed,” it “fa_ _ _ _” (I leave it to your imagination to fill in the blanks), it fumed, moaned, and groaned. As it went chugging down the hill, our efforts were rewarded beyond our imaginations. Suddenly there was a back firing, and the sound of an explosion. You never saw such a display, much better than any fireworks. The old car relieved itself of its load of apples in quite a spectacular way. A string of apples flew up and over to the other side of the hill. We boys laughed so hard we fell on the ground laughing, crying, and shouting. To think such a display from just a bucket of apples, and some pushing, and pushing, and pushing. By the way, John never came up again to check things out (lucky for us). He just chugged along and went on his merry way.

It's Red All over (sub-chapter) Just below Aunt Edna's house was her neighbor's house. One day the three musketeers Roger, Larry, and I were wondering if anything as exciting and entertaining as “The Apple Cannonball” would ever come our way again; well we didn't have to wait long. We decided to pay the neighbors a visit. They weren't home, so sad, or was it? They had left their basement door open, and there was a large pile of wood just inside used for their wood burning furnace. As good fortune would have it, near the wood pile there was a large bucket of red paint, and a number of paint brushes.

Now what red blooded American boys would not see such a glorious opportunity, a chance to express our artistic talents? We proceeded to paint the whole pile of wood. Think of the favor we were doing for these good people. They could have blazing wood without any fire. Think of all the money we were going to save. They would undoubtedly be grateful, guess we were wrong. The neighbor had no sense of good economics, as I remember his face was as red as the wood pile.

It's a Buzz During my 5th grade in elementary school Aunt Lillian and Uncle Myrle moved to Colton, a community about eight miles from Molalla. I got into countless fights during that year, and lost track of the times I got my glasses broken. The Colton boys were not so keen on hearing how everything in Molalla was superior to Colton. If the truth be known, Colton is a beautiful community that sits at the base of the Cascade Mountains.

While in Colton, I made friends with a boy that lived about a mile down the road. His name was David Torven. David was a class act, possibly wilder, and crazier than I, thus making us instant friends. The Torvens had a small pond on their property. David's dad had an old car David was allowed to drive on their property. David wanted to show off his expert driving skills. Well somehow in the midst of David's showmanship, we ended up in the pond. Maybe the ducks, and the geese were impressed with a car in their pond, but David's dad was not impressed one bit.

The road I lived on was a dirt road. There were only three houses on our road in the midst of a forest.

Many times my imagination would get carried away when I walked that road alone at night, especially when I passed an old abandoned shack.

One day when I walked this road I spotted a huge hornets nest. It was as round as a basketball, and about two feet long. On a fine fall afternoon, David and I collected a bucket of apples and decided to see how many holes we could pitch through the nest located about a hundred feet from the road. We stood in the middle of the road, took aim, and fired. Not being one to be given to excessive bragging, we were both terrific shots, and out boiled the hornets. David and I laid flat on the road, and the hornets flew back and forth looking for revenge. When they finally gave up their search, we stood up and repeated our pitching exercise, back down on the road we went, buzz-buzz-buzz, back and forth, back and forth. We repeated this routine three or four times. By then there wasn't much of a nest to throw at, so we went on our merry way, quite proud of ourselves, if I may say so.

Well, as fate would have it, this was not the final “buzz.” One day David and I were throwing rocks into an underground yellow jackets’ nest. We soon learned that yellow jackets’ ability to find and deal with “the enemy” was quite superior to hornets. David and I both got stung. Unknown to me, David was allergic to bee stings. He was rushed to the hospital for a shot. When he returned, I couldn't recognize him. He was swollen up like a balloon. His face was so swollen you couldn't see his eyes.

Well, praise God, David recovered and we both agreed we had enough of bees, and started looking for other misadventures. After all, “Boys will be boys.”

Oh yes, I failed to mention Clinton Beck, a nice calm fellow. When looking for trouble, I looked for David. When I needed a rest from him, I sought out Clinton. Now I would call that a balanced life, wouldn't you?

Thank you God for David surviving. Also thank you for the year in Colton. I failed to appreciate what a lovely place it was.

The Other Cousins Uncle Don's sister, Aunt Faye, married my biological father's brother, Uncle Murry. Due to this family connection, I was able to see my father on a couple of occasions. Aunt Faye and Uncle Murry had five children: Mary Lou, Carole, Linda, Laura and Ted. I'm not going to go into detail about the lives of these cousins except to say Linda passed away a number of years ago, and the others seem to be well and happy.3 Their mother, Aunt Faye, was probably one of the kindest, and most caring persons God ever put on this earth. She came to my rescue on many occasions. I loved her dearly as did the rest of the family. Thank you, God, for people like Faye, self-sacrificing, always there when I needed someone. The Fayes on this earth make this earthly journey a lot easier. Aunt Faye passed away many years ago, but she'll always have a warm spot in the hearts of all our family members.

Happy to say that not all the memories of my family are sad ones. One wonderful exception was Aunt Lillian's Mother-in-law, Grandma Benfield. She was a first class grandmother, though I was not biologically related to her, she just scooped me up into her heart. She owned a modest home off of 62nd Avenue in Portland. She was originally from Canada, a farm girl, a cook beyond imagination. Farms seem to do that to woman, meaning the cooking part.

Grandma looked like a grandmother, beautiful gray hair, long and beautiful dresses, platform shoes, perfumed up enough to smell like a rose garden. Cookies, cakes, the whole nine yards. She was content being old, not some silly old thing with bright red dyed hair trying to be sixteen again. And no, thank God, she wasn't sporting any tattoos.

Grandma had a large covered area filled with purple grapevines. It was quite old and I was the only one small enough to climb on top of it and pick the grapes without the whole thing crashing down. (believe it or not, I was a light weight in those days.) Grandma made home-made jelly and grape juice. She assured me that this was from my “hard work,” and boy was I proud.

Next door to grandma's house lived her sister (Nita), and her brother-in-law (Mitch). They were lovely old people who always made room for me in their kind hearts. It was at their house I actually saw television for the first time. They had two little dogs, Toy Fox Terriers. I was so greatly taken with them that many years later, I raised Toy Fox Terriers, beautiful, smart, wonderful pets.

I remember mowing Grandma's lawn with an old push mower (no motor), and grandma paid me for the task. (The first money I ever earned). She spent winters in Arizona, and then back to Oregon with some small gift for me. Looking back now, I was her only “grandchild,” and thus I became the recipient of a heart full of love, and boy did I enjoy it.

Grandma was a strong women; she had her own car, and drove it all over Portland. She lived as a widow for many years, and was able to take care of herself. I can still see her sitting in her rocking chair by the window, watching me mow the grass, smiling and waving each time I went by.

Grandma died when I was twelve years old, almost the same time my uncle Buster passed away. A double blow to a boy that had so few who cared for, and loved him, or at least who functioned as “normal people.” Their passing left a gaping hole in my heart.

3 I was close to them, but not nearly as much as I was to Aunt Edna's three eldest children: Sharon, Roger, and Larry.

I have just thought of something amazing. Here's a woman, born over a hundred and thirty years ago.

She's been gone for fifty six years, and I'm probably the only person still alive today that actually remembers her. Her family and friends are most likely deceased. Goes to show what love can do. It can live on in the lives we touch. I remember her because she loved, and grand-mothered a little boy who desperately needed that love. Love is like that isn't it?

Thank you Grandma Benfield.

Thank you God for sending her my way.

Delta I never hear the old song, “Delta Dawn,” without remembering our Delta. Delta lived across the street from Aunt Edna. She was one of those unforgettable souls that would make adults look twice, and totally fascinate children. Her house was a huge two story, run down eye-sore. It's the type of house you might expect the “Adams Family” to live in. An exceptionally fine house for Halloween, where only a few brave children would knock on Delta's door.

Next to the big house was a small house where Delta's mentally retarded sister “Rosy” lived. Rosy was almost dwarf sized and always wore fluffy little skirts. She was difficult to understand, but was a happy little soul. We kids thought of her as almost being one of us. We all liked Rosy.

As it turns out, we discovered Delta forced her husband “Coop” to divorce her and marry Rosy so the authorities would not put Rosy into a mental hospital. Of course “Coop” continued to live with Delta in the big house, and Rosy continued to live in the small house.

Delta had a thing for animals, especially dogs, and monkeys. She had a monkey that she cared for like a baby; diaper, high chair, the works. When the monkey died, she had it stuffed and set it up on a shelf in her living room. She had a long legged Chihuahua dog named “Danny Boy.” He had very short hair, and was always shivering. He kept himself under a blanket and would come out snarling if someone touched the blanket. I'm sure you believe that when Delta wasn't watching, I “never” touched the blanket. Oh yes, When “Danny Boy” died, she had him stuffed and put on another shelf looking at his friend, the monkey.

At the time television was new and few could afford one. Delta never seemed to lack money. Saturday nights were wrestling nights at Delta's. I've never been able to understand how easily people can be duped into believing that professional wrestling is anything but fake. There's always the good guy, very handsome, the body builder type. Then there's the bad guy, ugly, mean and rude. One such character was Kert-Von-Popinhien, a mean man with a heavy German accent.

One time a special wrestling event was held in Molalla. My Aunt Lillian was present at this “Most Momentous Molalla” event. She became so outraged with the antics of Mr. Popinhien, she dashed from her seat, got up next to the wrestling ring, and spit on poor Kert-Von-Popinhien. I don't know if she got expelled or not. I was thankfully not there, but the report did cause me to blush. Molalla was a small town, and such important news was usually heard by one and all.

Now back to Delta. She had a room that she always kept locked. Occasionally she would allow us to enter her, “Hall of Hollies,” which housed the most wonderful, and fascinating of all human inventions: A player piano. No child was ever so taken with anything as I was with this musical wonder. Right then and there I determined that I would own a “player piano.” Well true to my word, what do you think sits in my living room? You guessed it, a player piano. I bought it for my daughter when it was time for her to take piano lessons. We played the automatic playing device for a few moments, and then the charm wore off. A common thing in regard to material things.

Delta and her big house have been gone a long time. Where the old house once stood stands an apartment building, and where Aunt Edna's house was sits a modern duplex. All the old things have long past been forgotten except in the minds of a few old men who still remember a stuffed dog, a stuffed monkey, wrestling, a player piano, and apples flying over the hills.

Thank you Lord for the special, and unusual people that only children can fully love, and appreciate.

Thank you Delta, you brightened our eyes, and our hearts. We'll never forget you.

Testimony By the time I was thirteen years old, if there had been a contest in Molalla for which child would be most likely to go to prison, there wouldn't have to be a contest. I would have been the uncontested winner.

When I was in the 8th grade, a teacher pulled my ear and suddenly he was without a shirt. At that time in my life I had but one goal, to kill my Uncle Melvin who broke my leg, and for other cruel things he had done to me.

In the summer of 1959, I had bought myself a new bicycle from the money I had earned from working in the berry and bean fields. After showing the bike off to my neighborhood friends, I decided to go and see a boy in my class who lived about three miles away, not that I liked him, he was one of those “good boys” while I reigned as captain of the junior chapter of the Hell's Angels, always looking for trouble and a good fight. The boy I went to see was Lynn Dunton. Well, I came rolling in on my new bike, and I must say, although he was a “good boy,” he really wasn't that bad. We actually had a nice day. He showed me his horse, and we killed a couple of hours together.

I remember his mother coming out with some type of cool drink. I remember thinking, “how great it would be to have a mother like that.” When Lynn went into the house his mother said, “Lynn, you need to invite that boy to camp.” (If she had only known what she was getting herself in for). Lynn's reply was, “Oh mother, that's the worst kid in our whole school.” Her response was, “all the more reason to invite him.” Lynn's reply was, “But mother, he would never go to camp.” At which she said, “You'll never know unless you ask him. Now go out and invite him.” (I'd give a hundred dollars for a picture of Lynn's face when he went out that door).

Well, reluctantly, Lynn obeyed his mother (that's what all “good boys” do), and invited me to camp.

CAMP! Yes, of course I wanted to go to camp. I could see it now, they were obviously talking about Boy Scout Camp. I could see it, off to the mountains, hiking, swimming, boating, fishing. Who in their right mind would pass up the chance to go to CAMP? I went home and asked if I could go to camp, the answer was, “Absolutely not.” So I packed my clothes, and off to camp I went (This is what “bad boys” do.)

Well, CAMP did not pan out to my uninformed expectations, and it wasn't a Boy Scout Camp, it wasn't even a youth camp. This camp was some type of religious fanatics version of CAMP. No, it wasn't in the mountains, it was located in a suburb of Portland, a place called Jenning's Lodge. The campgrounds were owned and operated by the Evangelical United Brethren Church. This was their version of CAMP, something called CAMP MEETING. Now for you who are uninformed of what a camp meeting is, it's something along these lines: Church in the morning, church at noon, and night. Church, church, and more church.

The day was filled with religious activity, Bible studies, prayer times, preaching at the “tabernacle” each evening and of course “vespers” at the end of the day. These folks were not the “hi” in the morning type of Christians. They had some-how come up with the idea that “God” was a full-time thing. I must admit there was a recreation time in the afternoon, but it was a small part of the total day.

Now I've done it, I had fallen in with a bunch of religious fanatics, and was stuck for the week. One girl from Molalla saw me and said, “What are you doing here?” I was obviously asking the same question.

It was while at this camp that I heard the Gospel for the first time. I was more of a heathen than if I had been born in a remote South American jungle. Yes, it was as the Apostle Paul had said, “Through the foolishness of preaching” that on July 27th, 1959 at about 9:00 P.M. I gave my heart to the Lord. I experienced no physical or emotional reaction. Basically I felt nothing but a sense of confusion. I thought, “Now, Franklin, what have you gotten into?”

I went back to the cabin and sat on the edge of my bunk and tried to figure out what had happened to me. At this time in my life no one could make me cry. I had been beaten for so long I wouldn't give anyone the privilege of seeing me cry. As I sat on that bunk, suddenly I began to weep. This wonderful peace flowed through me, from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. It seemed like a huge rock had been removed from my chest, and I could actually breathe for the first time.

When I returned home my Uncle Ray pinned me to the floor and poured whiskey down my throat. He said, “There never has been a Christian in this family and there never will be.” (This is addressed in an earlier part of the book) After camp the Dunton's began to pick me up for Sunday School and Church (morning and evening), prayer meeting on Wednesday, plus any church related activities.

About a year after my conversion the state removed me from the care of my relatives because of the abuse, and placed me into foster care. The Duntons requested that I be placed with them, and I was.

Remember my thinking how wonderful it would be “if I had a mother like that?” Well, sometimes dreams do come true. She has been my “mother” for the last fifty four years, and I have been her “other son,” who has helped keep her blood-pressure up. I suppose it's the main reason she has lived so long.

My Father My Father abandoned me when my mother died. My Father's family were middle class. His parents owned a nice home. My grandfather had a good job, and earned enough for the family to live a comfortable life style.

I actually met my grandparents for the first time when I was in my early twenties. They had lived about thirty minutes away during my whole childhood. I decided I was going to meet them and if they drove me off, so be it. The day I came to them it was on a warm summer day. They were sitting on the front porch. At first they thought I was a door to door salesman. When they finally realized who I was, we had a pleasant chat. They didn't serve any refreshments. It was basically, “Oh hi, goodbye.” I never saw my grandmother again. I saw my grandfather one more time. He was in his nineties. He had some white hair, and seemed to be a pleasant old man.

In light of the kind of family my mother came from, Grandmother Foust was less than delighted when her son, Lowell, married into the Johnson family. After my mother's death, my father gave me to my mother's parents. He came to see me only once, when Melvin broke my leg. Why would he leave me in a home like that? The answer to that question will be answered shortly. After my mother's passing, my father married three more times, but I was his only biological child.

I actually saw my father during my childhood, usually at Uncle Murray's, my father's brother. Uncle Murray was married into the Johnson family in a way hard to explain so I won't try. Be that as it may, I was at Uncle Murray's on a regular basis and I knew he was my Uncle. A number of times I saw my father at Uncle Murray's. When I was about seven, or eight years old my father sat me on his knee and told me about a model ship that he was going to give me. Up until then I had no interest in boats, but suddenly I became very interested. “My Father” was going to give me a gift, not on my birthday, not at Christmas. I anxiously waited for my model ship. After a long period of time I had to say to myself, “Franklin, your ship is never coming in.”

At the age of thirteen, I faced my father in a courtroom. After being taken from Aunt Lillian and Uncle Myrle there was a court hearing to decide what was to become of me. Suddenly my father appears and wants me to come and live with him. I told the judge that I was just a kid, and that he had the power to send me to my father, but he didn't have the power to keep me there. I told him I would never live with my father. Yes, he could send me there, and at the first opportunity, I would run away. The police would probably find me, and return me to my father. I would take off again as soon as I had the chance. I told the judge, “Nobody will ever make me live with my father that up until now never wanted me. I know why he's here. He's afraid he might have to pay support for me, which he has never done. He's thinking it would be cheaper for me to live with him. That's never going to happen.”

The judge obviously believed me, and placed me in foster care with the Duntons. When I arrived at the Duntons Elmer and the boys were laying the base flooring on the house they were building. Elmer said to me, “Well, pick up that hammer and start pounding,” which I did, of course not knowing one end of the nail from the other.

It was another eight years before I saw my father. Now at the age of twenty one, and home from college, my Uncle Myrle told me he had seen my father and said he would like to see me. I'm sure my eyes turned to blood as I said, “I hope he doesn't hold his breath till I come to see him.”

When I got him and told my foster mother what had happened she said, “Well Franklin, that's fine except you are wrong.” “I'm wrong! He never wanted me. He left me in a home where I was abused, never came to see me, and I'm wrong?” Her answer was this, “Yes, I know all those things are true, but you claim to be a Christian. The Bible says, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ not if they deserve it, just honor them.”

One of the most difficult things I've ever done was going to my father's house. He was sitting on the porch, and when he saw me, he began to weep. I did develop somewhat of a relationship with my father, but never to the point of actually thinking of him as my father. It was too late.

His wife, Ann, a lovely woman, one day when we were alone said, “One thing I've never understood about your father is how he could do you the way he did. He's been a good husband to me, and a good step-father to my three children. One day I finally asked him to explain what happened.” His explanation was this: In light of the fact that his mother never approved of my mother or of their marriage, after my mother's death she told him, “Forget the woman, forget the child. Start your life over.” That's what he did.

The one time I saw my grandmother I remember her to be a very domineering woman with a mean look on her face. My grandfather sat merely by letting her do almost all of the talking. This is probably the reason I have no time or respect for domineering woman, and weak men.

I finally learned that my father wasn't as bad as I had believed; he was just weak, which he probably learned from his father. However, weakness in a man is bad. Yes, my father was weak, too weak to stand up against his mother and thus threw me away like some would a sick cat. He cared more about what “momma” thought than that of his own flesh and blood, his only child. To leave him in a living hell, not caring enough to at least give me to someone who would have loved and wanted me, who would not beat and abuse me, and break my leg. The whole time he was making a new life that his mother had suggested.

It might not sound like it, but I forgave my father. He made peace with God; he died over thirty years ago. I remember standing at his grave site feeling such guilt. It would seem that I should be shedding tears, but the tears just wouldn't come. This was particularly depressing in that six weeks before my little dog had died, I had cried, cried a lot, for a dog. I guess when it got down to it, Stormy (that was his name) had been in and shared in my life. He was always there for me.

I had always believed that I was named after President Franklin Roosevelt. As I walked away from my father’s graves I glanced at the little memorial paper provided by the funeral home. It listed the deceased as: Lowell Franklin Foust. Not until that moment did I realize that I was named after my father.

New Kid on the Block Elmer and Virginia (my foster parents) lived right across the street from Uncle John and Aunt Margie.

John being Elmer's brother and Margie, Virginia's sister- two brothers married two sisters. This, of course, made their children double cousins. Elmer and Virginia had two boys, Vic and Lynn, and Uncle John and Aunt Margie had five children: Larry, Doris, Joan (my age), Johnny and, the afterthought, Sandy. When I came along Sandy was still a baby with blond hair and very cute, spoiled by everybody in the family including me. I guess my major contribution was a good dose of “double trouble.” It took quite a while for those two nice families to adjust to “not so nice” Franklin.

Uncle John and Aunt Margie lived on a forty acre farm. They raised beautiful white faced Herford cattle, the bull's name being “Larry.” It took quite a while to figure out why the bull was given the same name as their oldest son. It finally dawned on me “Of course, they're both 'bull headed'.” The two legged one much more than the four legged.

One memory that is still quite vivid in my mind is when Lynn, Johnny, Joan, myself, and Gary Deardorff would play in the barn. Wrestling, rumbling, tumbling, shouting, screaming, laughing. A side note here, Joan eventually became Mrs. Gary Deardorff.

I remember picking berries at Grandpa Schoenborn's berry patch. The same farm my foster mother grew up on. On one particular day I was picking black-caps with Dorrie as my partner. Things were not going well for me at home. I was “rebelling,” my favorite past time. Dorrie was like her mother Auntie Margie, a no nonsense type of gal. That morning she took me to task for being so “stupid.” She said that I was being given a chance for a real life, but could be throwing it away. She said it in such a way I knew she really cared for me, and I took her advice to heart. She became one of my most trusted counselors and on into my adult life. She is still very close and dear to me. Thanks Dorrie, I love you!

Oh yes, back to Larry (The two legged one). One day he washed his car spending considerable time rubbing and scrubbing the white walls on the tires. It just so happened that I was mowing the grass and accidentally (really accidentally) got too close to the car. Suddenly the beautiful white walls turned into a lovely light green. Larry was not happy or impressed with this color adjustment. When I realized what I had done and saw Larry coming towards me shouting words (not to be written in any book of mine), I took off like a bullet to make a visit to the four legged Larry, much safer to be with than his two legged name sake who was sporting light green white walls.

I spent my high school years at the Duntons. An interesting side-note; Mr. Alexander, the superintendent of schools told my foster mother, “in all the many years I've been in education, I've never seen any student make as much improvement as Franklin has in the course of four years.” This is true firstly because of a God who can “make all things new,” and secondly due to the help and encouragement of my foster parents.

I haven't mentioned my foster father Elmer. It took a long time for me to warm up to him. My experiences with men up to that point in time had not been very positive. One memory that does stand out is the summer after my high school freshman year when Elmer made me sit at a table and do school work to keep me from failing a couple of my classes. By my senior year I was getting close to the honor-roll, partially because of his foot making connection to my back-side (that is figuratively speaking.) Sad to say when we finally began to get close, he was taken from us. He died a very premature death.

I remember riding to and from school in his pick-up truck. It was then he would try and counsel me. I think he'd be happy to know that a great deal of what he had to say, did in fact sink in, but of course, in those days, I never let on that I was listening. Thank you, Elmer.

I went on to college with the help of my foster parents, and I graduated in 1969 with a degree in elementary education. My foster parents and Doris (their niece), drove all the way from Oregon to Mississippi to see me graduate, probably more so to make sure it was really true. I have taught in a number of public schools in Oregon, Florida, Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana. I've taught English as a second language in China, Puerto Rico, Japan, Guam and Brazil. I have spent time in Hong Kong, Korea, Taiwan and Peru. I also went to the Philippines where I met my wife. We did a ministry in the Philippines for abandoned mix-raced children left behind by their American service-men fathers. About nineteen years ago we returned to northwest Florida with nine of these children and opened a children’s home for them. They were mostly teenagers so their stay with us was not for a long time.

We have a nineteen year old daughter who will graduate from Asbury College this coming May (2014).

She is an accomplished pianist, horse rider, and is active in church. Her mother and I are obviously very proud of her. You've probably hear that “every old hen thinks her chick is the cutest.” Well, as it turns out, Roosters are no better, so here goes- “Cock-a-doodle-do.”4 Well, I guess I've rambled long enough about my life, my testimony, but one last memory. The night I received Christ, the invitational hymn that was sung was “Room at the Cross.” A part of one line from that song says, “Though millions have come, there's still room for one.” That “one” means “anyone,” yes, “anyone” who surrenders their will and kneels at that “old Rugged Cross.”

Thank you God for July 29th, 1959 when you removed me from the Kingdom of Darkness, and into your wonderful Kingdom of Light. “Once I was blind, now I can see!”

4 You'll get a second helping of this later in the book

The Statue that Really Leaked After my foster parents completed building their new house, the next thing was landscaping. My foster mother had Elmer install a statue that was supposed to spray water from the top.

When it came time to test the statue, our pastor drove up unexpectedly. Mom said to him, “Come and see our new statue” and then she called to Elmer to flip the switch that would turn the pump on. Well, the statue sprang a leak in the most appropriate spot.

When Mom saw the leak she shouted, “Elmer, turn that thing off.” The pastor was quite amused and had a good laugh.

Thank you, Lord, for especially funny memories.

Oh you... never say never!

Larry (the one with the light green white walls) went on to marry a wonderful girl named Carol. They have two children, Debbie and Mike. Debbie lives in California, and Mike owns the family farm, and operates a very successful seed business. Larry and Carol retired to live on the farm helping Mike with the seed business.5 Mike and his wife raised their children in the lovely old farm house where they still reside, not far away from their grandchildren. Across the street from Mike's house is the Liberal Church (not liberal in the sense of being “liberal,” instead because it is located in the small community of Liberal, Oregon).

I remember helping Aunt Margie and her kids gather walnuts. After they were dried, Uncle John would crack the nuts and we kids would sit and remove the meats. This was done in the basement near the wood furnace, a cozy place to be on a winter evening.

When I lived with my Aunt Lillian, we lived on a very limited diet. Potatoes were our main food: Fried potatoes, boiled potatoes, hash, potato salad, french fries, scalloped potatoes, baked, etc. etc. etc. The only vegetables I encountered were green beans, peas and corn, a lettuce salad with tomatoes on occasion.

With this limited experience with vegetables I found myself sitting at my foster mother’s table facing vegetables I never knew existed. For example; broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage and, the worst of all, brussel sprouts. I immediately informed my foster mother that I had no plans to eat such horrible looking and smelling vegetables. Yes, you guessed it, she had a completely different perspective. It went along these lines: “Now the reason you don't like these foods are for one of two reasons. One, you've never tasted them, or two, you've not tried them enough.” She went on to say, “It's not reasonable to ask you to eat a large amount of food that is unfamiliar to you, or food you don't like, but a spoonful won't kill anyone. You will eat at least one spoonful of everything I put on the table.” I had already dealt with her long enough to know that begging and pleading was useless. Well, I guess when all is said and done, “Mama knows best.” After a while I learned to like all vegetables, except cooked spinach, which I still try whenever I go to a buffet restaurant.

To say this training was beneficial is true beyond measure. When living in China and Japan, I ate things that most people from the U.S. find quite impossible to eat. Thanks, Mom! I struggle to thank you for this one, but, as usual, you were right! And by the way, Melanie also lived by the “one spoonful rule.”

There's hardly anything she won't eat and enjoy with the exception of liver. Poor girl, she doesn't know what she's missing, liver and onions served with cold canned pears, another of Grandma Burley's culinary treats. Yum! Yum! One of my favorite memories of Uncle John was on Sunday evenings. He would pop a huge pack of popcorn, make cheese sticks from Tilamook Cheese (just for the record, the best cheese in the world.

Sorry Wisconsin, but you'll just have to accept second place.). Uncle John would get small bowls for all of us, and chomp away. Uncle John came off as being somewhat tough, I soon learned though that his bark was worse than his bite. However, his bark was still enough to get my attention.

One day I arrived across the street help Auntie Margie. We butchered, plucked, and cleaned forty 5 Carol recently passed away after a long struggle with cancer. She was a loving and kind lady, and will be missed greatly by friends and family.

chickens. When I arrived back at home I was told to change my clothes, and take a bath. I can't figure out why, can you?

I remember on one occasion Uncle John’s whole family went on vacation. Auntie Margie hooked me into agreeing to milk the cow while she was gone. She carefully instructed me how to milk and said I should sit on either the right or the left. I forget which. When I began milking I got to thinking, “This is silly having to reach across.” So I just picked up the stool and milked on the other side. When Auntie Margie found out my “more sensible” way of milking she let out with a screech and said, “You fool, it's a wonder that cow didn't kick you out of the barn.” I do remember the cow mooing, turning her head and giving me a strange look, but since I'm still here to write about it, it's quite obvious I survived and still believe my “more sensible” method of milking makes more since. When my foster mother got wind of what I had done her only comment was, “God takes care of children and fools.” I guess I'm living proof.

Auntie Margie was definitely a farm woman. She could easily out work most men. She threw hay to the cattle, raised pigs, chickens, and milked the cow. She raised a huge garden, canned hundreds of quarts of fruit and vegetables, as well as caring for her five children. She was active in her church and also worked in the fields for other farmers. Now, the best for last: Auntie Margie’s maple bars were so good that the Angels in Heaven would be tempted to snitch one. She made huge batches; fifty to a hundred at a time. They lasted for a very short time.

I already made mention of Uncle John coming off as tough when I first met him; he had on overalls, hair sticking out everywhere except on his bald head. He was a big man, and he “huffed” and he “puffed,” but it didn't take long to figure him out, a teddy bear in a big bear’s body.

Stuck All Over Elmer and Uncle John both worked at the post office. Often I would walk from the high school and catch a ride home with one or the other.

On a nice warm afternoon I was riding home with Uncle John in his pick-up truck. As it turned out, I had not adequately shut the door as we rounded a corner (we were going a very slow speed, thank heavens) I was leaning on the door and out I popped out of the truck and into a huge briar patch. My glasses had fallen off (I'm as blind as a bat without my glasses) and I was thrashing around in those briars looking for them.

When Uncle John got to me and saw I had not been injured, he began to laugh. I'm not sure if to this day I have completely forgiven him. Maybe I should retract all the nice things I said about him. Well, he helped me recover my glasses, but not my dignity. He deposited me at the house and when the family heard what had happened and saw me looking like a porcupine they joined with Uncle John in laughter. Somehow I couldn't find any humor in what had happened. I picked thorns from my body for the next few days.

Uncle John died many years ago and Auntie Margie has recently joined him. I'm so thankful that they also “took me in� and though not biologically connected to me, they became my aunt and uncle.

Thank you God for the likes of Uncle John and Aunt Margie, who through your grace could accept that wild kid that Auntie Ginner and Uncle Elmer had taken on.

The Snake One quite memorable day was the day I was chasing Joan with a garden snake. She was doing exactly what girls were created for, yelling, screaming, pleading, threatening. Boy, oh boy, what fun, like music to my ears. Little did I know that Vic, my foster brother had snuck up beside me, snatched the snake from my hands, and proceeded with the chase, except I was the one being chased. It would have been futile to beg for mercy in light of what I had been doing to Joan. Only one option, run as fast as I could.

Though I was a fast runner in those days, I wasn't fast enough to escape Vic. When he got near me he began to twirl the snake and then threw it at me. The snake looped right around my neck and almost gave me a kiss. I snatched that snake off and ran to the house to wash my neck; I did so over and over for the rest of the day. Undoubtedly, for the next few days Franklin Foust would have won the contest for having the cleanest neck in the state of Oregon.

Well, Lord, I am hard pressed to come up with a thank you for this episode. I'll leave this one up to Joan. Maybe there is a moral to this story, it’s one thing to be the chaser, and quite another to be the one being chased.

Grandpa and Grandma Schoenborn Though I had biological grandparents only fifteen miles away, who never showed any interest in me, my foster mother's parents made room in their hearts and lives for me. Elmer's (my foster father) parents had already died when I came to live with him.

Grandma and Grandpa Schoenborn moved off the farm and built a house on 5 acres behind my foster parents’ house. By this time they were in their 70's. Grandma proceeded to landscape their new home while Grandpa planted a garden and various varieties of berries. Someone told Grandpa, “Henry, why plant an orchard, you'll never eat any of the fruit?” Wrong! He lived another twenty years, and ate plenty of fruit from that orchard.

Grandpa walked with a bent back, and shuffled his feet to walk. The stoop in his back was caused when he fell forty feet onto a cement slab. This happened when he was in his 30's. He was sent home to either die or be bed ridden for the rest of his life. Well, he didn't die but instead, about a year later, he got up from his bed. First crawling but eventually he stood up and walked, and proceeded to farm sixty acres of land. He provided for his five children: Art, Marge, Richard, Virginia (my foster mother) and Walt.

Uncle Walt married a woman who became my Aunt Caroline. I remember the first time I saw her, she was probably in her 20's. She had the prettiest long light brown hair. She is one of the sweetest, kindest, and loveliest women I have ever known. She and Uncle Walt own a piece of grandpa's old farm, and are now retired. Their place looks like the Garden of Eden with Mt. Hood in the background.

My foster brother Vic and his wife lived next door to Uncle Walt. They own another part of grandpa's old farm. They have two grown children, Kevin and Vicki, who are both happily married. Each of them have two children of their own, the joy of Vic and Nancey's heart.

Now let’s get back to grandpa. I mentioned grandpa had planted a garden and an orchard, they were always weedless except a special weed that grandpa cultivated, “Yellow Dock.” Periodically grandpa would pull up a yellow dock plant, wash it, cut off the roots and have grandma boil them. Talk about smelling awful, you never smelled anything worse, stunk up the whole house. When cooled down enough grandpa would drink this foul smelling liquid, can't imagine how it tasted. He said it was to prevent arthritis. He had learned about “yellow dock” from the Indians. (there were still a few around in Grandpa’s younger days). Grandpa lived well into his 90's, arthritis free, even though his body was so broken from his fall.

Grandpa, to say the least, was an amazing man. He wrote in his journal everyday for over sixty years.

He recorded the weather, the high and low temperatures and gave a brief report on each day’s highlights and activities.

Now back to the Indians. He loved Indian artifacts, long before most people realized their beauty and historical value. He collected pottery, hand tools, and especially arrowheads. Whenever a neighboring friend would plow his field, grandpa asked for permission to walk the field to search for arrowheads.

His collection was museum quality. Grandpa also collected stamps, coins, old bottles as well as a “rock hounds.” He had piles of agates and thunder heads that he collected from Eastern Oregon. Grandma made him build a building to keep his “junk” in. It was there he had saws to cut the rocks to make agate jewelry and beautiful coffee tables. One of my most prized possessions is the agate coffee table he had made especially for me.

I will never forget a trip Lynn and I made to Eastern Oregon with grandpa to go rock hunting. The area was infested with rattlesnakes. Lynn and I were going around like we were “tip-toeing through the tulips,” imagining every sound we heard was coming from a rattlesnake. Actually, I believe we did hear what sounded like “rattling” but we weren't curious enough to investigate.

For dinner we had pork and beans, hot dogs, and cantaloupe. Grandpa had us eat the cantaloupe first, so we could use it as a bowl for the beans and hot dogs. That way we could throw the cantaloupe skin away and not have to wash a dish.

Grandpa always warned us about the dangers of smoking and drinking. As it turns out, I don't believe any of his children or grandchildren are smokers or drinkers.

Grandma Schoenborn was the kind of grandmother depicted in the Highlights magazine, a white haired, pleasantly plump old woman who grew old gracefully, never trying to look or act younger than she really was. Grandma came to the U.S. From Germany at the age of eighteen, married grandpa, and helped with the work on the farm. She raised five children during the depression. Though she was educated in Germany, she came to the U.S. unable to speak English. She learned to read and write English from her children. Each day when they returned home from school, she had them teach her what they had learned that day.

Her cooking was out of this world. The part of Germany she came from was actually Austria, the home of the world’s finest pastries and breads. Her pie crusts were always perfect, just melted in your mouth.

Whenever we went to see her she always had cookies, or cake, or pies... etc. I'm sure Auntie Margie’s homemade rolls and maple bars came to Molalla via Grandma Schoenborn via Austria. There's something very special about grandparents. They are a bridge to another time in the past. Their love has a quality that is uniquely theirs to give. Thank you God for Grandpa and Grandma Schoenborn. Though my biological grandparents rejected me, they found a special place for me in the midst of so many other grandchildren.

Thank you God for Grandpa and Grandma Schoenborn. I will always remember them. I'm so thankful that they had enough love in their hearts for even such a one as I.

Uncle Art – Aunt Doris Shortly after going to live with my foster parents I knew there was something special about Uncle Art and Aunt Doris. Uncle Art was the big, tall, serious type, gentle voice and very kind, very spiritual. I've known few who knew the Bible like Uncle Art, even the theologians.

Aunt Doris was a short, spunky type, very talkative, very loving and again very spiritual. She told me that Uncle Art was her only boyfriend and that they never dated alone. The first time they kissed was on their wedding day.

They had three children, Roger, Janet, and Paul. They lived on a fifteen acre farm just outside of Salem Oregon. They raised sheep, had a huge garden and orchard. They raised almost every fruit and vegetables that can be raised in western Oregon along with countless varieties of grapes. They raised most of their own food except flour, milk, and a few other things. They never drank soft drinks, instead they drunk various home canned juices, apple, grape, prune etc. They never took medicines until they were in their 90's.

Many years ago Uncle Art had a tractor fall over on him, and it crushed his body. After a long recuperation, he was finally able to walk again with a strong limp. He continued his work on the farm well into his 90's.

Even in her 70's and 80's, Aunt Doris would bring kids home from church. Most of these children come from non-Christian homes. She would feed them spaghetti (She said, “It's the only thing they will eat; they turn their noses up at any really good healthy food”). After lunch she would take the children to the creek, get down on her hands and knees and show the children how to catch crayfish using only their hands. They hauled un-churched children to Sunday School, and church for nearly seventy years.

Though Art and Doris were wonderful farmers their greatest crop was souls for Jesus. They bought a van when in their 70's to be able to transport more children.

On top of raising and caring for family and helping with the farm, Aunt Doris found time to mow a huge lawn. Her place was surrounded with flowers. Not a weed to be found anywhere on the Schonborn's fifteen acres.

I failed to mention that Aunt Doris taught backyard children Bible Clubs, and after school Bible studies. She has worked with child evangelism on the local, state, and national levels. Her daughter has followed in her footsteps.

Their son, Roger, became a missionary to Brazil, and also served as a pastor in the U.S. Roger died young, in his 40's. He married a Brazilian woman who was left to raise young children by herself.

Paul became a teacher and then a school principal, and now is working in business.

Janet became a teacher and a homemaker and, as I've already mentioned, is active in child evangelism.

Uncle Art and Aunt Doris always treated me well. I believe they had a special love for me. They were spiritual giants in my eyes; without a doubt, they were two of the most dedicated Christians I have ever known. They were living examples of “living sacrifices.”

Uncle Art has now gone to be with the Lord that he served so faithfully, I would expect Aunt Doris will soon join him. What a happy reunion day, together again, eternally with the Savior whom I believe will say, “Well done, good and faithful servants�

Thank you God for Uncle Art and Aunt Doris. They helped show me the way.

Kevin When I went to live with my foster parents, their oldest son was studying at Cascade College in Portland, Oregon. There he met and married Nancey. A lovey Christian woman. Their first child was Kevin.

Vic and his family usually ate Sunday dinner with his parents. The house we lived in had a full daylight basement with a huge fireplace. While dinner was being prepared, it was my job to hold and rock the baby in the basement. It was during that time that I developed a very special bond with Kevin. He was easily entertained, and I really enjoyed rocking him in a big stuffed rocking chair. I believe that Kevin has that chair in his home. He has a wife and two children, a girl and a boy.

A few years later Vicki was born. I never got to know Vicki as well as Kevin because Vicki was born in Kansas City while I was studying in the Seminary.

She has grown into a fine young woman, married to a fine Christian man, and also has two children.

Thank you God for the special moments of those days with Kevin when he was a baby. Bless him and Vicki as they care for their children.

Northwest Nazarene College After graduating from high school in 1964, I attended Northwest Nazarene College for nearly three years. I was able to do this with the help and encouragement of my foster parents.

I have many special memories of my N.N.C days. The one person who ministered to me was the choir director at College Church, Warnie Tippit. Choir practice was my favorite time of the week. Warnie use to say, “Ladies and gentlemen, you can sing this song technically perfect, and would never do it justice.

You see, this is ‘spiritual music.’ You must first know of what you are singing, and then you must 'sing in the spirit.' Then and only then can you minister to God's People.”

I cannot tell you what it was like singing in that eighty voice choir, working over a congregation of two thousand people. “Heaven did come down and glory did fill our souls.” The scripture tells us, “In thy presence there is fullness of joy.” A song we used to sing in those days was entitled, “It is joy unspeakable and full of glory.” Well the “glory” did come down, and seldom was there a dry eye in the house. It's the closest I've ever been to heaven on this earth.

Oh, to see our young people experience such a move of God. I'll refrain from expanding on why those days seem to have died away. Another time, another place.

I can still see Warnie singing the song the congregation begged him to sing over and over “Give me a heart like thine.” He would sing with tears flowing down his cheeks, and his face shining like an angel.

The song says, “Come to my heart blessed Jesus, hear me O Savior I pray. Open the fountain and bless me, give me a heart like thine.” I believe God did just that. Warnie's heart and spirit were the most Christ-like I have ever known.

The pastor of the church was Rev. Tim Bond. He was one of the greatest preachers I've ever sat under.

Not only was he a great preacher, he was truly a man of God. He and his wife, Sally, took a special interest in me for which I will always be thankful.

I never drink Pepsi and eat tacos, but I think of Tim and Sally. I spent a lot of time in their home. Their love and care helped me overcome a lot of home sickness.

One of Tim's sermons that I will never forget is when he quoted the great missionary, C.T Studd, who said, “Some would choose to serve within the sound of church and bell... But for me, I'd rather man a lighthouse within a yard of hell.”

I remember 6:00 AM Prayer time on Sunday mornings with Pastor Bond. There were a few who joined at the altar of the church, but God was always in our midst in such a glorious way. “Precious memories, how they linger.”

Thank you Lord for Warnie Tippit and Tim, and Sally Bond. You used them to help me in my years at N.N.C, and I'll never forget them.

Rest in Peace While a student at Northwest Nazarene College I had a number of jobs to help defray my college costs.

One of those jobs was working at a funeral home.

My job was to work from 6:00 P.M. to 9:00 P.M. as the person who supervised the showing of the bodies. After 9:00 P.M. I locked the chapel and proceeded to vacuum the chapel and what was called “the slumber rooms,” or the rooms where the “clients” laid in peace. After that I would proceed to my room where I slept and spent the night. This room was down in the basement just off the casket display room.

When first hired I was told that one of the workers would stay with me the first three nights to get me used to sleeping in a funeral home. By the way, my room was nice and large with two beds, a shower, and, best of all, a large colored television set.

Come the first night when it was time for bed, my “baby sitter” said to me, “Oh, you don’t need me to stay with you. You’ll do fine by yourself.” What could I say? He had a wife and children to go home to. Who could blame him?

Well, I turned off the lights, hopped into bed, and proceeded to try and go to sleep. Shortly thereafter, I heard a faint sound- “Oh, oh, oh, oh.” I laid in the bed and said to myself, “Now get control of yourself, Frank. You’re just hearing things.” A few moments later, I heard the sound again but this time a little louder. I thought, “I know what is happening. A couple of my college friends are outside trying to spook me.”

Shortly thereafter I heard the sound again and realized it was a train whistle. Amazing how our imaginations can get carried away.

I learned many things from the job about death, grief, and the final preparation of the dead. One lesson I learned is, if one is inclined to fear, fear the living. The dead have done all they will ever do- good or evil.

Happy Thanksgiving This is a holiday memory of my N.N.C days. There were two fellows who lived across the hall from me in Chapman Hall. They were city boys, and I was from the country. As a joke, these guys received a “live” turkey from their girlfriends, and at first it seemed quite funny, but the funny part quickly wore off when their room began to smell like turkey, that is “live” turkey, not “roasted” turkey. At this point they began to try and decide what to do with the smelly friend. After some thought, they decided to turn the turkey loose in the park, that being in the middle of campus.

I said to them, “Are you crazy? That is Turkey Dinner on the hoof.” Their response was, “Fine, the turkey belongs to you, we'll share turkey dinner with you, later!”

I took the turkey to the wash room located in the basement of the dorm. It was there I performed the pastry Thanksgiving tradition. Having grown up on a farm, this was not my first time of slaughtering a turkey, plus various other animals raised for meat.

Without a hatchet, which is the preferred instrument of separating the turkey's head from the rest of the body, I had to resort to a pocket knife. Now is when the real problem “kicked in.” Once the head was detached from the turkey, it gave me a “big kick” where upon he broke loose. Instead of a chicken running around with his head cut off, I had a turkey with his head cut off. For obvious reasons, a turkey has a lot more blood than a chicken. The turkey jumped all over the wash room. It looked like the chain saw massacre. Blood was splattered everywhere beginning with me, washers, dryers, walls, floors, etc. etc.

Well, the next day I asked to borrow the church kitchen which I was allowed to d. I prepared the turkey, let it roast for a number of hours, and the two city boys, the country boy, and a few friends “pigged out on turkey.” Gobble Gobble Gobble.

Nugget Though going to live with the Duntons was a great blessing it was also very difficult adjustment, not only for the Duntons, but also for me.

The Duntons were not rich, but they were comfortable, rich in my eyes. New house, new cars, new clothes, abundance of food, family outings, family vacations. Nobody could tell me that it wasn't the true meaning of being “rich.”

In the midst of all this much improved upgraded living, my self-esteem became very low. Vic, the Duntons’ eldest son was “Mr. Super Genius,” straight A's. Lynn, “The World’s Greatest Athlete,” excelled in football, baseball, and basketball. He was known statewide. Then there was me, “Mr. Nothing.”

Throughout my life with my relatives, I kept quite a collection of pets: dogs, cats, sheep, goats, calves, chickens, turkeys, ducks, geese, pigeons, baby owls, chipmunks, squirrels. Whatever had four legs or feathers were all welcome. The animals were my friends, they never hurt me. They were my escape from what was usually happening in the house. I especially loved dogs. I could write a book by itself telling of all the wonderful dogs I owned and loved.

The Duntons kept no pets, so I began to beg for a dog, for a German Shepherd. I had a great uncle (actually normal, kind, and sane) who raised and trained German Shepherds for the Seeing Eye Foundation. In my eyes a German Shepherd was the ultimate dog to own.

My foster mother was somewhat fearful of German Shepherds, but she finally relented. Elmer, my foster father, built a chain link kennel with my help (however much help I was could be debated).

After the completion of the kennel I was able to start looking for a puppy. As it turned out a family in our church had a litter of German Shepherd puppies. I chose a beautiful female pup and named her “Nugget” because of her beautiful golden coat.

My foster mother insisted that Nugget would have to have proper training. I joined a 4-H canine training course.

I spent many hours training Nugget. She was a natural and went on to win a number of blue and purple ribbons in obedience competitions.

How do you thank a dog in helping you to believe you have worth – obviously you can't, but maybe by returning the love, loyalty and affection that only a dog can give!

When I left for college one of the hardest things for me was to leave Nugget behind. My foster father Elmer took over the care of Nugget after I left for college.

Elmer would tap on the kitchen window and Nugget would run to the end of the kennel to look at him.

One morning he tapped on the window – no Nugget! He dashed out to the kennel when he saw her on the other end trying to crawl to him. He went into the kennel and lifted her up into his arms. She looked up into his eyes and then died! Another shining light gone out of my life. Maybe “just a dog” but a “light” in my case – a “very big and bright shining light!”

My foster mother said that even though she was never too fond of dogs, she cried along with Elmer.

She went on to say, “But she wasn't a dog – she was “Nugget.”

As it turns out Nugget had been poisoned. Probably because we lived near a saw mill and Nugget would sound the alarm whenever anyone came to the side of the mill adjoining our property. It wasn't long after Nugget died that thieves stole some very valuable equipment.

I recently lost my much loved bulldog. She had grown so old that she was unable to get up and walk. I had to release her from her pain. I cried that Virginia (my wife) took her parting particularly hard. We live in an isolated place and whenever someone came on our property Lilly would bark up a storm – kicking up dust and growling. No one knew that she would never go near a stranger – but who was foolish enough to look at those huge, ferocious jaws and not back off?

We now have a new puppy that is about eight months old. She's half Labrador Retriever and half Chesapeake Bay Retriever. She looks like a full blooded Chesapeake Bay Retriever. She has the most beautiful chocolate brown coat. When I first saw her with her litter mates, she came running up to me.

I picked her up and looked at her and I said, “Now aren't you a beauty?” And that is what I named her – Beauty! I hope that she will have a nice life living with us and expect she will bring us many years of happiness just like Lilly and so many other dogs have.

Do dogs go to Heaven? Obviously, no one knows for sure, but I am sure of this that dogs do bring a little bit of Heaven on earth and into our hearts. I also know that I have quite an imagination and I can imagine being greeted when I enter Heaven by a big pack of dogs! Dogs of all colors, sizes, and breeds who still see me as their master – tails wagging joyfully, barking and jumping and giving wet dog kisses (I know, Grandma Burley, that doesn't quite sound like Heaven to you, but to each his own). It sounds like a heavenly idea to me! I'll just have to wait and see. If better things than that await me, well, just bring it on!

I know my cousin Sharon will want to know about cats. Let her use her own imagination!

Pigeons As I am sitting outside here in Western Brazil writing this section of the book – pigeons are flying about. They are nesting just above my apartment and I can hear cooing and the sound of their nesting day and night. Sounds like music to my ears!

Of all the types of birds in the world I've always admired pigeons the most. They come in an array of colors that glisten in the shining sun. I especially admire or maybe envy how they can turn their heads backwards to look behind!

I had a great aunt who lived in Portland, Oregon – Aunt Pearl. I already mentioned her and her husband – Uncle Al - when I went off on dogs . Uncle Allen was a big, no nonsense kind of man.

Although it was completely contrary to my nature, I was always on my best behavior whenever I was with him. Thus, he was very good to me.

Not only did Uncle Allen raise seeing-eye dogs – he also had a pigeon house. The way that I saw it he was about the coolest person in the world. On numerous occasions Uncle Allen allowed me to help him feed and water his birds. I was, of course, to move ever so slowly and to speak ever so softly. I was to make no quick movements or do anything that might frighten the pigeons. I followed orders religiously!

In the evening Uncle Allen would turn the birds out to exercise. Oh, what a sight to see! They flew in formation and whirled and twirled in the sky. It was all a ten year old boy to do but yell and scream – to jump for joy, which, of course, I refrained from doing since I was standing right next to Uncle Allen.

I'll never forget him and will always remember that his and Aunt Pearls house was somewhat like a haven for me – a temporary escape from the insanity that I lived with on a regular basis.

The story now takes on a more familiar ring. Clyde, who's about three to four years older than me, was Uncle Robert's nephew by marriage. He was certainly one of my top heroes. He was somewhat wild, loved adventure, and absolutely not a “good boy.” It just so happens that Clyde was a pigeon fanatic!

He had a loft of his own. He told me that he and some of his friends were going to go under the old West Linn bridge and collect some pigeons. This bridge spans the Willamette River – connecting Oregon City with West Linn. The Willamette is no small stream – no this river is a full-blown, swiftly moving river – rapids and all.

The plan was this – we would all sneak out of our houses late at night (I was, of course, spending the night with Clyde). We'd go to the bridge with ropes. We would then attach the ropes to the side of the bridge and crawl down the ropes and catch the pigeons. No one would ever suspect anything in regards to our “little adventure” (As it turns out – not so little). Well, when we tied the ropes securely (or so we thought) everyone was to go down the ropes and collect pigeons. I mentioned how I admired pigeons.

Suddenly I decided that I really liked chickens much better and decided to become one! I was not about to go down that rope! I was way too young to die. I was a good swimmer, but not good enough to swim that deep, dark river that was below me.

When all the boys except the “chicken” slid down the rope, collected a bounty of pigeons, climbed back up the rope, and crawled back onto the bridge, they had collected a number of pillow cases of pigeons. Oh, yes, not all the boys were up the rope just yet! Nick was still under the bridge – frozen in fear and refusing to come back onto the rope.

The boys begged and pleaded with him to climb back onto the rope, but he adamantly refused. Clyde and the other boys decided to just leave him down there and when he got tired, he would climb back up the rope.

As I have mentioned, Aunt Lillian was probably raising a “jail bird” but she hadn't raised a fool! I knew if Nick fell into that river we wouldn't be talking about either pigeons or chickens. No, we'd be talking about “a dead duck!”

I told the guys that if Nick fell into the river and drowned, then it would be all our faults. “No, we are not leaving him,” I shouted! We finally called the fire department who rescued Nick and then proceeded to lecture us on what fools we had been. Then the fire department finally sent us home.

We ended up with three pillow cases of “dead” pigeons. They had all smothered in the pillow cases.

But when all is said and done, three pillow cases of dead pigeons is better than one dead duck!

Wouldn't you agree?

Honestly, I still have a love for pigeons and I hope someday before I wing my own way to “Glory” I will have a pigeon house of my own.

Vega Puffs One summer during my early twenties I worked at a Salvation Army Youth camp in Boring, Oregon.

Yes, seriously, there is such a place – especially boring apart from Camp Tressel Glinn. It was in Boring I met Eleanor the camp nurse. We became fast friends. Yes, friends! She had a husband and three boys. I guess we clicked because she was not the typical unadventurous type.

I went to visit their home in Lake Oswego and she told me her son, Corkey, was coming home for the week end. Corkey was a student at a private boarding school run by the Seventh Day Adventists. He was attending the school for only academic reasons. His family was far from being Seventh Day Adventists!

Eleanor told me that Corkey always looked forward to coming home and eating “real food.” At the boarding school they were served “vega links, vega noodles, vega this, vega that, and vega everything else.

Eleanor and I came up with a great idea. We would go to the health food store and prepare a special Vega Dinner in Corkey's honor! We hopped into Eleanor’s car and headed for the Lyod Center located in Portland. At that time the Lyod Center was the largest mall in the United States. We proceeded to the health food store to buy our vega groceries. After making our purchases we headed for the parking lot. During this time there was a big stir among Oregonians. The federal government was planning on moving a large supply of nerve gas across the state and many Oregonians were trying to keep that from happening.

As Eleanor and I were about to leave the mall area, we were approached by a lady who wanted us to sign a petition against the nerve gas traveling through Oregon. At this point the fun began. Eleanor told the woman she would sign her petition if she would sign ours. Of course, my ears perked up really fast since up and until then I was unaware that we had a petition! The lady asked us what our petition was about. Eleanor went on to tell the woman, “My friend and I have invented the most wonderful new product. They are called Vega Puffs Cigarettes! Made from soybean leaves. They are completely harmless – the children can even smoke them!”

Standing nearby listening to Eleanor give her spiel on the virtues of Vega Puffs was an elderly woman – very prim and very proper – standing erect with her half-moon glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. You know the type – the “Head Biddy” type. Well, the old woman was gasping when she said, “Well, I never!”

Eleanor turned to her and said, “I'm sorry, ma’am, but what seems to be the trouble?” The old lady replied, “It's those Vega Puffs! You know very well the children will go from Vega Puffs to real cigarettes!”

Eleanor, with a completely straight face, replied, “Well, I'm not quite sure you are right. You know the Adventists have never gone from ‘Vega Links’ to real wieners.”

Well, when Corkey was served his special “Vega Dinner,” he didn't appear to be a bit thankful, but I sure was!

I will never forget Eleanor or her “Vega Puffs.” I had to stop and laugh numerous times as I wrote this special memory. I can still see that prim and proper old lady ready to take on the war against “Vega

Puffs” and save America's children.

Obviously, God has a special sense of humor. Why else would he have created the Eleanors of this world? Who knows how many wonderful inventions she thought of. How many other people she caused to laugh?

Thank you, God, for Eleanor and all those like her. Without them it would not be only “boring” in Boring, Oregon, but the whole word would be boring.

William Carey College How did a young man from Molalla, Oregon end up in Mississippi? Well, here's the story!

While a student at Northwest Nazarene College I attended a Baptist church during my junior year. My pastor was from North Carolina and he arranged a job for me at a Baptist boys’ camp. Across the road from the camp was Ridgecrest Baptist Convention Grounds. Hundreds of college students worked there during the summer. It was there I met three charming Southern Belles. At summer's end they asked me, “Why don't you come to William Carey and go to school with us?” Buddy, I was ready to sing “Dixie!” I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do more than accept their charming invitation.

As it turns out, it was not only possible for me to finish my senior year at William Carey College, but it would also be less expensive. Mississippi, here I come! The sweet joy of not having to spend another winter in Nampa, Idaho was almost beyond my wildest dreams.

At that time the airlines had a special student rate but I chose to ride the bus because I wanted “to see the country.” Big mistake! I got on the bus on a Monday evening and didn't arrive into Hattiesburg, Mississippi until Friday twelve noon! Boy, did I ever “see the country!” The college official from Carey who picked me up at the bus depot took one look at me, got me a key to my dorm room and said, “Have a good rest and come and see me Monday morning.”

The first morning I went through the breakfast line, the serving lady asked me, “Y'all want some grits?”

My response was, “Grits, what are grits?” The lady responded, “You mean to tell me you've never eaten grits?” My response was, “Not only have I never eaten them, I have never even seen them before!” All I could imagine was my Aunt Lillian used to put gravel at the bottom of the bird cage and she called it “grit.” I said to the lady, “You mean like gravel?” “Oh, no, honey! If you haven't eaten grits, you haven't lived!” She proceeded to give me a big bowl of “grits.” When I sat down at the table, I thought to myself, “Now what do I do with these?” Upon closer examination I decided that they reminded me of cream of wheat. So I put sugar and poured some milk on them. A couple of Southern boys seeing what I had done gasped, “Oh, no! Another cursed, d___ Yankee!” Later I found out what the proper attire for grits are: butter, salt and pepper!

To be honest, I have learned to eat grits, but I still prefer hash brown potatoes. There is one exception to this Frank Foust culinary rule – garlic cheese grits! That is an entirely whole new ballgame! Cheese grits are high on the list of good Southern cooking. Especially served with cat fish. Uh huh, “talkin' about good eatin'.”

My major Professor Mrs. Elma McWilliams was the Southern Belle prototype – southern charm, accent, the entire works. She was nothing less than a class act!

She was very strict – quite a perfectionist. I learned to love and respect this lovely lady. She became a wonderful friend and was one of the finest teachers that I had ever known. We kept in contact after my graduation. She has gone on to Heaven – probably teaching the angels the correct way to do things.

They would be wise and do well to listen to her!

I did my student teaching in Petal, Mississippi, a small town near Hattiesburg. My supervising teacher was another lovely Southern woman. She was the fifth grade teacher. Her soft Southern accent was more than enough to melt the heart of this boy from Oregon. I remember thinking, “What a pity that she's too old for me!”

I have mentioned that Petal was a small rural town. The children came from mostly poor families, but they were well behaved and delightful. Their manners were amazing - “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” “Thank you, Mr. Foust,” and etc.

The First Years of Teaching After graduating from William Carey University in 1969 I returned to Oregon and that fall began my teaching career at Mulino Grade School. The school that once was a two room school now had eight grades – each with their own classroom. I was assigned to teach the sixth grade. It seemed that everyone who moved to Mulino that year had a sixth grader and by the end of the year I found myself teaching forty students.

This was one of the happiest years in my life. During that one year I made so many wonderful friends (Many that I still keep in contact with even today). I'll always be thankful to Barbara Gambell, my aide. I could have never made it without her help with so many students. All the students seemed to love her and as the year went along so did I. Thank you, Barbara, you were a lifesaver. Her daughter Laurie was in my room at that time and she was also a great helper.

To this day I still am friends with a couple of boys from that class after forty-five years. One of them is Rick Peters whose parents, Jack and Lorraine Peters, became special friends to me. The other student is Craig Roberts who is the sheriff of Clackamas County, Oregon, the second largest county in the state.

His father and mother, Jim and Madeline, are also very dear friends.

The next year found me back in Mississippi teaching in the old historic, lovely antebellum city of Natchez. Natchez was sitting on the banks of the Mississippi River. It was at this time the South was struggling with the end of segregation. I was one of the first white teachers in a black school. It goes without saying that the times were “hot.” I taught fifth grade and there were very few white children. I had all of them in my homework class which made my class half white students and half black students. The other four sections were all black students. We were threatened with violence on a number of occasions, but thankfully they were just idle threats! Let me say that my experience with the people of Natchez was a very pleasant one. It didn't matter if they were black or white; I made friends with both races and have kept in contact with them throughout the years.

Why didn't I stay in Natchez? Honestly, that was my plan. I found life in Natchez very pleasing but circumstances beyond my control redirected me back to Oregon. Near the end of the school year, my foster mother fell and broke her hip. Someone needed to be with her as she recovered and I was the logical choice. Both of her biological sons were married and since I was still single, it was obvious that I should go home to be with her.

It was very difficult to resign my teaching position and to leave a city that I thought would become my home. A couple of years ago I took my daughter, Melanie, to Natchez during its annual Pilgrimage when the thirty eight restored mansions were opened to the public. Natchez is dubbed as the White Columned City of the South. During the evenings there is a Confederate Pageant (now called the Cultural Pageant). This event occurs in the City auditorium where the days of the “Old South” are depicted by the local citizens. As a live orchestra plays the “Belles” waltz with Confederate soldiers and of course, they play “Dixie.”

Melanie was quite taken with this “cultural experience.” As soon as we returned home she watched a video of “Gone with the Wind.”

While Melanie was taking a tour of one of the old homes I was sitting on a bench by myself. One of the ladies who was a tour guide came and sat with me. She was dressed in her antebellum dress. With her aristocratic Southern accent she started a conversation with me. I would guess her to be in her late

fifties or early sixties. In the course of our visit I told her of my days in Natchez so long ago and how much I had loved it and how I always regretted having to leave. She sat quietly for a few minutes and said to me, “You could always come back.” That comment has never quite been forgotten. I must admit that Natchez was one of those shining moments that will always remain with me.

After returning to Oregon I taught for three years in Newberg, Oregon and then in Molalla, Oregon – at Whiskey Hill, where the Mennonites lived, until I moved on to Tennessee to work in a church as a youth director and also the minister of evangelism. I will say more about this when I get to my days at Bayside Baptist Church.

I took to teaching like a duck takes to water. I remember thinking, “Well, Franklin Foust, this is what you were meant to be!” I've spent the major part of my life as a teacher. I taught from grades fourth through twelfth. I've taught English as a second language in many places. I taught about education at the junior college and I taught in a prison. I've never made much money as a teacher but it has been a joy to be a part of so many children's and adults’ lives.

As I believe I've already mentioned, I am finishing this book here in Western Brazil. My afternoon class was mostly children so for the last half of Friday's class time I allowed the children to play.

Incidentally they chose to play “Dodge Ball.” Probably the most loved and most played children's game in the whole world.

As I sat watching them at play I realized how long it had been since I had heard the laughter of children at play! I doubt if there is any sound more wonderful this side of Heaven. I began to reflect on all the hundreds of children that I have taught throughout the years. I can still see their happy and sometimes sad faces. I can still hear their cries of happiness as well as the sobs of their sadness.

I recently came across an old picture of the fourth grade class that I taught in Newberg, Oregon. What happy memories I enjoyed while looking at the picture. Most of my students’ names have been long forgotten with so many names to remember, but some of them I can still remember. It's always fun for me to occasionally have former students of mine see me and ask, “Are you Mr. Foust? Do you remember me?”

Have I forgotten William Carey College? How does this fit in? Well it fits in perfectly with what Mrs. McWilliams and Betty McKitrick did for me over forty-five years ago. They put a love for children and for teaching into my heart that has never gone out.

Throughout my many years of teaching in Oregon, Mississippi, Florida, Guam, China, Puerto Rico, Louisiana, Brazil, the Philippines and Japan – children of all colors, races, social structures, economic backgrounds – the old Sunday school children's song rings true, “Red, and yellow, black and white they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.” It's not only true of Him, but also for me.

As I've mentioned I'm completing this book while teaching English as a second language in Western Brazil. Let me say this, nowhere will you find more beautiful children than the ones that I am now presently teaching. They vary in color from white with blond hair and blue eyes to black skin and all shades in between. I assume that there is racial prejudice in Brazil as there is in most cultures, but I have seen very little of it while I've been here.

When Virginia and I returned from the Philippines where we worked with mixed race children, we

came home with nine of them. Some of them were fathered by white Americans and some of them by black Americans.

We told the children, “Skin gets you nowhere, one way or the other, all of you will be judged by your behavior and your character. God is the One who gave you your skin color. You had no choice, and everything God makes is beautiful. How you behave and conduct yourself is your choice!”

This section of the book is supposedly about my early teaching years and then I went off chasing rabbits. Natchez, mixed races, children – so let's end this section with my last teaching experience – teaching in a prison.

A couple of years ago I taught the G.E.D. and the Basic Adult Education at the local prison near our home. I've always loved teaching, but teaching in a prison was the most rewarding of all. My first day of class was in an empty building with twenty five inmates. Let me say that this was a maximum security prison. So here I am with twenty-five inmates without a guard, which I had been assured that I would have.

I told the men, “Let's get something understood. I am not afraid of any of you. I know you want this class and wouldn't do anything to lose it. I'm happy there isn't a guard in this room. I am a teacher, not part of the prison system. You are my students and I am your teacher. We will treat each other with kindness and respect.”

I'm afraid that I along with most others held a misconception about inmates. We think of them as being violent people to be feared. I admit I did meet a few of that type, but the vast majority of them were decent guys who made terrible mistakes - often due to alcohol and drugs – and now had to suffer the consequences.

My students were wonderful and I learned to love and respect them. What a wonderful experience!

Thank you, Jesus, for being the best Teacher of all and thank you for letting me have the joy of being a teacher. Please bless all those whom I have taught. They have brought meaning into my life and have taught me so many wonderful things. Thanks especially for the children who brought smiles and laughter into my life!

Thank you, God, for the year I spent at William Carey College and for all the wonderful friendships I made there. I am especially thankful for Mrs. McWilliams and Mrs. McKitrick and the wonderful mentoring. You used them to set me on the way to a wonderful life of teaching.

Money for Buying a House A few years after I began teaching in Oregon I experienced an unexpected blessing. Without going into detail, through a number of unexplainable events I was able to buy a house without making a down payment. All closing costs were paid for and I was given enough money for new carpet and other needed improvements. The Bible says, “And ye who have no money- come and buy.”

Well, this scripture certainly became a reality for me. Throughout my life God has always met my needs, even when there has been “no way.” He has always made a way. What a blessing to have a heavenly Father who never forgets His own and is always faithful when we so often are unfaithful.

The Yankee And The Klan When I was teaching in Natchez, someone said, “While living in Mississippi you must attend at least one Ole Miss football game. If you don't, you will never be able to say that you've been in Mississippi.” On top of thatm I was told there were more beautiful women per square inch at Ole Miss than on any other place on the planet. To be honest, football didn't really grab my attention but the latter information caused me to make plans for the trip. It took me about five to six hours to drive to Oxford. It was late October and the drive was well worth the trip. Temperature around seventy to seventy-five, bright sunshine and the fall foliage was breathtaking!

About half way to Ole Miss I stopped at a small country store to buy myself a soft drink. Upon entering the store I was drawn to a large framed picture on the wall. The picture was of a man wearing a KKK outfit. White sheet, pointed hat, astride a white stallion. There was a huge cross burning on the hill in the picture's background.

The thought occurred to me, “Man, would I love to have that picture to show my friends in Oregon.

That would really blow their minds!” I asked the woman who was attending the store how much would she take for the picture. She said she would have to ask her husband. Momentarily, he came out of their apartment in the back of the store. He had shaving cream all over his face. When I asked him about the possibility of purchasing the picture his somewhat emotional response was, “I wouldn't take a million dollars for that picture. Those FBI agents and revenuers tried to convince me to take it down. I told them that Hell will freeze over before I would take it down.” Well, now since plan A – buying the picture - did not seem promising, I kick in plan B. I asked the man if he would be willing to take down the picture and let me take his picture with it? This plan seemed quite appealing to him and thus he agreed to do so. I still have the picture of him standing behind my car (sporting my Oregon license plate) smiling and holding his prized possession.

Upon arriving on the campus of Ole Miss I took a walk before going to the football stadium. Suddenly I saw this girl coming down the sidewalk. As she came near I said to myself, “Oh, my, I believe that is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” Shortly thereafter another girl walked by. “Wait! I've changed my mind. This is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” Thus, went my stay on that campus (please remember at this time I was still a single man).

The game was Ole Miss versus the University of Louisiana – the grudge game of the year. Ole Miss was dubbed as the “Rebel.” Confederate flags were being waved everywhere and, of course, the band was playing Dixie. I don't remember who won the game but I do remember that parade of beauties!

As it turned out I saw an even more beautiful woman in the Philippines, and we've been married for more than twenty five years!

Crayfish Walking One evening I was sitting with friends in Natchez when a teenage boy dashed into the house yelling, “The crayfish are walking, the crayfish are walking!” I thought, “Well, whoopee–do, let them walk!”

As it turned out what was happening had something to do with the moon and the temperature. Under certain conditions the crayfish leave the water and cover the entire landscape wherever there is water. I and the above mentioned young man got into my car and went down to the levee along the Mississippi River. It looked like a plague from the Exodus in the Bible. The whole grounds were covered entirely with crayfish, wall to wall crayfish! The boy and I collected ninety crayfish in two and a half hours.

We kept only the tails which in my opinion are even tastier than shrimp – but what a price I paid! I foolishly wore shorts and flip flops to the levee. Every inch of my legs were covered with mosquito bites. Swelling and itching beyond imagination - “live and learn!”

Do I Hear Something Rattling?

My before mentioned pastor in Nampa, Idaho was originally from North Carolina and thus he arranged a job for me at Camp Crestridge right across the road from Ridgecrest Baptist Conference grounds that accommodates about 2,000 people. My daughter Melanie also worked there for a summer.

Now back to Camp Crestridge. This camp is located on a big, beautiful lake and is quite an upscale camp. We drove to the airport to pick up many of our campers from all over the United States. Mr. Richardson was the camp director, a very amiable Southern gentleman. Knowing that I came from outside the South he said to me, “Franklin, do you know the difference between Southern women and Northern women?” I had to admit that I, in fact, did not know the difference. He proceeded to educate me. He said, “Now the difference between Southern women and Northern women is quite simple.

Southern women know they are women and have every intention of taking advantage of that fact – and if they are smarter than a man, they are smart enough to never let him know it.”

Well, Mr. Richardson told me this about forty-five years ago. The merits or demerits of his observances depend on your perspective, but I must confess, this “difference” was the main reason three charming ladies I met at Ridgecrest were able to charm me into transferring my senior year in college to William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Like many other lovely things that are now Gone with the Wind few of those types of ladies are left, but occasionally I still meet one here and there. I still hear on a regular basis “yes, sir” - “no, sir.” “Yes, ma’am,” and “no, ma’am.” From children and adults those who are your elders are addressed as “Mr.,” “Miss,” “Auntie,” or “Uncle” rather than by first name.

In a later section I tell about my favorite Southern lady – Miss Payne. One day she said to me, “Nice manners are one of the most important things in life and they cost you nothing.” How right she was!

The second thing that stands out in my mind about Mr. Richardson is the day he told me the following story. He said, “One day while standing outside the main lodge a little boy about eight years old approached me holding a huge snake. The boy asked, ‘Mr. Richardson, is this a rattlesnake?’ I looked at the snake and said, ‘Why yes, it is. Now what I want you to do is to see how far you can throw it.’

Which he did!’ Now tell me about not believing in miracles.

Thank you, God, for the beautiful Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains. Such a beautiful place. Second only to Oregon. Thank you for the charming ladies that led me southward where I have lived over half my life. Thank you for living with abundant sunshine and for Camp Crestridge – a beautiful place with such good memories. Oh, yes, and thank you for the little boy who didn't get snake bitten.

Bayside Sometime in the early 1980's I was teaching in a rural community near Molalla. The name of the community was Whiskey Hill. A large percentage of the people of Whiskey Hill are Mennonites.

Don't ask me for an explanation as I don't have a clue!

I was teaching middle school language arts. The students were easy to teach. Coming from mostly farms, they knew how to work and to be obedient. I really liked my job and was planning on being there for a long time, but God had other plans!

God spoke to me and told me that He was taking me away from teaching and was going to put me into a youth ministry. My response: “Say what? I really don't think so. I'm quite happy with what I'm doing. Thanks, but no thanks!”

This call was persistent and I finally told the Lord, “Okay, fine, if that is what you really want, but I am not going to pursue this in any way. If this is really you, fine, but I'm not going to make any applications or try to make this happen. It's all up to you.”

When the school year ended I knew in my spirit that I wouldn't be back the next fall. I remember shedding tears as I closed the classroom door for the final time. I really did want to return.

Shortly after this I flew to Scottsboro, Alabama to visit friends. While there I made a short trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee to visit some other friends. After about two weeks I returned to Oregon and began to wait to see what was going to transpire in regards to “the Call.” I waited and I waited and then I waited some more!

One morning while still lying on my bed I said, “Well, God, I believe I've waited long enough. If I'm not returning to my teaching job, I need to resign now and give the school some time to find a replacement. You have to do something NOW or I'm going back to my job and I guess I'll believe 'the Call' was nothing more than onions.”

Later that day when I went to the post office, I received a letter from my friend Lorraine Humble whom I had visited earlier in the summer. (By the way, the letter I received was not sent until six weeks after it was written. It was in the car and had fallen between the seats. It stayed there until Lorraine had discovered it and sent it on to me.) After a few niceties she wrote, “Too bad you didn't stay around.

Our church is looking for a youth director.” Shocked, to say the least! I immediately called her pastor, Brother Bob Stitts. When I explained to him what had happened, he said, “Well, that sounds like God and we best not ignore Him.” Within a week I flew to Chattanooga for an interview. That fall I began my ministry at Bayside Baptist Church as minister of youth and evangelism. This was the beginning of full-time Christian work for me. The youth program at Bayside was the largest one in Chattanooga. One hundred participating youths ranging from grades seven to twelve.

The irony of this is that Bayside was the number one sports oriented church in the entire area. We had three baseball fields, a gymnasium for basketball, and here is Frank Foust, the least athletic person God had ever created. Who says that God doesn't have a sense of humor?

My days at Bayside hold some of the best memories of my life. Brother Bob and I became close friends. Both of us respected each other and recognized our unique gifts. His wife Miss Lillian was what I called the prototype for pastor's wives. She was active in the church, but never at the expense of being a wife and a mother.

Just a few months ago I attended Brother Bob's memorial service. The sanctuary at Bayside holds about 1200 people. It was packed! Eric, Brother Bob's son, is now the pastor at Bayside and he conducted the funeral service. It was a real celebration and a marvelous memorial to a great man of God. During the service Eric asked all the people in the church to stand if his father had personally baptized them. Over half the congregation stood! During the twenty-five years of Brother Bob's ministry at Bayside he baptized 2,100 people. Bob Stitts was a soul winner! He didn't just preach and teach soul winning, but he actually went out and won souls! I spoke with Brother Bob a few weeks before he died. He was in the hospital and true to form he was witnessing to doctors, nurses, visitors, and even the cleaning lady. He told me that he asked them, “Are you sure you have made adequate preparation for Heaven?” Bob's passing has left a gaping hole in the lives of so many people – especially mine. He was my mentor, my pastor, and most of all, he was a wonderful friend. “See you in Heaven, Brother Bob!” Just before leaving the memorial service, Eric thanked me for coming and then reminded me of his being ten years old when I served at Bayside. He recollected how he always followed me about asking question after question. “Brother Frank, why...Brother Frank, what is your opinion...Brother Frank, when is ... going to happen?” This went on and on whenever Eric and I had crossed paths, which was quite often.

I told Eric that yes I did remember his perpetual questioning. I then told Eric that now he is a pastor and it's time for me to do the questioning! As Eric gave me a big farewell hug, I whispered into his ear, “Eric, whenever you see a Coca-Cola sign, remember your daddy. He was the 'real thing.'”

It would not do for me to begin to mention all my wonderful friends from Bayside. There are so many that are so special to me. I will make one exception – Millard and Dorothy Hooper. Millard was the custodian when I was at Bayside. He and I became instant friends. I spent many a time eating at their table.

They had two sons and a daughter. All of their children have grown up to be fine Christians with families of their own. The best way to describe Millard and Dorothy is to say they are faithful.

Faithful to God, to their church, to their jobs, to their children and to their friends. I was blessed to be one of their friends. (P.S. My pet name for the Hoopers was the “Hooper Toopers.”)

Well, here I go again! I must mention the Randolphs (We were asked to leave the Pizza Hutt due to Earlene's mega loud laughing), Melvin and Mildred Mathis (Melvin the Fuss Budget and Mildred, always so calm and cool), Pat and Martha Payne and Martha's mother – so many hours of sweet fellowship, Dale Pruitt – one classy lady. Sorry for those not mentioned – too many special people to mention. Last but not least, the hundred plus teenagers that were my first to minister to. Thanks for your love and patience. I will always love and remember my Bayside family!

The Three Jim’s The first Jim was a fellow who befriended me while I was staying in a temporary foster home – awaiting court proceedings to see what was to become of me after being removed from my relatives.

This particular foster home was more like a business – plain and simple.

As it turned out there were some seriously mean fellows in this home. “Well, well, what do we have here? Fresh meat!” Suddenly being captain of the Junior Hell's Angels wasn't all that impressive! I was much younger and smaller than the rest of the boys. Sort of like Daniel in the lion's den! Now, Daniel was protected by the angel of the Lord. Well, so was I. His name was Jim Reeder – seventeen years old, built like a brick house and “tough” to say the least! He told the other boys, “Lay off and I mean LAY OFF! You mess with him- you'll mess with me.” None seemed willing to accept the challenge.

Jim said, “Just stay close to me and you'll have no problems.” I was obedient and he was right, there were no problems.

Jim came from a very dysfunctional family. He was abandoned by his father, but he had a good mother. She was a good woman but unable to control Jim. On a certain occasion Jim ran down the business district of Canby, Oregon knocking out all of the windows. This was one of the few things that brought Jim into the foster care system.

Jim was somewhat of a genius because he was able to pass the Air Force entrance exam with a score of 100% (accomplished by only a few). The Air Force allowed Jim to join. Approximately a year later Jim was killed in an airplane accident on a small Pacific island. The plane hit a taxi cab that was crossing the runway. Another bright shining light in my life extinguished.

I still have Jim's picture even though he's been gone for more than fifty years. I've never forgotten him and how he stood up for me. I've always grieved that just when Jim had the opportunity for a good life, it was snatched away by some freak accident. I attended Jim's funeral in Oregon City at St. John's Episcopal Church. I'll always remember the kindness that he showed to me.

The second Jim is Jim Bevier. Jim was from Canby, a small town near Molalla. Jim would catch a bus near our house – a church bus that took us to Youth for Christ meetings in Portland. The bus was owned and operated by a wonderful Christian man who drove the bus and operated it at his own expense. He did this for many years. What a ministry! Only eternity will reveal what the bus meant to all the young people that this man's dedication provided. Doubtless many will be in Heaven to greet him and say, “Thanks, Mr. Walden! That you for caring enough to provide that bus so I was able to hear the gospel.”

On that old bus Jim and I became friends. He was a strong Christian and my foster parents approved of our friendship. When Jim got his own car he took me with him on many occasions. Jim was my best friend at the time.

Jim lost his younger sister in a blasting accident. Linda was so young, so beautiful, another life taken too early by a “freak accident.” Not too many years later Jim lost both of his parents. They were traveling in a motor home in Mexico.

Jim overcame these tragedies. He married a lovely girl from Mississippi, is retired from the Air Force, and is living on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I haven't seen him in years, but I will always be thankful that he chose to be my friend when I needed one. Thanks, Jim! The last Jim – or in this case, Jimmy – came into my life about a year ago. Jimmy moved to Century (the town we live near). Jimmy had come to be our new postmaster. He had been transferred from Dublin, Georgia – about seven hours away from his home and family. The day I met Jimmy in the post office we became friends immediately. Since Jimmy was alone we shared many meals together in our home and every so often he would take us out to dinner. Jimmy and I became like brothers. In fact, we are brothers – brothers in Christ.

Jimmy was only in Century for about nine months. He was able to transfer to South Carolina, which put him much closer to home.

Before leaving for Brazil about four months ago I had to go to Atlanta to work on my Brazilian visa.

Jimmy's home is about two and a half hours from Atlanta. He and his wife invited me to stay in their home for a couple of days. We enjoyed some wonderful fellowship. I spoke briefly at their church about my intended mission and the church gave me a generous love offering. Without Jimmy's help I would not be presently in Brazil!

One of the greatest benefits of being a Christian is the brotherhood of believers. I've met God's people all over the world. What a joy to have met them and fellowship with them. Jimmy, you're right up there at the top of the list. I'm looking forward to many more years of friendship.

Thank you, God, for these three wonderful men who have helped me along in my journey!

Wolf!

While teaching in my home town of Molalla, Oregon I attended the local Baptist church. One Sunday morning I was standing in the veranda handing out bulletins when a man, his wife and two children walked in. The couple appeared to be in their mid-thirties. The man was very tall and handsome. He looked like a football player, which later turned out to be the case. The wife was very attractive. At first sight – the all American family. One problem – when I took a look at the man, red flags sprang up immediately! The thought crossed my mind, “Oh, no, a wolf!” Come to find out he was our new assistant pastor! When he stood behind the pulpit, I stared at the floor. I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I began to feel guilty and said to myself, “Frank, you're not being a very good Christian. This man has done nothing to deserve this type of attitude.” But I just couldn't help myself! Something inside me kept shouting, “Wolf, wolf!”

I finally went to the pastor and told him how I felt. His response was, “Well, Frank, that's your opinion, but it's not mine or anyone else in the church.” “Pastor,” my response was, “within six months you and this church will regret the day that man walked into this church, but I pray to God that I am wrong.” I told him that I wouldn't be offended because I really wanted to be wrong!

Well, it didn't even take six months. Within a short time things began to degenerate. The things that this man did were beyond comprehension! I will refrain from giving all the details except for one.

Before this man left Molalla, Oregon this was his message, “There was never a man called Jesus. It's all a lie!”

It should go on without saying that this man had caused the pastor great shame and difficulties. If you want to know how I knew he was a “wolf,” then read in the Bible the book of First Corinthians the verses that speak of spiritual gifts. The “discerning of spirits” is the spiritual gift that I was functioning in.

Missions My first exposure to missions was at a Nazarene camp near Portland, Oregon. I was there with my foster parents and had been saved about two years. There were three services each day – the morning service, the afternoon missionary service, and the evening service. My favorite service was the missionary service. During the missionary service Missionaries from all over the world would come and share with us about their various ministries. As John Wesley said, “My heart was strangely moved.” In the four to five years of camp meetings, I can only remember one missionary. His name – Paul Orjilla – missionary to Haiti. Is it just a coincidence that I am writing this section of the book while I'm sitting in a Haitian shack within an orphanage compound? There are no coincidences with God! Back to camp meeting. We sang the missionary hymns - “Have your eyes caught the vision? Has your heart felt the thrill? To the call of the Master, do you answer, 'I will?'” ... “So send I you to labor unrewarded”... “Speak, my Lord, speak to me, speak and I'll be quick to answer Thee” ... “Do you care, do you care, do you really care – Son of God and King was He yet He died upon a tree. Do you love Him? Does it matter? Do you care?”

In the course of my life I ended up becoming a teacher. I've taught in most of the elementary grades, in middle school, high school, junior college, and in prison (which was rewarding). Little did I know that teaching would become the vehicle to make various mission opportunities to become mission realities!

Sometime during the 1980's I was teaching in a middle school in Pensacola, Florida. At that time I was still single. One day I came home to a big mess. My newly acquired puppy had gotten off my back porch and into my living room. I had a number of papers and pamphlets lying around so the puppy had a grand old time shredding them! I was not a “happy camper.” While cleaning up the mess I came upon a pamphlet telling about “tent making” opportunities through the teaching of the English language. The thought had occurred to me that this could be a wonderful opportunity, but the pamphlet had been chewed by the puppy. But I can't send this in! I finally decided to make a photocopy and send it in. Two weeks later I received a phone call asking me if I would consider going to China to teach in a teacher's college. I said, “I assume you mean Taiwan – 'Free China.'” “No,” was the response, “The People's Republic.” “You mean 'communist China,'” I asked? The answer was, “Yes, communist China. You would be going with four other teachers.” I answered the recruiter, “I have to be honest, it had never crossed my mind to go to ‘communist China,’ but I will pray about it. I will give you my answer within a week.”

After getting off the phone I told God, “I am not going to China unless you make it definitely clear that this is Your will.” Later that evening I was arranging some books on the bookshelf when a small book fell off the shelf and landed on my foot. The name of the book was The Greatest Thing in the World by Henry Drummond. It's a small classical book that expands on the truths of First Corinthians chapter thirteen. I took the book and sat it on my nightstand. Maybe there is something in this book that I am supposed to read. A little while later when I went off to bed, I picked up the book and began thumbing through it. I happened upon a page where Mr. Drummond made the following observation, “Let me say this to this little band of would be missionaries, 'Though you cannot speak Chinese or the dialects of India, the language of love will be understood by all.'” “Well, Lord,” I said, “We are going to China, aren't we?” Please notice that Mr. Drummond referred to a “little band of would be missionaries.” At that time the political policy of the People's Republic of China was “no missionaries allowed!” We were invited into communist China as teachers because the Chinese were having so much trouble from secular American teachers. Their poor morals and lifestyles were quite offensive to the communist

leadership. Many of these leaders had been educated in Christian schools and remembered the exemplary lives of their teachers. Christian teachers were deemed more consistent to their expectations, and that is how “the little band of would be missionaries” were invited into China.

A few months later we found ourselves in Los Angeles for two weeks of training, and then off to China.

Our flight took twenty-two hours. Upon arriving in the Beijing Airport, I must confess, I was somewhat taken aback to be greeted by soldiers with large guns hanging on their shoulders.

We were whisked off to a hotel where we spent a couple of days and then put on a train to take us to our destination – Daqing.

The train ride was almost like going on a train ride in the old American Wild West. The train appeared to be about the same vintage. Most of the trip we heard traditional Chines music, which I happen to love. Though I can't understand a word of Chinese the sound of it has such a soothing effect on me. I remember looking out the window and seeing a field of sunflowers. There were sunflowers as far as the eye could see. Awesome!

Daqing is located in the far northeastern part of China near the Russian border. The land is a tundra – summers were blasting hot, and winters had subzero temperatures, even as low as twenty to thirty degrees below zero. Absolutely wonderful for Frank Foust who hates cold weather! One of the few redeeming factors about this cold weather is that it was dry, which made it more bearable, especially when it was sunny.

As I've already mentioned, we were assigned to a teaching college. My students were English teachers whose English proficiency ranged from relatively high to extremely low or non-existent. Some of the teachers had learned English from listening to the radio.

The first day we were introduced to our students. They stood up and bowed to us. What a shock!

Having been a teacher in the United States this kind of respect was totally foreign to me. We were the first foreigners in this part of China in forty years. We were quite the novelty! One student came up to me and stared into my eyes and said, “Oh, your eyes are so blue – like the sky.” The students were fascinated with our hair so much that they were always touching it.

These were, by far, the best students that I had ever taught. Can you imagine students complaining that they were not receiving enough work? They would say to me, “Mr. Foust, please give us more work!

This is the only opportunity we will ever have like this. We must learn as much as possible!”

These Chinese people had never had the opportunity to discover the outside world. I brought U.S. Magazines to show them about American life. They thought they were nothing but propaganda. To them such lifestyles depicted by these magazines were impossible!

I will share some memorable Chinese experiences. Let's start with “baby birds.” We were living in a Foreign guest house and we had to eat our meals there as there was no other choice. No McDonald's “I'm lovin' it,” no KFC’s “So good,” and no “Have it your way,” at Burger King. Each day when we came to our evening meal, we were greeted by a dish of roasted baby birds.

They were roasted whole with nothing missing except the feathers if, in fact, there ever were feathers!”

There they sat roasted whole to a nice golden brown sitting on a plate with their mouths wide open looking as if they were expecting to be fed by their mothers. I was appointed to go to dinner early and transfer the birds to another table where they would be appreciated.

None of our team was brave enough to give the baby birds a try, but I did watch the head of the English department eat them. He would pop one into his mouth and eat “the whole thing.” From the legs to the beaks with a few chomps they were gone down the hatch! I noticed our lady teachers turned pale and even macho man, Russell, flinched. We won't elaborate on my response!

On one occasion I went to the kitchen to ask the cook a question (Looking back now how foolish that was as it was unlikely he could speak any English). I opened the door, took one sweeping glance, and slammed the door. A pig was being butchered and it looked like the Texas chainsaw massacre! Yes, I know this is the second time that I have used this description but I don't know of any other way to describe it! I returned to my team mates not only giving them the gory details, but also advised them to never go into the kitchen! In this case “ignorance” truly “was bliss!”

We also learned to not ask the question, “What is this?” Take it on faith – take it on faith.

Another observation on food. In Northwest China there is a large population of ethnic Koreans, but Chinese citizens. As it turns out the Koreans have quite a taste for dog. The Chinese, on the other hand, prize the fur for the making of hats – a true case of “waste not, want not.” I still have a picture of myself wearing my “Lassie will not come home hat.” Sorry animal lovers and members of PETA. Don't blame me. I didn't come up with this arrangement.

One more food story. I promise you that this is the last one. One evening we were invited to a special banquet in our honor. Food was brought out and we ate heartily to our fill. It was then told to us that this was only the first course of a twenty eight course meal. Talk about eating past your limit. We just waddled away from the table.

Oh, yes, the Chinese just stared at us thinking we were quite lazy when we asked them to “pass” the food to us. We learned that Chinese tables are round with a lazy Susan in the middle that holds the food. When wanting an extra helping one is expected to stand up, turn the lazy Susan, and reach across the table and serve yourself. “Live and Learn!”

The term “Oh, rats!” took on quite a colorful meaning in China. Sorry to say that the Foreign guest house was not rat proof and, obviously, the rats preferred to be inside rather than outside.

The doors to our rooms were hung in such a way that there was plenty of room to easily travel from room to room. Our Chinese hosts went out of their way to please us and thus we had $2,000 hand woven carpets in our rooms. The rats that we were hosting had very high class tastes. They would come into our rooms after we turned out the lights and nibble on our carpets.

Now, it's bragging time! While packing for my Chinese journey I packed a rat trap. I received some peanut butter in a CARE package from the United States (no better bait). Before going to bed I set the trap, went to bed, and waited. Sure enough, my visitor had arrived. Nibble, nibble on the carpet and then suddenly, “Smack!” Rat number one went on to wherever rats go.

Now let me elaborate on Russel, one of my teammates. Russel was twenty-four years old and from Los Angeles. He was raised in a wonderful Christian home. Russel was a fine, godly young man. He was quite an athlete and handsome enough to charm the young ladies. Now I, on the other hand, was in my mid-thirties, not athletic, and very handsome, according to the girls I met who were attending the school for the blind.

Russel's room was next door to mine. One evening I heard quite a racket coming from Russ' room. I opened the door and saw Russ standing on his bed doing the Irish jig. There was rat number two running around the room. This time the instrument of death was not a rat trap, but it was one of Russ' hiking boots. I took the boot and told rat number two to take a hike and off he went to be with rat number one. It was at that exact moment that my friendship with Russ was galvanized for the rest of our lives.

Russ and I have never seen each other since our days together in China, but we have enjoyed a number of telephone visits. Russ returned to Los Angeles, became an E.S.L. teacher, married and raised a wonderful family, and won a battle with Cancer.

I thank the Lord for the wonderful memories we share. Russ is a beloved brother in Christ. “Hey, Russ, how cool it would be if we could return to China again before our 'Final Call.' If not, I plan to see you in 'The New Jerusalem.'”

Andi – I had never known a girl named “Andi.” She was from Pennsylvania – a free spirit if there ever was one. Andi was about ten years my junior – no romantic inclinations, but soul mates. We often went on what we called “little adventures.” We were not supposed to leave the compound without a Chinese escort. Neither Andi nor I saw the need for an escort. We would get on our bicycles and off we would go. Honestly, I don't recall any earth shattering experiences in regards to our illegal escapades, but I do remember the feeling of freedom – not being watched. I enjoyed having refreshing conversations with this unique Christian woman.

I can still see Andi wearing her jeans, big baggy sweater, and with her hiking boots cocked up on a chair, sipping hot jasmine tea while we mutually solved all the world's problems. Sweet Andi, I will always cherish our special friendship. Such wonderful memories!

Andi now resides in Pennsylvania where she raised a son that is now in the Air Force. She has adopted two Afro-American boys. “Boys, you are blessed! I'm sure that with a mother like Andi you will have a wonderful future!”

One of our teachers was an ethnic Chinese from San Francisco, California. Her name was Pam. I called her “our banana” - yellow on the outside, but white on the inside. She could only speak English which drove the Chinese crazy. They kept saying, “But she looks Chinese. Why can't she speak Chinese?” I lost track of her long ago. I pray she has happiness and is still active in God's vineyard.

Pam, a sweet, humble, Christian gal.

Last, but not least, there was Marie. Marie was over sixty years old and a retired professor from the Presbyterian Seminary in South Korea. Marie was born to missionary parents serving in China. When Marie was fourteen years old the communists took over the mainland and she and her family were forced to leave in 1948. Her dreams of returning to China one day were realized as a teacher of the English language.

Now Marie who was our senior member and head teacher was an excellent teacher. She was a nononsense kind of gal. She had what I would consider a “colonial” view of missions, but why wouldn't she? She was exposed to it during the first fourteen years of her life. Marie never married, but was a very dedicated Christian and a very strong person. What became of her after China is unknown to me.

If she is still alive, she would be very elderly.

Now on with some special memories of China. Let's start with the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. I cringe to share this with you, but here it goes...Our team was invited to a neighboring city where another American team was teaching. It took a number of hours by train to make this trip. We were greeted by the local officials and our fellow American colleagues. Off we were taken to a Chinese restaurant. Can you imagine “Chinese,” not Golden Coral, not KFC, not even an Italian or a Greek restaurant, but “Chinese!” What a surprise!

Once in the restaurant and having been seated we began to chat. I was telling about my rat number one story and when I got to the part of the rat trap going “SMACK!” I used wide, outstretched arms to illustrate the closing of the trap. In that exact moment the waitress had stepped behind me with a platter of sliced meat. My right hand lifted the platter from her hand and I pitched the sliced meat toward Heaven. In that moment, not only were the “blessings of Heaven” raining down but so was an abundance of sliced meat. The poor waitress just bolted out of the room as quick as lightning.

We Americans almost fell out of our chairs laughing. Our startled Chinese hosts just stared at us. They practically lost the slants of their eyes. The poor waitress finally returned to serve us, but I noticed she kept a careful eye on me. So began the national cultural exchange with a remote Chinese village.

One day I was out on the compound with Mr. Lee, the head of the English department. He wanted me to hear him sing the communist theme song. He began to sing, “I shall not be – I shall not be moved – I shall not be moved. Just like a tree planted by the water I shall not be moved.” I said, “Why, Mr. Lee, I know that song. Let me sing the second verse to you. ‘Jesus is my Savior. I shall not be moved In His love and favor I shall not be moved. Just like a tree planted by the water I shall not be moved.’”

Suddenly the concert ended as Mr. Lee realized he had something else to do.

As many of you know China went through the Great Cultural Revolution in the 1960's. Mao Tse-Tung, the president of the People's Republic of China, set the country ablaze by encouraging the young people to rise up against the enemies of China – intellectuals (Anyone with glasses was either imprisoned or killed). Anyone with foreign connections, as well as Christians were targeted. About one million Christians were murdered during this time. All former rich landowners were executed and their children were sent to the country side to do manual labor.

I had a student who was in his mid thirties. He was finally being permitted to get an education. After fifteen years of slopping the hogs – the son of a rich landowner. One day as I was walking across the compound he approached me and said, “Mr. Foust, do you know anything about Jesus Christ? I've always wanted to know about Him but have never been able to find any information in regards to Him.” Can you imagined the joy that I experienced telling this dear soul of our Wonderful Redeemer who came to rescue us from our sins? What a refreshing change from witnessing in the United States (especially in the South) where people choose to play games with God. Yet they claim a salvation experience without any change or commitment, whose lives are more given to football, covered dish dinners, fishing, hunting, anything except Jesus. Proclaiming Christ to a lost and dying world is something to be discussed but never done. Of course, these folks will respond, “You're just a 'legalist' or 'judgmental.'” Obviously, this does not include all southern Christians, but sad to say it does for the

majority.

Sorry for the rabbit hunt - back to China. One day while sitting at my desk a student sat near the desk.

He noticed my Bible and asked, “Is this a Bible?” “Yes,” I responded, “would you like to look at it?”

He said that he would so I led him to some passages I thought he might enjoy. He then asked, “Do you have this book in Chinese?” I avoided answering his question not knowing if he were a Chinese spy.

In China everyone seemed to be looking over their shoulder not knowing for sure if someone were a friend or foe.

This fellow's story was that he lived in a small village of 25,000 people very near the Russian border.

He told me that he had seen a Bible once, but he had never owned one. According to him his parents were Christians but had to keep it a secret. They were unable to share their faith with their children fearing reprisals from the communists. Children were often quizzed about what was spoken in their homes. They were trained to spy on their parents. If it were found out that the parents were Christians, the children would be forcibly taken away and their parents would either be imprisoned or executed.

My student went on to say that when he turned twenty-five years old, his mother traveled across China to tell him about Christ. Now that he was older she didn't fear that he would betray her, and she led him to a salvation experience. As time went on I began to trust this man as a true brother in Christ.

You will hear more of this man later.

One day while passing around the classroom a Chinese lady motioned for me to come close. She pointed to her seatmate and said, “We love God, too!” At the end of the semester she asked for a private meeting with me. As it turned out she introduced me to her seven dorm mates. She had led them all to Christ realizing the price she would pay for witnessing if she were discovered.

One day I was walking down the street in Daqing. The temperature was way below zero. Wanting to please me the students bought me a Popsicle, if that is what you want to call it. It was barely palatable – sugar water with cinnamon and a little powdered milk (personally I would have preferred a good cup of hot chocolate, or even a cup of hot tea would have been fine). Being polite and not wanting to offend I crunched down on this “special treat.” I shivered as it went down my throat. I have used this experience on many occasions to illustrate how I have been to numerous “spirit filled” meetings which, sad to say, didn’t move me much. These “spirit filled” meetings had lots of blasting music (really just noise), cranked up emotionalism, and out of control frenzied behavior. Those who attended these meetings just couldn't understand why I seemed so “unmoved.” They kept thinking I was missing out on a wonderful blessing. It was to these people that I shared my Popsicle experience. (Keep in mind that I believe in all the spiritual gifts and have personally experienced a few). I told them how the Chinese were so given to their watered-down Popsicles because they had never been to a Dairy Queen.

They hadn't a clue about “real” ice cream. I went on to say that the same is true in supposedly “spirit filled” meetings. Those attending only know of man-made counterfeits or poorly diluted teachings and experiences. They have never been to the “Dairy Queen” of the Spirit where everything is orchestrated

by God. All Hollywood glamor and foolishness is absent. No Barbie dolls or used car salesman type of preachers are present. No vulgar display of wealth or so much facial paint that you could coat your house several times over. The dead formal crowd are also not to be found. Knowing what the real presence of God-inspired, spirit filled church is all about, I thank the Lord that I've experienced the “Dairy Queen” of His sweet presence. The old Nazarenes use to call it, “When the glory came down.”

May it come down again like an overflowing river gushing from His throne into the hearts of so many dehydrated, thirsty souls. Oh, Lord, let it be like Coca-Cola - “the Real Thing.” Nothing else will do.

While in China I was able to see so many amazing things. Let me share a few with you. I was able to walk on the Great Wall, visit the Forbidden City and the Ming Tombs. I took a boat trip down the Leigh River and saw the amazing sand stone mountains, often depicted in Chinese art. I visited Shanghai with its multitudes of people packed together like sardines. I watched swimmers break the ice on a river and plunge in like polar bears. I was in Harbin to see the ice carvings- truly amazing craftsmanship. Our team went to a Chinese dumpling factory where we steamed dumplings. The machine that actually made the dumplings was amazing to watch – very impressive. Chinese ingenuity to the max!

One day while we were walking through the market I purchased some oranges (quite expensive). As we walked along I saw a pitiful looking little boy. His bare hands were so chapped and cracked from the bitter cold. His jacket was much too thin for such a piercing cold. I suddenly thought of the oranges in my bag. I took one out and placed it in his hands. Decades later I can still see the shock in his eyes and the happy, shy smile that spread widely across his face. God be with him wherever he may be after these many years. I wonder – does he remember me? I will certainly never forget him!

One of the students like Nicodemus would come to visit me late at night. He would ride his bicycle in twenty degrees below zero Fahrenheit weather for our secret encounters. The purpose of these visits was to discuss the Gospel. One evening he said to me, “Mr. Foust, do you realize what will happen to me if I become a Christian? If found out, I would certainly lose my job. How would I support my wife and child? I would probably be sent to prison or possibly even executed as an enemy of the state.” My response was, “Yes, I know, in China it costs everything to follow Christ while in America it costs almost nothing. This being the case I want to ask you a question. If the Bible is true, if Jesus is the only way to God, if there is a Heaven to be gained and a Hell to be shunned, would the price be worth it? His answer was, “Of course, it would be worth it. We live only to be seventy to eighty years old on this earth. What is the price in light of eternity? Of course, it would be worth it.” I departed from China never knowing if he became a Christian. I pray to God that he did.

While training in California to prepare for cultural habits and differences the subject of “holding hands” was addressed. We were informed that two men holding hands in China did not mean what it does in the United States. To the Chinese holding hands had only to do with friendship without any sexual connotations. We were warned that if a Chinese man were to take our hand that he was only saying “I have chosen you to be my friend.” To pull your hand away would be a terrible insult. It was quite often we saw soldiers carrying big rifles walking down the streets holding hands.

During one of my writing classes I asked the students to write a biography about one of their classmates. One student chose to write about Richard (we gave all the students English names much to their delight and to our convenience. To pronounce many of their names was quite an impossible task for us). The student who chose to write about Richard described him as such, “Richard is the perfect communist, the perfect soldier. He would kill his own mother if commanded to do so!”

On most evenings after dinner I would walk to the classroom and do some “conversational English” friendly chats on various topics. The students looked forward to these times and it never has been a burden for me to engage in conversation. When it was time for me to return to the foreign guest house the students insisted that one of them would escort me. This was totally unnecessary in that the education building and the guest house were only a short distance apart.

One cold night Richard decided it was his turn to see me home safely. As we walked along “in the light of the silvery moon” Richard takes me by the hand. Thankfully, I remembered about not jerking my

hand away and offending the “perfect communist who would kill even his own mother if commanded to do so.” I thought, “Oh, Lord Jesus, I'm so thankful that no one back home can see me now.” I learned that the Chinese are very faithful to the few they deem as friends. I will elaborate on this later when I write about one of my closest friends – Henry Chen.

One of the students was a lovely fifty-five year old woman – Mrs. Dau. We referred to her as being our “Russian retread.” Mrs. Dau had been an interpreter in Russia for many years and then the Chinese and the Russians had a big falling out. Mrs. Dau was brought home to China and told to forget Russian and to learn English. One day Mrs. Dau was trying to convince me how much more moral the Chinese were than are Americans (which, by the way, is technically true). She pointed out our high crime rates, divorce rates, illegitimate births, drugs, and etc. My response was, “Of course the Chinese are more moral and commit less crime. You have no other choice. The government exercises such harsh and extreme punishments that the people fear to break any rules. Why just a couple of days ago eleven men were executed down the street from here for white collar crimes. The eleven men were made to kneel down while a soldier went from one to another shooting them in the back of the head. I told her the only really honest and moral people are those who choose to do so without fear of reprisal. I went on to tell her that I take all the drugs I like, I drink all the alcohol that I choose to drink, and sleep around with as many woman as my heart desires, but the fact is – I choose to do none of those things even though I'm not afraid of the government. Mrs. Dau patted me on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Foust, you are a good man,” and proceeded on her way.

When Christmas finally rolled around, I was not unprepared. What's Christmas without lights? I suppose my window was the only window in that vast part of Northern China with Christmas lights!

Do you remember the student who inquired about Chinese Bibles? By this time I was convinced that he really was a Christian and not a spy. On Christmas eve I invited him to my room. I gave him the first Christmas present he had ever received – you guessed it – a Chinese Bible!

When he opened the package and saw what I had given him he began to weep. He clutched the Bible to his chest and said, “Oh, this is a good book – this is a good book! Oh, Mr. Foust, how can I ever thank you enough for bringing me to this book?” I told him not to thank me, but thank God for I was only the delivery man.

The sad reality is that China desperately needs Bibles. Yes, China does publish some Bibles, but not nearly enough. The Bibles that are being printed are just enough to give the impression that the government is making Bibles available. Just a propaganda gimmick.

For over a month I had probably been sick with walking pneumonia. I would walk around throughout the day with a low grade fever and a persistent cough throughout the night. I avoided seeking medical help because of the horror stories other Americans had experienced in Chinese hospitals. I was convinced that I would be okay once I got to Hong Kong. It was there that we were having a conference in February. Well, I was right. The warm breezes were just what my lungs needed. I won't attempt to describe the huge amounts of disgusting phlegm and mucous I was coughing. With each cough, I breathed a little easier. The effect of this illness has never really left me. Whenever I breathe cold air and I begin to hack, my lungs become congested.

Hong Kong is one of the most amazing places that I have ever seen. It is the most highly condensed populous on earth. While there I stayed at the Y.M.C.A. - a wonderful location – right in the heart of the city. When you step out of the front doors of the Y.M.C.A., you find yourself engaging in an

amazing worldwide cultural experience. Every nation on earth seems to be represented in Hong Kong.

Within a short period of time you've seen the richest and the poorest of this “Pearl of the Orient.” I am not fond of big cities, but I believe I could live in and enjoy Hong Kong.

My final Chinese experience prior to going to Hong Kong was without a doubt one of the saddest and most romantic experiences of my life. I had learned to love my Chinese students. Though I hated cold weather I believe if given the chance I would have been willing to stay in Daqing for the remainder of my life. The expression “dying of a broken heart” seems somewhat over dramatic but I believe I can almost identify with it. I knew that I would not be returning after the February Hong Kong conference.

I learned “through the back door” that it would be best if I didn't return. My witnessing was not a part of the Chinese agenda. Do I regret that? Certainly not! How could I withhold the bread of Life from those hungry souls who so wanted to know “Good news?” How can we say we know Him and fail to share the Gospel when souls are spiritually starving to death? Remember those in the New Testament church who were beaten and jailed for spreading the Gospel? When the local magistrate offered to release them on the condition that they cease from witnessing of Jesus Christ, their response was: “But we cannot help to tell the things we have heard and seen.” I assume those who can help from telling didn't receive the same thing as those New Testament believers.

It was very difficult, to say the least, to say goodbye to those I had learned to love and appreciate so much. Knowing I would never see them again – at least not in this world. The day before my departure my students came by my office – one by one- the ladies with tears streaming down their cheeks, bowing and saying, “Goodbye, goodbye, my American teacher. I will never forget you.” The men with grim looks bowed, shook my hand, and quietly walked away.

One of my favorite students “George” came by later in the day. He was about twenty-five years old and stood over six feet tall (six footers were the norm in Northern China as they were descendants of the Mongols). He stood in front of me, put his arms around me and laid his head on my chest and wept like a baby and then fled away. Such was our parting. I also wept as my heart was broken for these people.

I walked over to the window sill and cried and said to the Lord, “Oh, God, I'm not sure I can bear this, maybe this is what a broken heart is all about.” Early the next morning all the students were at the train station to see us off. The last thing I saw looking out of the train window as the train departed the station was those I had learned to cherish. Warm, wet tears falling down their cheeks as well as mine.

“Goodbye, beloved China, goodbye!”

Over thirty years have passed since I left China, but China has never left me. It will always be special to my heart. I pray for the Chinese Christians I knew and also for those that I didn't know. As I mentioned earlier, more than one million Christians were slaughtered, sacrificing their lives for Christ, during the “Great Cultural Revolution. Mao Tse-Tung attempted to wipe out the name of Christ in China but failed. Even though over a million believers laid down their lives for Christ nearly wiping out all the Christians, one of the few Christians who was not killed wrote a book about her experiences during this horrific time of Christian genocide. The title of the book is “We Not Only Survived – We Grew.” How true this is! The church in China has grown beyond human imagination even in the midst of severe persecution. To illustrate this let me share with you a very cherished memory. On a Sunday morning in Harbin (the provincial capital) our team was there for the re-opening of a church that had been confiscated and used as a warehouse. The government had finally returned the building to its former owners nearly fifty years later.

The church was packed to overflowing. I felt guilty for occupying a seat. Those who were there were mostly elderly, former members of the church. Many members of the church were missing as they had been executed or died while imprisoned in work camps. Few young people were present for fear of reprisal for being seen in a church. I sang along with the congregation well remembered, well loved, old hymns that they had sung in this church so long, long ago. Obviously, I sang in English as they sang in Chinese. I thought of a song we often sing in my home church, “We are standing on Holy ground.” Be assured, that's exactly what we were standing on - “Holy ground!” I thought of the missionaries who lives were sacrificed for China. How once stepping on boats to go to this far away land and to never return to their country of birth, they knew what it meant to count the cost. During those years a missionary to China usually died within six years. Only eternity will reveal the fruit of their labors.

As I looked at these old brothers and sisters with tears of sorrow and tears of joy streaming down their wrinkled faces, I thought of the book of Revelation where we read about the 144,000 in chapter seven and a vast multitude from many nations, kindreds, peoples and tongues that cannot be numbered. I thought of how they stood before the throne and before the Lamb clothed with white robes of fine linen, and with palms in their hands. These are those whom the angels of God introduced to John saying, “These are those who have washed their robes and made them clean in the blood of the Lamb.

Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple, and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb who is in the midst of them shall feed them, and shall lead them into living fountains of waters and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes.”

Oh, Lord Jesus, thank you for letting me go to China and share the Gospel to those who had never heard of your great love and your great sacrifice. Oh, Lord, on that great resurrection morning may I be among that great multitude who will come to live eternally in your glorious presence. Please allow me to stand with your beloved Chinese saints. Thank you, Lord, for the joy of taking your wonderful light to those who sit in darkness!

You Went Where? (x3) #1 When I was in Puerto Rico I owned an old Ford Falcon that should have been called a Pinto because it had huge rust spots all over it. One day I went to a village high up in the mountains. The mountains got higher and higher until I found myself lost in the clouds. When I returned to Aguadilla, my friends said, “You went where? In that car?” #2 A young Puerto Rican man said to me one day- “You know, Frank, what impressed us most about you was your car.” When I asked for an explanation he said, “We have seen many missionaries, evangelists, and preachers come and go. Most of them drove expensive cars and wore expensive clothes- only the best.” He went on to say, “We were amazed that you were willing to drive that old car and live a simple life.” #3 Back to the Philippines I and a young Filipino guide went to a very remote part of the Philippine Islands where I was trying to locate some Amerasian children. The journey to our destination was unforgettable. Shortly after leaving Manila the roads were unbelievable. The journey was traveled on roads filled with potholesvery big potholes. During the whole night we went from one hole to another. When morning came and we entered a small village I thought our journey was now ended- not so. The second part of our trip was in a jeepney laden down with not only people passengers but also livestock passengers- chickens, ducks, pigs, goats, and more.

The road we now traveled made the pot holed road look quite smooth. This new road had huge washout ditches, somewhat like riding a roller coaster. Up and down- up and down. The jeepney finally came to a halt.

Now to the next part of our journey. We proceeded to walk across a rice field till we came to the base of a large mountain and we began to climb. Let me say I was a lot thinner and younger on this most amazing journey. I can’t begin to tell how high or how long we walked until finally arriving at the house we were looking for. It was quite out of the range of possibility that I could go into their home, which was held up by poles. If I had tried to enter the house it would have crashed to the ground. Not far from the house there was a pile of dried corn where some small children and some pigs were competing for whatever was edible.

When returning to the road we went to a supposed bus stop. We waited and waited and waited. Finally the people began to abandon the “bus stop” having decided there would be no bus until the following day. I turned to a man I had been visiting with and asked how far it was to the nearest village and if it had a motel. He laughed and told me there weren’t any motels in the entire area. He took pity on me and my guide and asked us to spend the night at his house. The next morning we retraced our before mentioned journey back to Manila and then back to Angles City. When I got back home Virginia said, “You went where?” As it turned out, that part of the Philippine Islands was under control of the National People’s Army- the Communist insurgency. I wondered why I saw so many men walking around with big rifles slung over their shoulders.

Isaac In the summer of 1969 I graduated from college and returned to Oregon. That summer I returned to my old summer job in Woodburn, Oregon. I worked in the Bird's Eye Processing Plant.

Woodburn is a multi-cultural city about one third Anglos, one third Mexican, and one third Russian.

The Russians arrived in the middle 1960's. They were a persecuted religious minority who fled to China. After the communists took over they had to flee once again to a number of South American countries until finally they headed north to the United States and came to Oregon. They called themselves Old Believers (a branch off from the Russian Orthodox Church). They dressed in traditional Russian clothing and separated themselves from the other people.

Their religion is basically their life and it seemed very oppressive and legalistic from our secular American view. One day while sitting in the lunchroom I saw a young Russian boy sitting alone so I went over and sat by him.

His name was Isaac. He was only fourteen years old but he lied about his age to work at Bird's Eye. He was very big for his age and thus was able to fool the folks in the main office. Isaac spoke only a few words in English, and I spoke zero Russian. In spite of this we became friends.

Neither time nor space allows me to tell of the many special times we have shared together. I ended up teaching Isaac to read and to write. He attended the community college in Salem, Oregon and eventually became the Captain of the fire department in Woodburn. He was also the translator for the Russian community. Now he works for the city of Salem!

Today Isaac is a strong evangelical Christian. He's very active in his church. He has one biological daughter and three step sons. His wife La Donna is also very special to me.

Isaac is my friend and almost like a son to me. I have great love and respect for this gentle Russian.

Thank you, God, for Isaac. His name means “laughter� and his laugh is one of the most wonderful ones I've ever known. You were most gracious to put such a person into my life.

The Deardorff's Earlier I mentioned Gary Deardorff – the one who married Joan Dunton. Well, this seems to be a good time to write another part of “The Happy Golden Year's.”

The Deardorff's had a horse farm where they raised and trained American saddle bred horses. Their farm was something akin to Noah's Ark – ducks, turkeys, geese, peacocks and a beautiful collie. On top of all this they had a pigeon house which housed many varieties of pigeons - Fantails, Rollers, Nuns, and Giant Runts (as big as chickens and they couldn't fly). Boy, I was green with envy - did I say green? Yes, green! One day I foolishly walked under a hawk that Don, Gary's younger brother, had tied to the top of a swing. Just when I walked under the hawk, he did the most unimaginable –“Plop!” Right on top of my head – very watery and very green! This was certainly not a self-esteem building experience, especially with Don and Gary laughing, screaming and rolling on the ground.

A much more pleasant memory was going out on a very leaky boat on the pond trying to catch baby ducks. The are too many “cool” memories on that farm to tell. I'm thankful that Betty and Willard welcomed me on my many visits. I assume the Duntons also appreciated the reprieve from their “newest addition” that frequently disturbed the peace of what had been a nice quiet family.

The Deardorffs and the Duntons lived within less than a mile from each other. On my bike, and “zip” I was at the Deardorffs – the lucky Deardorff's.

Now for the granddaddy of all Deardorff memories. It was nearing Halloween. By now Gary, Don, and I were teenagers. The three of us along with a classmate, Billy Nightingale, came up with a great idea for Halloween night. We “harvested” bucket loads of rotten eggs from underneath all the buildings on the farm. We also filled a couple of boxes with water balloons. We referred to the water balloons and rotten eggs as “ammunition.”

Gary's father had given him an old beat up Cadillac to drive. Well, on Halloween night we loaded up for action: I had talked my foster mother into letting me go with the boys. I told her, “Of course, I won't get into trouble. After all, I'm going with Gary Deardorff and everyone knows what a “good boy” he is.

We went to Molalla and then the real fun began. We cruised from street to street blasting our friends and foes with the “ammunition.” I remember a boy threw a water balloon through the open window of the Cadillac, and we got splashed – dripping wet. War! Yes, War! We chased the boy around a few streets. He foolishly stopped in front of the old skating rink. I took aim and hit him right in the chest with a rotten egg. I expected a big splash, but instead it was a small splash and a dead baby chicken fell at this feet. No problem as there was enough “perfume” to even the score. Bet he wasn't so popular for the rest of the night.

We eventually went over to Dicken's Grocery Store. As luck would have it, Ron Dicken had a neon sign that went round and round and round. Now, Don and Billy Nightingale decided it was a perfect target so they threw rotten eggs at it. As luck would have it, the Molalla police had a brand new police cruiser parked guess where? Yes, you guessed correctly – right under Dicken's sign. The sign went round and round and round and we heard the splat, splat, splat. Yes, on the new police cruiser. About this time, out walks a police man. I assume he was not a Sunday school teacher. He made us wash the car (the sign was too tall for us to wash). He then took us to the police station and proceeded to describe for us our future. Something about doing a long stretch of time in jail!

Willard, Gary's dad, came to our rescue. When I got home my foster mother said, “See, I told you that you would get into trouble.” That's what she always said. Maybe she was a prophetess, who knows?

Now if we boys had to do this “adventure” again, would we still do it? I can't speak for the other boys (now old men) but I can imagine you know my answer. What price wouldn't I pay for a memory like this (who knows, even a stretch behind bars)! I've lost track of how many times I've told this story in the last fifty years. Whenever I have told it to young people, they've always seemed quite impressed, and I suspect they hold me in higher esteem now than prior to hearing my Halloween tale.

Thank you, Deardorff's, for fun and happy memories. Thank you, Willard, for rescuing us from all the chain-gangs. And I think it's about time that you forgive me for Jenea!* *Note: Jenea was a miniature poodle that I sold to Betty. As it turns out Jenea loved Betty but hated Willard! Whenever Willard got near Betty, the dog would bark and growl. This happened over fifty years ago and whenever I see Willard, he always reminds me of Jenea.

Roger And Linda I met this couple in church about twenty five years ago. Linda is a gentle and creative soul. Roger has been a pastor and earned a PhD in theology. He and I have spent many on hour on the phone trying to decide how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I am the one who came up with the correct answer even though I don't hold a PhD. The answer is: as many as want too!

Roger and Linda are now retired in Southern Florida but we talk regularly on the phone.

Thank you, God, for Roger and Linda, my longtime friends. Touch Linda's body as she struggles with a very serious health issue.

Tom and Lynne While living back in Molalla I attended the Baptist church. One evening during our revival meeting a young woman showed up. Her name was Lynne Mahoney. She had just recently been saved and she was on “fire.”

The next evening she brought her husband Tom. Tom was an alcoholic even though he was only in his mid twenties. On that particular evening I was talking to someone and asked, “If you died right now do you know where you would go?” Tom overheard this conversation and said to himself, “Why that ---, who does he think he is?” Shortly after this I began to talk to Tom. He said to me, “I'm sorry, mister, but I don't know what the hell you are talking about.” My response was, “Oh, that's all right, but if you really want to know, my friend and I would be happy to come to your home and clearly explain it to you.” Tom sputtered a bit and said, “Okay, okay, come over Thursday night.” Later I found out that he refrained from drinking so he could understand what we were talking about. My friend Dan Cunningham shared the Gospel with Tom and he prayed with us to receive Christ. Tom struggled a number of more years with his alcoholism, but eventually God gave him the victory!

One of the things that I admire most about Tom and Lynne is that their hearts are full of love and compassion. On many occasions they have invited drunkards and drug addicts to sleep on their couch.

Tom and Lynne have two wonderful sons, James, a business man, and Peter, a missionary. Each of them have children who are the apples of their grandparents' eyes.

Tom and Lynn now live in Washington state and Tom is involved with a ministry freeing those who suffer from addictions.

Thank you, God, for Tom and Lynne. Their lives are living proof of the Gospel of salvation that we proclaim.

The Mennonite Smugglers When I was living and teaching in Puerto Rico I lived near the beach. Often after school I would even walk the beach and look for shells.

One afternoon as I was walking down towards the ocean, a large Mennonite family was just leaving the beach. I was somewhat taken aback to see Mennonites in Puerto Rico.

When I got close enough to speak to them, I said, “Well, well, well, isn't this amazing?” The father asked, “What's so amazing?” I told him that I had just heard on the news that the Coast Guard was chasing drug smugglers out in the ocean and the smugglers were throwing bales of marijuana overboard. Then I said, “Who would ever suspect the Mennonites to be in cahoots with the drug cartel? Who would ever suspect the Mennonites as they retrieve the marijuana?” Poor Lindon, the father, began to sputter trying to explain to me the mistake I was making. I finally said, “Calm down, brother, I was only joking (this occurred about twenty-five years ago). It's hard to believe that through this encounter Lindon and I have been friends ever since. He and his wife have had me eat many a meal in their home (this was during my single days). I helped their young son with his reading. We spent many hours in Christian fellowship.

Lindon and I talk on the phone quite regularly. He is one of the best Christians that I know. I hold him and his family in the highest regards!

Thank you, God, for Lindon and his wonderful family. They are very special to me.* *Added note: Melanie graduated from Asbury University in Kentucky on May 10, 2014. Linden and his wife and son came to her graduation from Virginia, a six to seven hour drive from their home.

The Ems' Gary Ems and I first met in the first grade. That was approximately sixty two years ago. All friends are special but there is something extra-special about old friendships. God never put two more opposite types of human beings on this earth as Gary Ems and myself. Gary came from a nice, conservative church going family. I have already gone into great detail about my family.

When I was twelve years old we moved less than an eighth of a mile from the Ems. It was at this time I really became close friends with Gary. I spent almost every day at the Ems’. Gary had an older sister named Vicki and a younger brother named Bob. It was Gary’s and my call in life to terrorize Vicki “Mother, make them stop” was her favorite cry. Mrs. Ems would say, “Time to go outside, boys,” or “Franklin, I think it is time for you to go home!”

I remember wonderful summer days hanging out with Gary. We would go deep into the forest near our houses, swim in the creek, eat apples from an abandoned apple orchard or go home and climb on our bikes and go down quiet country roads.

It seemed I never got into any serious trouble with Gary other than making Vicki's life miserable. Was it because his father was such a stern looking man? Vic Ems was a logger and just didn't look the type to put up with any foolishness. Years later I found him to be a very nice person, a real gentleman. But when I was a boy, I just didn't want to mess with him.

Summer also meant picking strawberries and pole beans. It was the way many of us kids earned money for school clothes. Gary was always my favorite “picking pardner.” I will always be thankful that Vic and Helen Ems allowed me to spend so much time at their house. I can guess it wasn't easy. It goes without saying, Gary seldom came to my house.

Gary and I continued our friendship through our high school years, but both of us found interests of our own and a new set of friends. Not that we weren't still friends, but we had expanded our horizons.

Another factor was that I no longer lived just down the road. I was now living with the Duntons three miles away.

Gary married his high school sweet-heart Charlene (small but terrible – no really – just a tough little chick). Charlene and I became very close friends and we are still close today. Gary and Charlene have two children - Kevin and Chelesse. Kevin and Chelesse also have two children of their own. Needless to say, Gary and Charlene are doting grandparents.

A number of years ago Gary fought against leukemia and won the battle! Thank God he's been cancer free for quite some time now.

I cannot eloquently express what Gary and Charlene mean to me. I'm so thankful for everything they've done for me and also what they have meant to me throughout these many years.

Thank you, God, for the Ems, especially Gary and Charlene. My life has been so much richer because of their friendship. Take care of and protect them and their family. Bless them in every way that they can be blessed.

Only A Miracle Can Save Him One evening I received a phone call from Gary's wife Charlene. She told me that Gary had been diagnosed with a very aggressive form of leukemia and that the prognosis was very grim. Very few people had ever survived this type of leukemia. She said that only a miracle could save him!

Gary was admitted to one of the best cancer hospitals in the Portland area. One evening his daughter called me and said things were not going well for Gary. She said that he was no longer eating or communicating – just staring at the wall. She requested that I give him a call. She said “We know how close you and Dad are and we thought maybe he might respond to your voice.”

I called the hospital and was connected to his room. He was alone with a nurse who answered the phone. When I asked to speak to Gary she said that it wasn't possible because he was not responsive. I asked her if she would hold the phone to his ear because I had a need to say something to him whether he responded or not. She agreed to do so.

Now is the time for me to impress the reader with my bedside manner. I said, “Gary, this is Franklin.

Can you hear me?” He mumbled, “Yes.” I proceeded to say “Gary, I'm told you've quit eating. If you don't eat, you are going to die. If the nurse would bring you some Jello, will you eat it?” Again, he mumbled, “Yes.” Well, the Jello was brought to him and he ate it and a little later he ate some pudding.

Eight days later Gary walked out of the hospital on his own two feet. One of the hospital staff commented to him, “Mr. Ems, I've worked here for twenty-five years and I've never seen anyone walk out of this hospital eight days after being where you were.” (The truth is, Gary came as close as humanly possible to crossing the Jordan River without docking the boat.) Gary has been cancer free for the last eight years. Praise God! I take no personal credit for this miracle, but give God all the glory and praise. Healing came about because of the faith and prayers of a large number of people who prayed for him and really believed in God's healing power.

I've prayed for people who have died. I've prayed for those who experienced gradual healing and in a few cases those who were instantly healed. There is a lot of error in regards to healing. The major errors are: “God doesn't do that anymore,” and those who say that God always wants to heal everyone but doesn't do so for “a lack of faith” or sin. Both of these teachings are erroneous. Yes, God is sovereign, but I do believe many are not healed because the God they have been taught to believe in is a God much smaller than the God of the Bible.

Not Paying Attention To The Preacher Shortly after coming to live with the Duntons I was sitting on the back pew of the church doing a common thing – something other than paying attention to the pastor (at the time I was probably about fourteen years old). I instead memorized a poem from the back of the church bulletin. This happened about fifty-four years ago. I've quoted the poem over and over again: Faithless Prayer If you had been living when Christ Was on the earth and had met the Savior kind What would you have asked Him supposing you had been born blind?

Why surely I would have asked for a dog, a collar, and a chain To lead me safely about.

And thus with our faithless prayers we must acknowledge with shame. Surprise!

We only asked for a dog, a collar, and a chain when we might Have had our eyes.

Sad! But sorry to say this poem depicts the faith of multitudes who confess to be Christians.

Pam, Dooley and the Miracle Horse Pam and I were fellow teachers at Carver Middle School in Century many years ago. She and her husband Dooley became good friends of ours. I will come back to them a little later.

When Melanie was but a baby she immediately loved horses. The first time she saw one she practically jumped out of my arms to get to him. When she was about nine years old, we let her take riding lessons. She was a natural and even participated in a few riding competitions.

At the riding academy Melanie fell in love with Ranger – a big, gray gelding. Sorry to say the academy closed due to a divorce. People and horses were scattered to various places. Melanie wanted us to buy Ranger, but it wasn't feasible for us for two reasons: one, the stable wanted $2,500 for Ranger, which we didn't have. Two, we had no place for a horse.

Ranger was shipped to South Florida to a relative of the instructors. When this happened Melanie was heartbroken. I told her she would have to accept the fact that Ranger was gone and she needed to try and forget him.

Melanie was not of the same mind. She said, “Dad, you told me if we pray and believe that God will answer our prayers. I'm praying I will get Ranger.” As it turned out Virginia joined Melanie in this prayer unbeknownst to me. They prayed for about one year. One day I got a call from the lady who owned Ranger to see if we might be interested in buying him. The new price was $1,000 and we could pay whenever we had the money. This is where Pam and Dooley come in. They live about one mile from our house. They had twenty acres of fenced pasture where they kept their two horses. They agreed to let Ranger join their two horses and in exchange we fed and looked out for their horses when they were not home.

Well, Melanie's prayers were answered but it was with mixed emotions when Ranger came off the horse trailer. What had been an exceptionally beautiful horse was so skinny and his mane and tail were full of tangles and burrs. Poor Ranger! The lady we bought him from apologized for his poor condition. She was rightly upset with the relative in South Florida who allowed Ranger to become so emaciated.

A good worming, plenty of grain and unlimited pasture brought Ranger to looking like his own self.

Melanie loved and cared for Ranger with true love and devotion – feeding – grooming – hugging – yes, even kissing. And of course, riding him regularly.

When Melanie began attending Pensacola State College she decided it was time to let Ranger go. I said, “Melanie, are you sure?” Her response was, “Yes, Dad, Ranger is a fine riding horse, but he must be ridden regularly, and I no longer have the time to do so.”

By this time the horse market had hit rock bottom. Many fine registered horses were either being sold for a few hundred dollars or simply given away. As it turns out Ranger's first owner bought him for $1,200. Is God good or is God good?

Melanie will always be thankful for Pam and Dooley allowing Ranger to be kept on their farm.

Pam passed away a while back and Dooley has remarried. I pray he and his new wife will enjoy many years of happiness. Last week while leaving their place Dooley followed us to our truck and said, with

tears in his eyes, “You've been such a good friend for such a long time and I love you!” Well, Dooley, we love you too as we did Pam and now expect to love Vivian in her own special way.

Thank you, God, for such loyal and giving friends. It's the likes of them that put the sparkle into our lives.

And thank you for Ranger. Melanie recently said, “I owe so much to that horse for all the otherwise blank days I would have had without him.”

Yes, thank you, Lord, thank you!

John and Amy and Willy About fifteen years ago my family visited a small Baptist church in Pensacola. Shortly after walking in the door I met “Mr. Gruff.” John, his actual name, was in charge of the sound system and Amy, his wife, was the worship leader. John was not what one calls friendly- outgoing, yes, friendly, no.

Amy invited us to eat lunch at their favorite Vietnamese restaurant. It became quite obvious that this invitation was Amy’s idea- not John’s. During the meal I made mention of something the Lord had done and John’s response was, “Oh yes, I’m sure.” I chose to ignore this comment along with a number of others. I said to myself, “Ok, buddy- you’re in trouble. You are going to be my friend, like it or not.”

The road to this friendship is longer than I choose to give space to but let me say, “The journey is well worth it.”

Many years ago I was going to drive to New Orleans (about a 3 ½ hour drive) leave my car at the airport, pay to park the car, fly to Oregon, and return in about two weeks. When John heard of my plan he nixed it. Instead he drove me to New Orleans and two weeks later came back and brought me home to Pensacola. This is just one of many things that John and Amy have done for Virginia, Melanie, and myself.

Not too long into our friendship I gave John and Amy a small puppy. When John saw him he said, “I don’t want a rat. I want a real dog! Well, “Mr. Gruff” met his match. “Willy soon had John under complete control. In Amy’s yarn shop a huge photo of Willie hangs from the wall. Willie has his own web site. He is ruler and master of King’s Sewing Center.

I was in the shop a week or so ago and Willy was in the hospital. Not to be unexpected because he is nearly fifteen years old.

Willy and I have something in common; we both know how special John and Amy are and we have been the recipients of their love.

Melanie is presently staying at John and Amy’s in the basement apartment. She has a job in Pensacola and staying there makes it much more convenient, plus the savings on gasoline. I wouldn’t venture to guess how many people John and Amy have taken in over the years.

No Amy, I haven’t forgotten you! Amy is a tough chick with a heart of gold. If you can’t take being told “how it is” avoid Amy at all expenses. She’s really an amazing woman. All the way from building a house from the ground up with her young son to doing plumbing and heaven knows what else to teaching ladies knitting and sewing. Amy never had to be “liberated.” She was born such.

Melanie told me that a few nights ago when she came home John asked her if she’d eaten yet. When she said she had, John said, “We were just curious- we weren’t planning on feeding you.” Keep it up John, par for the course.

I failed to mention that John and Amy have two parrots- Rocky, an African Gray, and Abby, a Blue and Gold Macaw. Both birds are loud and extremely talkative but do not even come close to keeping up with John.

Here I go again Lord, thank you for a lifetime of wonderful friends- John and Amy are right up there at the top of the list.

Tim and Sue Buys When you start mentioning friends it becomes a problem of who to mention. I cannot help but tell you about Tim and Sue Buys.

I spent my high school years attending the Molalla Church of the Nazarene, which is where I met Tim and Sue. This is also where Tim and Sue met. I guess the reason why Tim and Sue are so special to me is that we share so many special memories of our old Nazarene Church. I guess Tim and Sue are the only ones I still have contact with from that church.

It was a special “country church” located in the town. Those were the no nonsense days. Right was right and wrong was wrong. No gray area!

We were loved and discipled by a loving congregation. People walked what they talked. We were a family, a very close family. Words like “holiness,” “worldly,” “being modest,” “being separated from the world,” were the common vernacular in those days. We were the church across the tracks, so to speak. We were expected to be in church every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night for prayer meeting. Every six months we had fourteen day revivals and it was expected that everyone would be there every night. I remember my foster mother telling us boys, “Get your homework done.” The reason why was that we were going to the revival meeting.

Tim, Sue, myself, and all the young people sang in the choir led by Sue's dad, Alvin Morton. He was accompanied by Arlene Dworshok at the piano. No piano ever had such a beating as with Arlene being the pianist. Oh, what glorious singing, shouting and praising the Lord. Those days are now long gone but the memories will always live in my heart.

Why are Tim and Sue so special? They were a part of all this. They were pastored by John Brockmueller. They sat in Elmer Miller's Sunday school class. Francis Meyers was our youth director.

Those were the days when we still sang the great hymns of the faith in church opposed to the songs of today, where we sing our seven eleven songs- seven words, eleven times. Yes, Tim and Sue, we do remember, don't we? Precious memories how they linger.

Sandy Snow I spent a summer at New Orleans Baptist Seminary. While there I lived in a small mobile home, and my neighbors were Sandy and Cassie Snow. They were from Scottsboro, Alabama. We quickly became friends and shared many meals together. The dish that I cooked that impressed Sandy the most was a pasta concoction called “Slumgulliau” I'm not sure what impressed him the most – the food or the name, but to this day (thirty some years later) he often refers to “Slumgulliau.”

Sandy is probably one of the most unique beings I have ever known. He is small physically, but as far as I'm concerned he's a giant when it comes to the spiritual life.

His unique personality causes young people to flock to him. When he was a minister of youth and music in Ashland, Alabama, I visited him and Cassie for a couple of weeks each summer. It was amazing to see the stream of young people who passed through their house on a daily basis. Sandy has a special knack for asking personal and piercing questions. It's amazing to see how the youth respond – not offended and usually they answer quite honestly.

In recent years my daughter has fallen prey to his piercing questions and true to form she answers without hesitation and loves every minute of it. Sandy and Cassie Snow are two of her favorite people.

She loves to visit them whenever possible. Sandy is a fantastic musician. When they were in Ashland, the public school was without a music teacher so Sandy volunteered to help them. He ended up putting together a choir that went on to sing in the White House Rose Garden during our nation's bicentennial celebration. They called themselves “The Clay County Freedom Singers.” They did Ashland and the state of Alabama proud! I suspect Sandy was also proud.

Now on to Cassie. If there is any Southern belle left in the South, it's Cassie. Kind, gentle loving, polite, given to hospitality, cheerful - I think you get the idea. The frosting on the cake is her sweet Southern accent. Speaking of cake, here is a recipe I obtained from her many years ago.

Miss Cassie's Sour Cream Coconut Cake Bake a white cake and cut it into four layers.

Frosting Ingredients: 1 Container of Cool Whip 1 Cup of sugar 1 pt. Of sour cream 1 package of frozen coconut 2 tsp. Vanilla Directions: Mix and put frosting between layers and then frost the outside of the cake. Place cake in the refrigerator and allow to sit for three days (I myself have never ever been able to do that).

Cautionary note: Don't be surprised after eating this cake you just might wake up whistling Dixie.

Thank you, God, for Sandy and Cassie. They have been such a blessing to me and now to my daughter.

Henry Chen When I first moved to Pensacola, Florida I became a part of an international Bible study at a local university. It was there that I met Henry Chen. Henry and his wife, Judy, became very special friends of mine.

This couple came to the United States to work as dishwashers in a Pensacola Chinese restaurant.

Fifteen years later they and their two sons were living in one of the area’s most exclusive gated communities.

I cooked the first Thanksgiving dinner for the Chen family. We had baked turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberries, and pumpkin pie. All this was completely foreign to them. I gave the boys a small dog and would occasionally bring them children's books I found at garage sales and thrift stores (one man's junk is another man's treasure).

When Virginia and I returned to doing missionary work in the Philippines, Henry made it possible for us to buy his old house at a greatly reduced price.

When I was contemplating a return to China Henry told me where I should go because he had a good friend in a certain city and that he would watch out for us. Henry said, “If you go to China, I will go with you. I will find you a safe place to live. I will find you a cook and someone to help you and make sure you are safe.” Well, as it turned out, we didn't go to China, but can you imagine someone who would do all that for a friend? Be assured if we had gone, Henry would have been as good as his word.

Friendship to the Chinese is very important. Their love and loyalty goes beyond imagination.

One of the most amazing things about Henry was how he was able to become a successful businessman with his very poor command of English. He was extremely hard to understand and I would say, “Henry, you must enunciate clearly.” Sorry to say, it never happened.

Henry and Judy moved to Jacksonville and thus we saw very little of them after that. About five years ago they came to Pensacola and we had dinner together. We enjoyed a wonderful time of fellowship.

A few months afterwards, Judy called and told us that Henry had terminal Cancer and was expected to live for only about three more months.

A few days before Henry died I was able to speak to him. He had begun attending a church but I was not sure if he had become a real Christian. I explained to him it wasn't necessary to accept Christ during a church service, but he could do so right there on his bed. I gave him a simple explanation of how to be saved. The Chinese culture is not given to much verbal expression of love, but before I hung up, I said, “Henry, I love you!” He replied as best he could, “I ob ooh too (I love you, too).” Those were the last words that Henry spoke to me.

I pray that “when the roll is called up yonder” that not only will I be there, but also my wonderful friend Henry. What a treat to spend all eternity with someone like Henry!

I Can Hear Your Heart His name was Michio from Japan. He and his wife were both brain surgeons. They were doing research at the University of Florida in Gainesville, Florida. I met them at a Christian conference in Central Florida.

Michio's wife was a Christian and Michio was searching. He told me the main reason he came to the United States was to learn more about Christianity. While living in Florida his wife became pregnant.

During the birth she died, but the baby survived.

Michio told me an amazing story. He said he was at the airport in Orlando awaiting the arrival of his and her parents. While they knew the baby was being born, they did not know that their daughter and daughter-in-law had died. It would be Michio's sad responsibility to inform them of this tragedy. What was supposed to be a happy reunion turned out to be quite different.

Michio told me he was standing in front of a large window in the airport watching the planes land. He went on to tell how suddenly a ball of light appeared to him and suddenly his wife appeared before him. He saw she was wearing a white kimono and just smiled at him but said nothing.

He told me, “When I saw the joy and peace on her face I couldn't wish her back.” It was in that moment the reality of Christianity came to him.

After his wife's death Michio and I saw each other a number of times before he returned to Japan.

Michio's English was very limited and, of course, my Japanese was non-existent. Quite often conversations would come to a stalemate. Michio would turn to me and say, “I hear your heart, Frank, I hear your heart.” Not only could he hear my heart, but I could hear his as well.

When I left China, I went to Japan and stayed with Michio's parents for a short time. His father was a doctor and he owned the hospital in the small city where they resided. Their home had the best of two worlds – Japan's and the United States. It goes without saying that I had never lived in such luxury.

Michio's mother – a lovely, beautiful and gracious woman - volunteered to be my personal tour guide.

The song writer penned, “We've a story to tell to the nations that will turn their hearts to the right. A story of peace and light, a story of peace and light.” Oh, God, let the light of the Gospel shine brightly in Japan where less than one percent are Christian.

Michio's favorite hymn was The Eastern Gate. “I will meet you in the morning, just inside the Eastern Gate. Oh, the joy of that glad meeting with the saints, who for us wait. What a blessed happy meeting, just inside the Eastern Gate.

Michio, meet me there. “And we'll sit down by the river and with rapture all acquaintance renew.

You'll know me in the morning, in that city built foursquare."

Thank you, God, for my friend Michio. What a blessing to get to know such a wonderful person.

Thank you for all my wonderful, international friends. They have so blessed and enriched my life. I plan on seeing Michio on that blessed resurrection day along with many others, “from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hand. And they cried out in a loud voice: “Salvation belongs to our God, Who sits on the throne, And to the Lamb.”

All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures.

They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying: “Amen!

Praise and glory And wisdom and thanks and honor And power and strength Be to our God forever and ever.

Amen!”

Then one of the elders asked me, “These white robes- who are they, and where did they come from?” I answered, “Sir, you know.” And he said, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. And therefore, “They are before the throne of God And serve Him day and night in his temple; And He who sits on the throne will spread His tent Over them.

Never again will they hunger; Never again will they thirst.

The sun will not beat upon them, Nor any scorching heat.

For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd.

He will lead them to springs of living water.

And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 7:9-17) What a happy day that will be.

Where Are You Going?

It was Mother's Day and Virginia had already gone to church where I was to meet her. I was running late and was on my way to the church. As I was driving north on Highway 29 I passed a small Hispanic man. He was wearing shorts and a tank top. He was carrying a small bag in his hand. I wanted to stop and inquire about where he was going, but being late already I dismissed the idea. A short way up the road the Lord spoke to me and said, “Frank, what's more important? Going to church on time or this man?” I turned the car around and pulled up next to the young man. I asked him where he was going. He told me he was on his way to Miami where his cousin had died. One slight problem – he was heading north and Miami was due south. I told him to hop in. I drove to church and waited until Virginia was leaving. I told her that I would explain my absence later but she was to meet me at our favorite Mexican restaurant for her Mother's Day dinner. I told her I had a surprise for her. When George, from Honduras, and I found Virginia already seated in the restaurant, I introduced her to my misdirected pedestrian and then said, “Happy Mothers’ Day, dear. Here is someone who needs a mother.”

George spent about a month in our home and helped a great deal by mowing the grass and whatever else he could do to help us.

It was a sad day when George continued his journey to Miami (this time heading south). We made arrangements to get him safely to his family. He thanked us over and over again.

Thank God for our friend George – so small in stature but so big in love and appreciation. His smile brightened our lives for a month and the “glow” continues in our hearts.

Larry and Carmen I met Larry thirty-three years ago in Canby, Oregon. It was the night before Mothers’ Day and I gave him a ride to his home. Larry had been the number one automobile salesman in the Northwest, but due to alcohol and drugs at the age of thirty-three he was at rock bottom. It was my joy to introduce him to the One who changes us from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of light.

Larry has kept his commitment to the Lord and the Lord has kept His promise to Him - “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things shall be added to you.” Today Larry is a co-minister in one of the largest churches in Salem, Oregon. He ministers to over 150 people who struggle with addictions. He is also the chaplain of a unit in prison, which is a unit for terminally ill prisoners.

The songwriter says, “I know a fount where sins are washed away. I know a place where night is turned to day. Burdens are lifted, blind eyes are made to see, there's a wonder working power in the blood of Calvary.”

Larry married a fine Christian woman named Carmen. They have two grown daughters and are proud grandparents.

Thank you, God, for Larry and Carmen. Thank you for being a wonderful Savior who saves to the uttermost! Thank you for the wonderful things you are doing with Larry and Carmen's lives.

Orlando – Renato I met these two Filipino brothers over thirty years ago at a Bible study for foreign students at the University of Northwest Florida in Pensacola. They have been very close friends of mine ever since.

They both now live in North Carolina and are married to fine Christian women. They have beautiful and talented children. Friendships for such a long duration have a special quality to them.

Thank you, God, for these two special men and their families. You know how much they mean to me.

I'm so pleased how they live for you and your kingdom!

Marion LaBare No list of my friends could possibly be complete without mentioning Marion LaBare. We met in Mulino, Oregon in the Fall of 1969. It was my first year of teaching, and I was teaching the sixth grade. Marion was the second grade teacher. I first took notice of her in the faculty room. She had mentioned that her son slept with his puppy. One of the teachers exclaimed, “For Heaven's sake, Marion, you don't mean to say that you let your children sleep with dogs?” Without missing a beat Marion's reply was, “Of course, I do. When my boys grow up they won't remember that they had dirty sheets, but they will remember I let them sleep with their puppy.” I noted to myself, “Now there's someone with her head screwed on right. She's going to be my friend” – and so it was.

Marion is the one who taught me how to teach reading whereas four and a half years of college had failed to do so. Marion grew up in a very wealthy, highly educated family in Honolulu, Hawaii. At the time I met her she and her husband were pig farmers. On many occasions Marion slept in the barn when one of the sows was giving birth. She and her husband were both accomplished musicians and they played with the Oregon Symphony.

I taught their daughter Amy when she was in the seventh grade. She's a lovely girl with whom I still keep in contact.

Both Marion and Donald have passed away. What happy memories I have fellowshipping with them.

Marion was undoubtedly one of the closest friends I've ever had. I think of her often when using teaching materials that she gave to me so many years ago.

Thank you, God, for Marion. It was a real treat to be one of her friends.

Janusz After returning from China, I returned to Pensacola and shortly thereafter, a friend of mine, the E.S.L. instructor at Pensacola Junior College, asked me to substitute for her for a month while she was going to have surgery. Well, the surgery didn’t go well and she didn’t return for nine months. I remained as her substitute the entire time.

What an amazing experience. It was like teaching at the United Nations. I had students from all over the world- Japan, Korea, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Itally…..

I must confess I was in my element. I can’t remember ever doing anything more inspiring. Teaching foreign students is like going to teacher’s heaven.

After nine months, the regular professor was returning and I had made plans to fly to Oregon to see family and friends. It was Friday afternoon and I was unpacking my desk. My flight was scheduled for the following Tuesday.

When I was about to leave the room, a twenty-one year old Polish man walked in. His name was Janusz and he told me the following story: He had applied as a political refugee but had been turned down by the immigration department. He said he was staying at a convent but needed to leave there. (This occurred in the 80’s while Poland was still under Russian control). The reason he had fled from Poland was that he was about to be inducted into the Russian Army and he refused to even consider such a thing. He went on to tell me that his father was a world renowned research scientist and his mother was a doctor. Later on I found out that this was true At this point I said to God, “What do you expect me to do with this young man? You know I’m leaving on Tuesday for Oregon.” During this time it was possible to buy an unused portion of a plane ticket. I happened to look in the classified ads and found a one way ticket from Pensacola, FL to Portland, OR for $170.00. I bought the ticket and then asked myself, “Who do I know in Oregon that would take Janusz in?” It is hard for me to say, but with all the Christians I knew in Oregon, plus family and friends, I couldn’t think of anyone who would or could take this young man into their home for an extended time.

I finally thought of my friend and teaching colleague, Marion LaBare. She and her family lived on a forty acre farm a few miles from Molalla. I knew they had a large house and thought- “Maybe Marion might be willing to take Janusz in . Keep in mind this woman was not a Christian and apart from myself refused to have any association with professing Christians.

When I called Marion and asked her if she would consider letting Janusz stay in her home she said, “Frank, do you think he is worth the effort?” When I told her that I did she told me to bring him on. It ends up that Janusz stayed with Marion and her family for over a year.

As I mentioned, Janusz’s father was a research scientist; he was given an apprenticeship at the University of Georgia and thus was able to manipulate the system whereby Janusz was able to attend the university from which he graduated with honors. He went on to Vanderbilt University and earned a PhD in philosophy.

Janusz and I have been out of contact for many years. Writing this memory might motivate me to try to reconnect with him sometime in the near future.

Jim and Madeline I've already mentioned Jim and Madeline Roberts, parents of my former student, Craig Roberts. Jim and Madeline have been such an encouragement to me for the last forty-five years. Is it possible that many years have slipped by? Because of my great respect for Jim and Madeline's knowledge of education, their opinions have always carried a lot of weight with me.

A number of years ago I was visiting with the Roberts and Madeline asked if I was teaching. When I told her no, she said, “Frank, that's a sin! You belong in the classroom!” That stands as one of the highest compliment I have ever been given – especially coming from Madeline.

Thank you, God, for the Roberts' family. What a blessing they are!* *Note: A few months ago while talking to Jim on the telephone I told him, “Jim, you realize that Craig is only half yours and the other half is mine.” He replied, “Yes, I know, I know!”

My Sheep Know My Voice One evening I attended a revival meeting in a Baptist church. The speaker was the pastor of Pensacola's largest church (over 3,000 members). In the course of his message he said the following, “If you ever hear a voice, you can know for sure it isn't God's voice because God doesn't speak to men like that anymore. If you have a dream, know for sure that it didn't come from God because God doesn't speak through dreams anymore and if you have a vision, it didn't come from God because God doesn't speak through visions anymore.” He went on to say that the gifts of the Spirit died with the apostles – they were only sign gifts for the early church.

Let me assure you that I know that pastor is as wrong as wrong as can be. The first two times I heard God's voice has already been recorded in earlier chapters – when God moved me from a teaching job to becoming a youth director, and how God called me to China. I did not hear an audible voice, but I heard God speak to me in my spirit (although He could have spoken audibly as He did in the Bible).

The next time I heard that inward voice was when I was doing volunteer work in helping European refugees adjust to living in the United States. At the time I was only substitute teaching and my funds were very meager. Those people had many needs and thus I prayed, “Lord, I know there are many good people in this city who would be willing to help. If I could only contact them, show me what to do.” A couple of nights later I sat up in bed wide-awake. I heard an inner voice say, “Go to the newspaper!” The next day I went to the Pensacola News Journal. I spoke to a reporter who along with a photographer went to one of the homes of the refugees to interview them and take some photos. Two weeks later the paper published the story. An unbelievable amount of help poured in – food, clothing, diapers, job offers and in one case a nice home to live in rent free. Praise God! After finishing my dinner and washing the dishes, I went into the living room. I heard in my spirit, “Go to the Navy Hospital.” I thought to myself, “Go to the Navy Hospital? What a ridiculous thought.

I have never been to the Navy Hospital and I don't know anyone there.” I took a few steps and for the second time I heard, “Go to the navy hospital.” But this time it was so loud and strong that I almost fell to the floor. I said, “Okay, God, but this doesn't make any sense.” Once at the navy hospital I stood in the elevator looking at the numbers and thought, “What now?” I decided that seven was a good biblical number so I pushed seven. When the doors opened I saw the sign Maternity Ward. I said, “Oh, God, I know this isn't the right place.” The next button I pushed was six. When the doors opened the sign said Alcoholic Recovery Unit. I thought, “Now this could have potential.” Outside the unit was a desk, at which, I found out later, someone was supposed to be sitting to ward off visitors. No visitors were supposedly allowed in this unit. Well, I looked down a darkened hall and at the end a light was coming from the last room. I walked down the hall and entered the room. There were two men in the room – one on the far side going through delirium tremors (withdrawal from alcohol). Sitting on the side of his bed was another fellow. He told me he was a test pilot for the Navy. I, at this point, needed to introduce myself and explain the purpose of my visit, which was still a mystery to me. I finally told him my name and the name of my home church. I said, “I 'm here to talk to people about God.” He replied, “Why that's wonderful! In fact, I've been trying to find a spiritual life and the counselors have told me how to find it.” He began to give me the twelve steps for sobriety. When he got to about step five, I interrupted him and told him, “Those twelve steps might very well help you to stay sober, but they will never get you saved. Let me tell you how to meet the Lord.” He said, “Mister, I don't want to be rude, but I have a meeting I must attend in about two minutes. But, man, I want to talk to you. Can you come back tomorrow?” I did come back but we had to meet in the lobby because, as we know, “No visitors in the Alcoholic Recovery Unit.” We walked around the hospital grounds and I shared with him the plan of salvation. I then asked him if he would like to pray and receive Christ. He told

me, “No!” At this point I said goodbye and proceeded towards my car. As I was walking away, he called me back and asked, “Do you think God will ever give me another chance?” I said that I couldn't answer that question. I told him how the night before God told me to go to the Navy Hospital and recounted our amazing personal encounter. I said to him, “This I do know – you have been asking God how to know Him. He answered your prayer by sending me to tell you how to be saved and you refused to make that commitment,” I went on to say, “Will God give a man like that another chance? I have no idea.” He said, “I think we should go back into the hospital and go to the chapel.” We did as he suggested. He got down on his knees and invited Christ into his life. The Navy transferred him three days later. I never heard from him again, but I plan to see him in Heaven. This story reminds me so much of the Ethiopian eunuch’s story in Acts chapter eight as the Spirit of God sent Philip to lead the Ethiopian eunuch to Christ.

One evening I was sitting in my pastor's house – waiting for him to finish his dinner and then we planned to do some visitation. While waiting I read a newspaper article of how a seventeen year old athlete from Alabama had dove off a bridge, hit his head, and was paralyzed from the neck down. God spoke to me and said, “Go and visit him.” I objected, “I don't even know him.” The command became so strong that I finally went to the hospital. His family was in the waiting area. I discovered that he was in the intensive care unit. In my mind that settled it. No way was I going to be permitted to see him. After visiting with the family and praying for them and the boy, I excused myself and began to leave. His mother said to me, “You're not leaving are you?” I said, “Yes, unless there is something else I can do.” She said, “I don't believe that you know what's going on here. My son is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. The doctor tells us it will be a matter of life and death and that his mental attitude could determine whether he lives or dies. He is presently in deep depression. Maybe there is something you can say to him that will help him. Would you please try?” I told her that I would, and I was allowed into the ICU when his mother introduced me as their pastor. In reality, I guess I was at that moment. When I had put on the appropriate gown and proceeded into the area where his bed was, the nurse said, “Oh, you can't see him now. We're working on him.” As I began to walk away she said, “I guess you can talk to him for about three minutes (those of you who know me know that I ended up talking to him for more than three minutes). I introduced myself to him and told him that I had read about his accident in the paper and that I and a number of others were praying for him. He looked at me and said, “Mister, there's a question that I would like to ask you. Do you think Jesus would save me if I asked him to?” I was so shocked! To be asked that question from a boy who grew up in Alabama. I told him that yes, Jesus would save him. I then went on to explain to him that although God has the ability to heal, that physical healing and personal salvation were two separate things. I told him that you cannot say, “Jesus, please save me and while you're at it heal me so I can go home.” He told me that he realized that so I proceeded to lead him to Christ. I took his hand and told him to pray as I led him to do so, keeping in my mind that he was completely paralyzed. When I saw a tear streaming down his cheek I just took my finger and wiped it away. It was at that moment that I experienced the most powerful spiritual experience of my life. When I touched that tear it was as if I had put my finger in a light socket! It was as if currents of electricity were surging through my body waves of electrical power coursing downward from my head to my feet and then returning to my head.

I came close to passing out. In my old Nazarene days those old Nazarenes talked about “waves of glory.” Waves of glory – what might that be? Well, in that moment I found out. I'm almost sure if someone had taken a picture of me at that exact moment, they would have seen my hair standing straight up with sparks shooting out of each strand. A few seconds later the seventh chapter of the book of Revelation came to my mind where the Bibles says, “God will wipe away all our tears.” The thought came to me, “Oh, Lord Jesus, how wonderful you are to allow us to do for others in this life what you will do for us in Heaven.”

The next morning after coming out of surgery the young man told his mother, “I asked God to save my soul and He did. I also asked Him to save my life and He did!”

During the same time as this episode there was another young man who had experienced the same type of injury from another diving accident. He was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana and, I'm sorry to say, he died. I met and talked with his parents just after his passing. I prayed for them and I tried to comfort them as much as I could. A month or so later I received a letter from the mother. She wrote, “There has to be a God in Heaven. There we sat in that hospital far away from family and friends. No one to minister to us, no one to share our grief. Suddenly you were there. We know God sent you to us. We'll never forget you. If you're passing through Baton Rouge, there will always be a bed for you to sleep in.”

Off To Brazil Times Two Uncle Art and Aunt Doris' oldest son, Roger, went to Brazil as a missionary and while there he married a red-haired Brazilian-German woman. Their mission was in San Paulo, one of the largest cities in the world (over twenty million people). Roger and his wife, Eli, bought a house with their own money with the understanding that if they left Brazil the mission organization would buy the house.

After a number of years serving in Brazil they returned to the United States where Roger pastored a church. As it turns out, the mission organization failed to keep their agreement about purchasing the house, and Roger and Eli were stuck with an empty house in San Paulo, Brazil.

After a few years back in the United States, Roger died prematurely with cancer. Eli began to hear reports from Brazil that the people who were supposedly watching the house were, in fact, trying to steal the house by failing to pay taxes on it (Eli had been sending money for the taxes). I ended up volunteering to go to San Paulo and help Eli rescue her house. The only contact I had was the young man who was supposedly caring for Eli's house. This twenty something man and his parents were the ones who picked me up at the airport. For a couple of days I was wined and dined like a king, but when they finally realized the reason that I was there, they dropped me like a hot potato. Well, I wasn't “Home Alone,” I was in “San Paulo alone,” a city of over twenty million people. But of course, I wasn't alone for there is One who always walks beside me and will not forsake or leave me no matter what city or location I am in.

When I sat in the house all alone God had shown me that the house had not been sold because it was being kept for Christian ministry. In a marvelous way God led me to a couple who were doing a marvelous ministry for poor children, and thus they were able to purchase the house for their ministry.

During my last visit to Brazil I stayed in the house that I've been talking about. During my last visit to San Paulo I was asked to preach on the Sunday morning that I was there. The people wanted me to tell them how the house came into being theirs. I told them to look at a certain spot where I sat on a couch (the only piece of furniture left – the house had been cannibalized – light fixtures, electrical box, etc.) I told them it was there that God had spoken to me, and in twelve days I handed the keys to their pastor and flew back home.

I cannot adequately tell you the joy of being in that congregation (about seventy strong) and seeing what God had told me to do become a reality. Remember, a promise of God is always as good as a performance.

I Do And I Do I met my wife Virginia while on a mission trip to the Philippines. When we decided to marry our plan was for us to have a civil ceremony in the Philippine Islands to expedite Virginia's passport to the United States. In the meantime I would return to the United States where I would petition for her to be able to come join me in about two to three months.

Our civil ceremony was held in a small chapel. The ceremony was conducted by a quite intoxicated judge. Virginia refused to have the ceremony in the chapel where there was a number of statues (Virginia called them idols). The most offensive “idol” was the one of Jesus with his robe about five inches above his knees. What a shame that we didn't take a picture of Virginia's mother – the scowl on her face was priceless. To top things off there was a double-barreled shotgun laying on the judge's sofa and thus a “shotgun wedding.” This is why I call our wedding “The Drunken Judge Shotgun Wedding.”

According to plan I returned to the United States and got a teaching job in southern Louisiana. Three months went by and Virginia was still in the Philippines. She called me and told me that the embassy was now telling her that it could take up to two years before she could join me in the United States.

This, obviously, was not acceptable and I resigned my teaching position and returned to the Philippines.

The day we went to the embassy I was given a form to complete and was told to put it into a large box.

A lady sitting near the box told me she had put her application in the box six months prior and still hadn't been contacted. Upon hearing this I immediately decided that I would not put my application in the box.

On the wall in the room where we were sitting there were about ten phones. These phones were used to talk to the various embassy counselors. I went to phone number one and pleaded my case to the counselor. The response was, “Sorry, I can't help you.” This was the same for phone number two, number three, number four and number five. At phone number six the counselor seemed to be willing to talk with me. When I told him our situation, he told me to go to a certain window at three P.M. and all the necessary papers would be available for Virginia to receive her Visa to the United States. After the interview Virginia said, “I'm confused. The interviewer was supposed to interview me, but instead you interviewed the interviewer.” My foster mother use to say, “The wheel that squeaks gets the grease!” Well, basically I've been squeaking ever since. Thanks, Mom, and of course, thank you, Lord!

After Virginia received her Visa we scheduled to have our real wedding in church in the Philippines so her family and friends would be able to attend. Our original plan was to marry in a church in the United States but plans do not always go as planned. So we had our “real wedding” in the Philippines so that her family and friends might attend.

Living By Faith About a week after our wedding Virginia and I were scheduled to return to the United States. I told Virginia, “You said that you are willing to live by faith. Well, baby, here's your chance. All I have is $300 and plane tickets to Oregon where we will meet my family and friends. I also have our tickets to Florida from Oregon.” So we got into the big bird and awaited to see what the Lord had in store for us.

In Oregon, Tom and Lynne Maloney hosted a reception for us inviting my families (biological and foster) and my friends from Molalla and the surrounding area. My first grade teacher Iola Walch was present along with my old Nazarene friends and so many other special people.

I commented to Virginia a few days later that I wish that I could have remained in Oregon to teach for the next few months. I was still holding an Oregon teaching certificate and substitutes were being paid a hundred dollars per day. I went on to observe that it wouldn't be feasible for us to stay because renting an apartment for two and a half months was neither possible nor practical. On top of that, my car was in Florida. Shortly thereafter Mr. and Mrs. Alvin Morton, friends from my old Nazarene days, offered us a small apartment attached to their home rent free. My uncle, Don Sager, told me he had a car I could use if I wanted to hang around. We moved into the apartment but I insisted we would pay our share for the utilities. I a couple of days I was substituting almost every day.

Upon our arrival in Florida we were planning on going to Puerto Rico where I had been doing missions. In the meantime we were staying with friends of mine in Pensacola. One day God spoke to me and told me that He wanted me to remain in Pensacola. This was not well received by “Yours Truly.” I loved Puerto Rico and had every intention of returning, but God made it very clear Pensacola was where He wanted us. I told the Lord, “Fine! Except, Lord, there's one big problem: teaching jobs are almost non-existent in Pensacola.” I proceeded to contact all the schools in the district except for Belleview Middle School. I hadn't applied there because having taught in the district I knew the only way to get a job there was to transfer from another school. Belleview was the number one middle school in the system and had their pick of any teacher in their district. I finally broke down and called Belleview. The secretary told me there was an opening in the Drop Out Prevention program and if I wanted to apply that I should come to the school immediately. Upon my arrival the secretary said, “I'm sorry but the principal told me that he was not taking any more applications since he already had fifty applications.” The secretary went on to tell the principal that he should reconsider and let me apply.

He told her to send me to the faculty room where he and the vice-principal would interview me.

While the interview was being conducted, an African American lady, the maid, was cleaning. I found out later that Mary the maid said to the principal, “Mr. McCarlley, that job belongs to him.” He asked, “Mary, do you really think so?” Mary answered, “I don't know what God has for Mrs. Tomlin (the teacher the principal had in mind for the position), but that job is Mr. Foust's, not hers!”

The next morning I was hired and, a few days later, Mrs. Tomlin was also hired due to a resignation.

Oh, yes, I failed to mention an interesting tidbit. During our wedding reception in Oregon at a certain point some of my male friends took me off to the bedroom and asked, “Frank, how in the world did you catch a woman like that? She's gorgeous!” I tried to explain to them it was because of my good looks, charm, wit, and my bountiful humility that she had begged me to marry her. It should go without saying that it was a “No Sale!”

Virginia was thirty-eight years old when we were married. In the Philippines she was considered quite unattractive. The reason? She was too dark! In the Philippines, beauty is determined by the cast of the skin. Virginia was darker than her siblings and was thought to be the “ugly duckling.” Well, upon arrival to the United States she graduated from “ugly duckling” to “Cinderella!”

When we went through check-out lines the ladies would say to Virginia, “Oh, honey, your skin is so beautiful. How do you get it that way?” And, also, “Your hair is so beautiful.”

Thank you, God, that the Filipino men were so blind and could not see the royal swan.

Drop Out Prevention While working in the “Drop Out Prevention” program, my students were mostly Afro-Americans who lived in the projects. They were very poor and very undisciplined. I called them “My Miniature Hell's Angels.”

Now, it just so happened that Virginia was scared to death of blacks, though she had never had an occasion to meet or even see one. It also just so happens that we had decided that she would be my “Volunteer teacher's aide.” In but a short time she and the students had bonded and she was as popular as cornbread. Now, in regards to me – well, that was another story. The students would say to me, “Mr. Foust, why don't you stay home and let your wife teach us?” My reply, “Oh, sure, and the next day all that would be left of Virginia would be a small brown spot on the carpet!”

One day Virginia stayed home and the students inquired, “Where's your wife?” I said, “Oh, you students don’t know the rules - at my house, my wife is only allowed out of the house on certain days (Not true).” The next morning when the students arrived, the girls swarmed around Virginia's desk and informed her, “Mrs. Foust, you are now in America and you are FREE! The days of slavery are over!”

The girls turned on me and said, “And you – you can't treat her that way. She is BLACK!” I asked them to look at Virginia a little closer and see that she wasn't black. They checked her out and finally conceded that she wasn't black but brown. Regardless, they told me that I couldn't do her that way.

As I already mentioned these children were not sweet Sunday school kids. One morning while taking roll I called out the name of Joseph. One of the other students said, “Oh, he got shot last night!”

Around Christmas time one of the boys came up to my desk and said, “Mr. Foust, I have a confession to make.” I told him to go come forth with it. He went on to inform me, “You know, Mr. Foust, at the beginning of this year, I wanted to kill you because I thought you were nothing but a hard a**.” I asked him what foiled his plan for my demise. I said, “I'm still here, alive and well.” Ignoring my question he went on to say, “Mr. Foust, do you realize I'm actually learning something in this class?

You really do care about us, don't you?” I said, “Yes, I do, and I know most of you are as poor as I was when I was a child. I also know most of you will never escape from that poverty without a good education, and most of you will never accomplish that if I allowed you to carry on like a bunch of heathens.'”

I also told him that teachers that just let them do as they please and give them good grades were their “enemy” as were those “supposed friends” who distracted them from their school studies.

The boy said, “I know, Mr. Foust, I know.”

Thank you, God, for the joy of seeing even some of the least of my students come alive. To hear them say, “Hey man, this isn't hard! I can do it.” Oh, yes, thank you that the above mentioned boy aborted his original plan.

M & M Memories Melanie Marie Foust – our one and only chick! Her arrival came quite unexpectedly. Virginia and I married late in life so we weren't really anticipating children and then one fine day she came to us. I remember the first time I saw her - “perfect” - smooth skin. Not red and wrinkled, all parts present, that is, except for hair. She was as bald as an apple! Love at first sight.

I named her Melanie Marie – “Melanie” for the lovely, kind Southern woman in the movie Gone With The Wind. Marie, after my Aunt Lillian whom I lived with for the first fourteen years of my life – her name was Lillian Marie. It thrilled Aunt Lillian that I gave my daughter her middle name. I've told Melanie she made a liar out of me the first twenty four hours of her life. I had made it quite clear that changing a diaper was not on the agenda for the man who wears my shoes. Well, when it comes to do this necessary chore, Virginia froze! She was afraid that somehow she would injure the baby. My response was, “For Heaven's sake, woman, babies have been diapered for who knows how long and I've never heard of a baby injured during the process. Stand back and let me show you how it's done.”

Thus begins a new chapter of my life in so many ways.

So many of my goals and dreams faded away in that sweet baby's smile as I adjusted to becoming a father. When she was born I remember saying, “Oh, God, at this stage in my life I should be Melanie's grandfather. But, God, I will do my best to rear her. Please keep me alive until she's through school.

Virginia would find it very difficult to rear her alone.”

Well, God did what I requested as Melanie graduated on May 10, 2014 with honors from Asbury University, near Lexington, Kentucky, at the age of nineteen years old. I have prayed a P.S. - “Now, God, I am not opposed to bonuses, even Big Ones.” I feel a wonderful wave of relief that Melanie has completed her college education. Lord willing, she will be able to care for herself with God's help.

She graduated with a degree in Business Administration. By the way, Melanie's graduation date, May tenth, was also Aunt Lillian's birthday! How special!

I could write a whole book all in itself about Memories of Melanie, but let me just share a few.

When Melanie was about a year old Virginia and I would put her between us on our bed. I read to her every night, not knowing if she understood anything I was reading. As she grew a little older she was able to point out colors and various objects in the book. It wasn't too long after that she began to pull books off the shelf and say, “Read to me, Daddy, read to me.”

Through the influence of a couple we met, Melanie was raised without a television. This couple had three of the most amazing children I had ever seen. They could sing, dance, do art, play musical instruments as well as being honor students. The mother attributed this to not having TV. Melanie was without a computer until about the age of twelve when she needed one for school. Oh, yes, back to television – we actually own a TV. But for the purpose of playing videos which we purchased or rented.

At the age of six, Melanie began piano lessons. Beginning at age fourteen she served as a church pianist for a small country church near our home for four and a half years. When she went off to college, she received a music scholarship. Today, I believe it would be honest to say she is an accomplished pianist. Melanie owned and kept a horse during her high school days and became quite adept at riding.

When not practicing piano or horseback riding, she took mandolin lessons and read numerous books.

She was reading at college level by the time she was in the fifth grade.

Oh, yes, she did see some television when we visited friends who also invited her to come and see any special programs that she really wanted to see. A special thanks for their hospitality!

Now, when Melanie was little she did not go through the terrible two's. She waited until she was about four for that routine. Dr. James Dobson wrote a book regarding the strong willed child. I doubt he ever observed any child with a stronger will than Melanie. The word that set her into “grand mal” fits of anger was the tiny two-letter word “No!” Upon hearing that word she would yell, scream, lay on the floor pounding her fists and kicking. Virginia and I would ask ourselves, “How will we be able to rear and control a child like this?”

One evening I asked Melanie to pick up some of her toys. She said, “No, I'm too tired.” I said, “Melanie, put the toys away.” “No, I'm too tired!” I warned her that if she didn't obey that I was going to spank her. Well, after a number of spankings her answer was still, “No, I'm too tired!” Well, you can spank away only so many times, but I was not of a mind to let her win. In doing that she actually lost! I proceeded to lock her in the bathroom. Miracle of miracles, this poor, tired, exhausted little girl who lacked the energy to pick up a few toys suddenly experienced huge amounts of energy. She proceeded to pound and kick on the door, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

While all this was occurring Virginia was trying to negotiate a peace settlement. I told Virginia (loud and clear enough for Melanie to hear), “Go to bed. I will not be coming to bed tonight because I have to hold this door. Melanie will never leave the bathroom until she is willing to obey her father!”

Another round of kicking, screaming and pounding. After about a half hour of BBOT (Bathroom Behavior Obedience Training) I heard a small voice say, “Okay, Dad, okay, I'll do it.” I exclaimed, “Well, hallelujah!” I opened the door, Melanie picked up the toys, which took about three minutes, and we proceeded off to bed.

Prior to this Virginia was questioning my strong position on discipline. She would say, “But she's so little. You have to have pity on her.” My response was, “Virginia, Melanie can do some crying now or you can do a lot of crying later. When she's fifteen years old and out of control, you won't change her.

You'll do plenty of crying. Which way do you want it?” Virginia said, “I think it would be okay to let her cry now!”

About a month after this escapade Melanie said to me, “Dad, do you realize I haven't had a spanking for over a month?” I said, “Why, Melanie, you're right! What in the world has happened to you?” She replied, “Well, I've been thinking about it and I've decided it's just easier to do as you say.”

Obviously, we had other problems to overcome throughout her childhood, but I never saw those uncontrollable temper tantrums again. After overcoming that, Melanie has been quite an easy child to rear.

Remember, I had visions of her being like the sweet namesake of hers in Gone With The Wind. I began to fear she was going to be like the stubborn, hot-headed Scarlett. Well, thank God, my original vision for her has become a reality.

It has been often said that every old hen thinks her chick is the cutest. Well, it has been discovered that

roosters are no better so, “Cock-a-doodle-do!”

When we knew a baby was on the way Virginia was hoping for a girl and I for a boy. Let me thank God a million times over for not giving me what I wanted. No child has blessed an old man as much as my lovely Melanie Marie has done for me. What a joy it has been to be her father. She has been the sunshine of my life. Not only have I taught her many things, but she has taught me as well. Her quick mind has always kept me on my heels. Her love for animals, the underdogs and mostly for God has always inspired me.

I can honestly say that Melanie is a good person. Obviously, she's not perfect, but “Good and Virtuous.” I have every reason to believe that she will live a life that matters far beyond the Great American Dream.

A Few More Flashbacks When we got a new puppy and Melanie said, “Oh, Dad, she's so cute!” And thus, the puppy was named “So Cute.”

As I mentioned earlier Melanie was born without any hair. It took about a year before she began to grow any “peach fuzz.” Virginia said, “Oh, we will have to shave it so it will come back thick!” I said, “Go ahead and shave it. We will be the most unusual household in this state – two bald-headed women under one roof. You shave her head; I'll shave yours! The Lord gave her that hair and the Lord can take care of the thickness.” Well, if you were ever to see Melanie today, you would agree that the Lord took care of the thickness.

Another fun memory. Whenever we ate at a Chinese restaurant, Melanie would come sit on my knee and have me read her fortune cookie to her (she was about four years old). I would say, “Why this is amazing,” and then I would proceed to tell her that the fortune cookie told about what a beautiful, lovely, and smart little girl that she was. I went on to tell of the wonderful fortune that there was waiting for her. Obviously, she was quite delighted until the day came when she asked me, “Dad, how do they get all of that on such a small piece of paper?” My answer, “Well, Melanie, it's those Chinese.

They are amazing, aren't they?” It wasn't too long thereafter that my fortune cookie reading days were over.

Today I visited the first house that we lived in when we moved to Century. In the back yard is the “Melanie Tree.” It's probably fifteen to twenty feet high. I have a picture of Melanie planting a small Magnolia. She and the tree have both grown and blossomed throughout the years.

After Melanie's graduation from Asbury University, Virginia and I took her and her roommate to dinner. Melanie being the Southern girl she is asked us to take them out to Cracker Barrel where she could eat chicken dumplings, cornbread and many of her other favorite foods. During the meal I asked the girls to share something that they admired about each other. Mary, Melanie's roommate, said, “The thing I like most about Melanie is that she accepts me for who I am and never tried to change me.”

Obviously, I could go on and on about my daughter as any proud parent could do. Give me a call sometime when you have lots of time and I'll tell you more.

Thank you, God, for my wonderful daughter. Keep her from harm. Keep your angels guarding over her throughout her life. Make her life a blessing to your kingdom. Protect her from evil. Throughout her life see to it that all her needs will be met. If she chooses to marry, may it be to someone that loves her as much as I do. Though hard to imagine, I know that you love her more than I do and you'll be her friend and Father when I will no longer be able to do so.

Brother Ken After my leaving China I stayed in Asia for a period of time. I spent three months in Japan. I also spent some time in Taiwan, Hong Kong and South Korea. While in South Korea I met a pastor from Burma (Myanmar). He was the first pastor allowed to study outside of Burma – that is, for a price. He had to send money to the government for being in South Korea.

Shortly after our meeting I asked him if he was aware what Korean winters were like (very cold and bitter winds). He told me no. Since I had just left Northern Manchuria where the temperatures can plummet to minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, I gave him my fur lined gloves, thermal socks and a heavy coat. I also gave him my extra camera and a couple months of bribe money.

We spent a day in prayer and fellowship. For a couple of years we wrote to each other, but then we lost track of each other. Eighteen years later I received a telephone call from him. He was in Minnesota speaking at a seminary graduation. As it turned out, he had become the president of the only seminary in Burma. He told me I was the first of many who helped him in his beginning days in Korea.

A week later he and his son came to visit us in Florida. We had a special time renewing our long elapsed friendship.

Since then, I have spoken in his son's church in South Florida. Precious brothers and sisters in God's family we are one – no barriers regardless of nationality, race, religion, rich or poor, educated or uneducated, etc.

Thank you, God, for the joy of meeting so many of your children throughout the world. What a happy, glad reunion day when you call us home.

$500.00 When I went to live with my foster parents, Elmer was in the process of building a new house. The real estate office was the only part completed when I arrived on the scene. The plan was that Elmer would build the house as the funds allowed. The goal was to be able to build the house without going into debt. One Saturday the pastor of the Nazarene church put a challenge before the church. The church was looking at adding an addition to the church building. It was decided to ask the members to make pledges for the project. If the pledges were adequate, we would build. If the pledges were not adequate, we would not build. Another case of not going into debt.

My foster parents decided to give $500.00 (quite a large amount of money almost fifty years ago). It just so happened that the only $500.00 they had was to pay for the building materials for their home.

This bill was due by the end of the month. Now I being a “Doubting Thomas” said to my foster mother, “You mean to tell me you are going to give the church the $500.00 that's been set aside to pay your bill? You must be out of your mind.”

My foster mother's response was, “I've known the Lord for many years and He has never failed me. He believes in Christians paying their bills. The money will come in somehow and on time.” I said, “Well, we shall see.”

Day after day I would go out and get the mail and ask, “Has the money come in yet?” “No, but it's on its way!” “Yeah, right!”

On the day the bill became due I brought in the mail. You guessed it! There was a check for $500.00 from a real estate account mom had written off the books as “noncollectable.” A red-faced “Doubting Thomas” became a believer.

Thank you, God, for Mom's faith and your faithfulness What a heritage for a young teenager.

I Need Help!

One morning before church started a nineteen year old Afro-American man came into the church office at the First United Methodist Church in Flomaton, Alabama (Flomaton is just across the border from Century, Florida where we reside). The young man's story was thus: He had been visiting in Century with his girlfriend, whom he had met in Los Angeles. He had just gotten out of jail for trespassing. While he was in jail the girlfriend had returned to Los Angeles. He was stranded in Century and her family refused to help him. He went on to tell the pastor that he was tempted to rob someone to get enough money, but said he didn't want to do that. He had just gotten out of jail and all he wanted was to get back to his family in Los Angeles.

Brother Jesse asked the young man, “Are you willing to come forward at the end of the service and tell this story to the congregation?” He gasped but agreed to do so, which he did. A collection was taken up and enough money was raised to give him a bus ticket to get him back to Los Angeles. I was designated to be the one to buy the ticket, buy him some food, and give him some pocket money.

I failed to tell you this young man was a member of a gang in Los Angeles. It was quite evident that he hadn't fared too well. A part of his left arm had been blown off with a shotgun. He showed me numerous places on his body that had huge gunshot scars. He also had a crippled leg, again from being shot.

The night he left was on a Sunday about eleven P.M. He came to church that night and we sang the hymn God be with you until we meet again. Till we meet – till we meet at Jesus’ feet. God be with you till we meet again. The hardened gang member wept. He said, “I've never heard music like that before. Can I have a copy of the music to take home with me?” Sad, isn't it, that he had never heard a beautiful song like that before. Most likely all he had ever heard was blasting sounds (not music).

Sorry to say that in many churches he would get the same blasting sounds.

Well, this should be the end of the story, but it isn't. A year later I was sitting in a Sunday morning service and one of the ushers whispered to me, “Frank, there's a young black man outside who would like to speak to you.” Yes, there he was again, but not in such desperate straits. He was back in the area again with his girlfriend who was expecting a baby.

I told the couple that God would not bless them while they're not married. They said that they would like to get married, but they couldn't afford the license. I said, “Problem solved!” I took them to the courthouse and bought the license. Brother Jesse, our pastor, agreed to perform the ceremony which would be held in the sanctuary. When the ladies of the church got wind of what was happening, they decided to host a reception, a lovely cake, punch and the works!

Oh, yes, when the prospective bride appeared, the four Southern ladies gasped and blushed and fluttered, “Oh, darling, you can't be married in THAT!” Shortly thereafter a more appropriate gown was found. They were married, and left shortly thereafter for Los Angeles, hopefully to live a happily ever after.

Thank you, God, for people who can love the lost, the lonely and the poor. Those whom our Lord seeks for His own. Be with this couple wherever they may be.

The Poor Rich Man I had the occasion to meet with one of the richest men in the Northwest. His was a story of “rags to riches.” He told me how his family lived on welfare, how he struggled through the snow to deliver newspapers. He went on to tell me how, through hard work and diligence, he had amassed a great fortune.

After hearing his story I said, “Nobody can deny that you have accomplished your goals and through working hard have become wealthy, but it seems that somehow the really important things in life have escaped you.” He said, “And what might those be?” I answered, “Oh, you know the things money can't buy – peace, good family and marital relationships.”

Tears welled up in his eyes and he said, “I guess you're right, aren't you?” Sad to say, he continued trusting his riches – And what should a man gain if he gains the whole world and loses his soul. Or, what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?(Matthew 16:26)

Guam His name was Jonathan, a nine year old boy from a small, Micronesian island. He was in the fourth grade. At the beginning of the school year I was asked for my signature on an application to have Jonathan tested for special education. I refused. I said, “I don't even know this boy. I will have to work with him myself before signing that application. Once children get that label it's there from then on. Check with me later.”

About three months later Jonathan's mother came to see me and my team teacher. She said, “I want to know what you men have been doing with my son?” She obviously had my attention and I said, “Excuse me, mam, but what are you suggesting?” She went on to tell me that Jonathan had always hated school. Every morning was WWIII at their house. She said that on many mornings she had to literally throw him on the bus. She went on to say that that morning she looked at Jonathan and said, “Jonathan, you are not looking so well today. Maybe you should stay home from school.” Jonathan gasped and said, “Mother, you don't know anything, do you? I have to be at school!”

On the last day of school after the parties and teary-eyed farewells (well, not all teary-eyed) the children were all gone. I sat at my desk working on final reports and who should come bursting through the door “Jonathan!” He was holding his report card and smiling from ear to ear. He said, “Look, Mr. Foust, I passed, I passed!” My reply was, “Why, of course, you passed. Why wouldn't you pass? Why, you are one of the smartest boys I have ever taught.

I failed to mention that six weeks after our arrival to Guam, Guam had experienced the most intense typhoon in its history – 180 mile sustained winds. My classroom had been a storage room with double doors on both ends. With the help of Typhoon Omar my classroom was now in the movies – Gone With The Wind! Everything gone. That is, with the exception of my personal teaching materials stored in another part of the building. Thank Heavens I hadn't found time to unpack them. Obviously, I didn't have to ask to use them. They were all we had.

I'm not a certified E.S.L. (English as a Second Language) teacher, but since a certified teacher wasn't available guess who got elected?

My students were from the outer islands. They were nine to eleven years old. Never been to school, never seen a book, could not speak one word of English and for many of them the first time they had worn shoes. I called them my “jungle babies.” I said to the principal, “I know exactly what you did.

You sent someone out to school to shake coconut trees and down came these children and then you brought them to me.” I'm so glad they did. They were delightful, shy at first, but when they felt safe and at ease, they really blossomed.

I learned in my many years of teaching that most often the poor children were the easiest to teach.

They were happy with the simplest things. I never heard from them, “Oh, I've done that before, this is boring, or is this all you're going to give us?”

Thank you, God, for my “Jungle Babies.” They were a joy to teach and I was blessed to have known them. I looked forward every morning to see their smiling faces. They are now grown but in my memory they are still “my students.”

Want To Share Rentals?

About thirty years ago I was the minister of evangelism and adult single minister at the First Baptist Church in Salem, Oregon. One afternoon I was reading the classified ads in the local newspaper.

When I came to a section classified as Want To Share Rentals, I thought obviously these people must be singles so I proceeded to give them a call. I told them that I was not looking to share a rental, but that I was the minister of singles at the F.B.C. and proceeded to tell them about our ministry. Everyone was polite but didn't seem to be all that interested until I got until I got a man on the line named Randy. He seemed to be interested and we had a nice chat. I told him that after the evening service we were going to have a fellowship and that he was invited. He showed up at church dressed in a three piece suit.

Most of our folks dressed casually for the evening service.

Randy was extremely shy and “yes” or “no” was about the extent of his conversation, but he faithfully attended the singles group and all three weekly services. He even began to drive the church van to pick up elderly members.

At one of our “End of the Year” single fellowships we sat in a circle and shared with the group things we were thankful for. When it came to be Randy's turn, I, knowing how reluctant he was to speak, said, “Randy, I know it's not your thing to speak out in a group but we want you to know how much we have all learned to love you and respect you.” Surprise! Randy said, “There is something I do want to say. Frank, the day you called me, if it had been any other time, I would have ignored you. But the truth is I was desperate. I went through a terrible divorce and was very depressed and lonely. I tried the bars, but I just couldn't stand them. The weekday routine of my life was to get up and go to work, come home to watch television, and then go to bed. When weekends came, I stayed home – bored and lonely. When your call came in I thought, 'Randy, this might be your chance.' I want your folks to know that this group has changed my life. When I get home from work, I now have friends to be with.

Going to church puts me with people. It seems we singles are always going somewhere. Thank you, I'm not lonely anymore!”

As Paul Harvey used to say, “Now for the rest of the story!” A lovely young lady in the church whose husband had abandoned her and her two children became Randy's new family.

Thank you, God, for the joy of seeing Randy and so many others like him who have found a forever family in your church. You do heal the brokenhearted and You do set the captives free!

Miss Payne When I first arrived in Natchez, I decided to take a drive in the country. Of course, I did one of my favorite tricks – I purposely got lost and then was not sure which way was the way back to town. I found myself in a little pause on the road – Church Hill, Mississippi. Church Hill consists of a small one room church, one of the oldest churches on the North American continent, and an old country store with a pot belly stove and all. About three-fourths of a mile from this thriving metropolis I saw a long driveway lined with pecan trees. I decided to venture down to see if there might be a house where I might get instructions. What a delightful surprise – at the end of the lane on a small knoll sat a beautiful old Southern mansion. It was like in the storybooks.

I knocked on the front door and a lady opened the door. She was wearing a blouse and a pair of shorts.

I made my inquiry regarding how to get back to Natchez. She graciously informed me how to do so. I then commented on how lovely her house was. She said, “Oh you like old houses?” When I answered that I did, she said, “Well, come on in and let me show you mine.” She gave me a tour of the mansion and then served me some cookies and tea. She went on to tell me of her childhood in South Louisiana where she grew up on a sugar plantation. She told of an old black man named Richman who drove her to and from school in a horse drawn carriage. She also told me of an old black woman who helped drive in the cows and taught her how to “see a ghost at twilight.”

She told me she had married a “Yankee” and had spent a large portion of her life in New York. She said that shortly after her husband's death she returned to her beloved South where her heart has always been. As it turned out, Miss Payne had nine dogs (various sizes and breeds). She had picked them up along her country road. She told of how on cold, winter nights they all slept around the fireplace.

I asked Miss Payne if she wasn't afraid to live out in such an isolated place. Her response was, “Afraid? Afraid of what? Why I wouldn't hurt anyone and I don't believe anyone would want to hurt me. But if someone did, I do have nine dogs and I am a good shot.”

Oh, I forgot to mention that when I first saw Miss Payne I assumed she was probably about fifty five years old. Wrong! She was seventy.

She told me about selling her car because when she forgot to “crank it up” the battery would go dead.

She said she hadn't been to Natchez (about twenty miles away) in over a year. Instead of a car she chose to ride her horse. She said a black man, her neighbor, came six days a week to saddle up her horse, which she rode to the country store to get her mail and whatever else she might need to purchase (I found out later whenever she rode her horse she wore an English riding outfit – hats, boots, the whole nine yards).

After a delightful afternoon with Miss Payne I reluctantly returned to the “real world” in Natchez, but it wasn't my last time I saw her. On a number of occasions I returned to visit this amazing and delightful “Old Time Southern Lady.”

Miss Payne's house was surrounded by a huge lawn (undoubtedly a number of acres). She said that she mowed the grass every day – section by section. When she had completed mowing the last section, it was time to begin the process all over again. This is probably one of the reasons she was in such good shape and why she looked so much younger than her true age.

One day I went to visit her and she told me she had been painting her house (two stories high). I said,

“Miss Payne, what if you fell off the ladder?” She said, “I'm not afraid to die, but I don't like the idea of bugs crawling all over me.” She went on to say, “You know when I have no one else to talk to, I talk to God. When painting my house, I said 'God, please hold this ladder for this poor old woman and don't be allowing her to fall. Ya, hear!'”

One day Miss Payne told me of an old road behind her plantation where Andrew Jackson traveled to fight the “Battle of New Orleans.” Knowing and listening to Miss Payne was somewhat like experiencing a living bit of history.

After returning to Oregon I kept in touch with Miss Payne through letter writing. One day I received a letter telling me that she had sold the plantation so she could go to live with her daughter in New Orleans. Her daughter had experienced a painful divorce and Miss Payne decided she needed to be with her.

The letter tells of her last day on the plantation. She had a veterinarian come and put down her horse and the pony plus the nine dogs. She said she feared if she gave them away they wouldn't receive the care that they had enjoyed with her.

She recounted her last drive down her moss covered lane without looking back. The story gets even sadder. A few months later her daughter died an untimely death. Miss Payne returned to Natchez where she bought a big old house – near what she called the Yankee Cemetery. I actually visited her while she was there. She sold her house and moved to a room in the Holiday Inn in Natchez where she died.

To give you a glimpse of Miss Payne's heart let me recall a conversation we had. Keep in mind this account of Miss Payne occurred in the early seventies when Mississippi was struggling with integration. In reference to some of the negative behavior of some of the blacks at this time she said, “Oh, I can't really blame them. So many of them worked from sun up to sunset and never got anywhere. I can see when given freedom they never had before they would not know how to usefully use it.”

Of all the people who have crossed my path, Miss Josephine Payne is certainly one of the most memorable. Through my association with the lady I had the privilege of seeing the last vintages of a time of a culture that is now really – Gone With The Wind.

Thank you, God, for holding Miss Payne's ladder and for the joy of knowing such a grand old southern lady.

The Matchmaker This event took place in May of 1996 in Pensacola. One Sunday morning a young man in his early thirties visited our church Bayou Grove Baptist Church (no long in existence). Virginia and I invited him to come to our house for lunch and he accepted our invitation. He told us that he had moved to Pensacola from Piqua, Ohio to attend Pensacola Christian College to find a godly wife.

I said, “Oh, this is very interesting!” Then I called for Virginia to come out, and I asked this young man (his name is Mark) a couple of questions. “Do you think my wife is lovely?” “Yes,” Mark replied. “Do you think she is an exotic beauty?” Once again Mark replied, “Yes!” Then I proceeded to tell Mark about Virginia's sister Brenda who lived in the Philippines. She was exactly what Mark had ordered – a beautiful godly, Christian young woman, and best of all – single. I had Mark's full attention.

There was only one problem, or so Mark thought. He had moved to Pensacola with no car, no job and no money. And since Brenda was in the Philippines, how would Mark ever get there to meet her?

There are no problems too big for my God to handle. I told Mark, “Mark, if it is the Lord's will, I have enough frequent flier mileage to get you to the Philippines and Virginia has enough to get you back to the States.” Mark began writing Brenda that very first night which was May 12, 1996.

The rest is history. Mark flew to the Philippines landing in Manila on September 24, 1996. He and Brenda were married eighteen days later on October 12, 1996 (Mark said he chose Columbus Day so he would have a holiday to remember his anniversary and because he also discovered something new).

This was all God orchestrated as Mark had told me if Virginia and I hadn't arrived with the Amerasians we brought from the Philippines he did not plan on returning to Bayou Grove as it was literally a dying and decaying church (Mark's words). Only elderly were in the congregation except for those of my family. No chance to find a wife here, or so Mark thought!

Mark and I have become good friends. He and Brenda still live in Pensacola and both have good jobs and seem to be quite happy! Mark is a dedicated Christian and has a Christ-like spirit. He has an amazing mind, is a computer whiz and knows his Bible better than anyone else I know.

It just so happens Mark is the one typing this book – trying his best to read the handwritten copy edition.

Mark, you have no idea how much I appreciate your hard work, making the publishing of this book possible. I pray you will have many more years of happiness in the service of our great King. Thanks again and again. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He cause His face to shine upon you and Brenda and give you peace. And Brenda, thank you for sharing Mark in this journalistic adventure.

Moral point of the story: Be careful whose invitation to lunch you accept. It could change your whole world!

John Wesley Friends As you may or may not know the Methodist church in America was founded by John Wesley hence the title of this chapter. About a year ago a friend took me to a park in Savannah, Georgia (one of the most beautiful cities in America) that has a huge statue of John Wesley. My friend said, “Frank, I knew you would be excited about the statue but not this excited!”

Standing under that statue overwhelmed me. This man rode 250,000 miles on horseback to proclaim the Gospel, founded a movement that brought England out of the Dark Ages and was the source of the Gospel being proclaimed around the world. At one time in America one out of four Americans were Methodists. Out of the Methodists came the Pentecostal movement.

How ashamed John Wesley would be of the church he founded. I personally would prefer to be a Methodist but I cannot tolerate the leaders in the general church and a system where the hierarchy can step in and shut down what God has started! Having come from Oregon I have found most of the conference and the local churches to be apostate. They have rejected the Bible and advocate doctrines and behaviors that the Bible clearly repudiates and thus I wrote them off as not being a real Christian church. Much to my great delight I have discovered Bible believing churches in the area where I now live.

In the last number of years, however, our family has been blessed with three wonderful Methodist preachers and these are their stories.

First is Brother Jesse and his wife Phyllis. We enjoyed the ministry of Brother Jesse for five and a half years. Brother Jesse is a humble man, “common as an old shoe”, which is probably one of his most endearing characteristics. His love for God, for the church and God's people won the hearts of almost everyone in the community.

Melanie was about five years old when we met Brother Jesse and Phyllis. They are now retired and live in their home in Flomaton. They have become Melanie's adoptive grandparents. There's no way I can adequately describe the love that Melanie has for them. They have been active participants in Melanie's life for almost fifteen years. Theirs is one of the few homes where Melanie was ever allowed to stay overnight. When Melanie was about twelve years old, they took Melanie on a three and a half weeks trip visiting a number of Southern states. Brother Jesse once said, “I don't like children.” He then recanted and said, “Frank, not really true...I do like children. I just can't stand brats!”

Brother Jesse and Sister Phyllis have been our close friends for many years. Jesse and Phyllis, thank you for loving us even when we weren't always easy to love. Thank you for helping us to rear Melanie.

She loves you so much!

Thank you, Lord, for Brother Jesse and Sister Phyllis. Our lives would have been very lonely without them.

The second pastor is Brother Frankie and Willette Phillips. Brother Frankie was our pastor when we attended the Canoe United Methodist Church in Canoe, Alabama. I met Brother Frankie at a missions meeting conducted by his brother. Our friendship kicked up immediately and shortly thereafter he became our pastor.

Willette is the prototype of a pastor's wife. She's loving, intelligent, a very Southern lady. Frankie is somewhat different – still loving but with a sharp wit - straight to the point .

When Melanie was thirteen years old she said after a church service, “Oh, Dad, I enjoyed that so much!” What did she enjoy? The music was poor at best, only a few children in Sunday school. It was the preaching!

Brother Frankie is now retired. When I visited him, I gave him notes on his sermon that Melanie had taken. Imagine a thirteen year old girl taking notes of a sermon. Brother Frankie has authored two books and has a couple of others in the making. I'd love to recount some of Brother Frankie's statements in church and tell about his dismantling of the church's rundown kitchen and sitting it outside, but I had best refrain in order to protect the “guilty.”

Thank you, Brother Frankie and Miss Willette, for enriching our lives, especially Melanie's. You ministered to her at a very crucial time in her life.

Thank you, God, for the Phillips and their ministry, and most of all, our continued friendship.

Brother Doug and Gaynelle The last of the three preachers is Brother Doug. Brother Doug and Gaynelle ministered to us while Brother Doug was pastoring the First United Methodist Church in Atmore, Alabama. Brother Doug is a soft spoken Southern gentleman.

After attending Brother Doug's church three times Virginia told me, “I can't attend this church. The preacher puts me to sleep.” “Puts you to sleep,” I retorted, “How is that possible? That is the best preaching I've heard in years!”

I decided to administer “the care.” The following Sunday we sat on the second pew from the front – directly under the pulpit. From that Sunday on Virginia never slept again. Instead, she cried. I believe she gave Brother Doug the highest compliment any pastor can receive. She said, “When I see Brother Doug in his pulpit he reminds me of Jesus more than any other man I have ever seen.” Can't get any better than that!

Miss Gaynelle grew up in an aristocratic tradition. Southern family in Vicksburg, Mississippi. She told me how her grandmother told her she was to never leave the house except she was dressed to meet the president.

Well, that early training formed the person she is today, that is, a lady in every sense of the word.

Every hair in place, gracious manners. To be honest at first I wasn't all too impressed. “Too perfect – not possibly for rea.l” Boy, was I wrong. Miss Gaynelle is about as “real as real can be.” She and Brother Doug are two of the most loving people I know. No one too high or too low to be loved and ministered to. A class act!

Brother Doug and Gaynelle are retired now, but ministering in a small Methodist church that was about to die, which has grown and grown and is now a healthy, thriving congregation.

When Melanie began looking for a college to attend, Brother Doug and Gaynelle suggested their alma mater, where they met over fifty years ago. Melanie had been offered a generous scholarship to Baylor University. After visiting Baylor, it appeared that Melanie would attend there, but she decided to first visit Asbury University before making her decision. Four hours after our visit Melanie said, “Dad, that is where I'm going to attend school!” What a wonderful choice. Not only did Melanie receive a quality, professional education, but her spiritual life was wonderfully enhanced at Asbury.

Thank you, God, for the Christian influence Brother Doug and Sister Gaynelle bestowed on our family.

We'll be forever grateful for them pointing Melanie to Asbury, a life transforming experience!

Betty and Walter I met this couple many years ago at a Baptist church in Pensacola. I met Betty first on the church stairwell. After our chance encounter Betty said to Walter, “What is that?” Walter informed her that I was Frank Foust. She said, “I know who he is but my question is still unanswered. What is that?”

Well, we've been friends for about thirty years and Betty's question still goes unanswered. “Hey, Betty, keep on searching! Who knows you still might find the answer. If you do, please call me and let me know. I have asked the same question on numerous occasions.”

This is a friendship that has endured the test of time – a friendship founded on a stairwell. Maybe we'll join each other on the stairwell to Heaven. What a pleasant thought.

Thank you, God, for Betty and Walter and all the happy times we've enjoyed in fellowship.

The Auction While living in Newberg, Oregon and teaching in public school my favorite pastime was going to the auction on Saturday nights. Beware! Auctions can be addictive and quite a waste of money. When returning home I would be shocked at all the useless junk that I had bought and thus quit going to the auction.

One evening I was sitting at the top of the bleachers. As I looked down I saw a young college aged boy sitting a number of rows below me. The Lord spoke to me and said, “Go down and talk to that young man.” I thought, “How am I going to do that?” I decided to go down to the concession booth and buy myself a soft drink. When returning to the bleachers I sat down next to the boy and struck up a conversation with him. I discovered he was a Christian and that he was supposed to leave on the following Monday to serve as a foreign student missionary. However, all his required support pledges had not come in and thus he wasn’t going to be able to go. Upon hearing this I turned to him and said, “I believe that God would have me pledge ______ number of dollars per month.” The young man looked at me and with tears in his, he said, “Mister, do you realize that is the exact amount of money I have to have to be able to go?”

When he told his non-Christian father what happened, the father said, “Are you trying to tell me that a complete stranger approached you and offered you money to go on this mission?” His response was, “Yes, Dad- that’s exactly what happened.”

The Bible says, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” This happened well over forty years ago and I still get chill bumps when I remember this special occurrence.

Our Lord says, “My sheep know my voice and they follow me.” What a blessed truth. May it always be true in my life.

Oh Lord, the young man in this story is now over or near sixty. Is he still alive? Has he remained faithful to you? If he’s still alive be near him and may he remember that special night at the auction.

A Natural Life As one lives on this earth the exotic and the unusual become some of our most memorable memories.

Case in point: One summer day as I was driving to town I saw a young man (mid-20s) walking up the road. I stopped and inquired to where he was heading. He told me he was on his way to the Amazon jungle to live with a primitive group of people where he wouldn’t have to wear clothes and would be able to live off the land- whatever nature provided. Without burdening the reader with too many details of how he came to be eating at our table, I pursued the topic of his living “a natural Life” as he referred to his anticipated Amazon experience. I told him that on the edge of our property there is a steep canyon with a little stream at the bottom. I went on to tell him it was very isolated and that he should give living “a natural life” a trail run. My suggestion was that he go to the bottom of the canyon, take off his clothes, and try living off of whatever food nature would provide for him. He was shocked and aghast at the idea. He told me of a number of things that made this idea a bad one- mainly that there would be many mosquitoes. My response was, “And what do you think is awaiting you in the Amazon? Butterflies?”

Obviously, what I deemed as an appropriate observation of the Amazon “natural life” didn’t quite register- but all was not lost. Here I am writing about yet another strange but true episode of my not so natural but amazingly fun life.

Wesley I on purpose left the story of Wesley last. Writing this book has not been an easy task. A number of times I've been tempted to abandon writing any further. Although I have recounted many funny and happy memories some of them have been quite the opposite. This is one of those stories. Many emotional wounds that I had considered healed and in the past emerged to the surface and I found myself living through them all over again. The memories associated with Wesley are the most difficult to share. He was a part of my life for five and a half years. A significant part of one's life. When I was in my early thirties, I volunteered at a juvenile facility in Portland, Oregon. In reality this was a children's jail. I mean a real jail – locked up in small rooms.

Wesley at the time was nine years old and had been locked up for a year. His mother put him there because she declared him to be uncontrollable. There was not a public school in Portland that would accept him. Many attempts at foster care failed. Wesley had such a fantasy about how his mother loved him (in reality I believe she did but was too mentally ill to function as a mother) and thus Wesley would always verbally attack a foster mother. He would say, “You are not my mother, you _ _ _!”

End of foster care and back to jail he would go.

One day a social worker approached me about the possibility of me taking Wesley as a foster child and thus avoiding the mother problem. As it turned out, I agreed – having no idea of how the decision would affect my life for a number of years to come.

At the time I was teaching fourth grade and Wesley was in the fourth grade. I didn't want him in my room. Wesley at home with me was more than enough! I arranged for Wesley to be placed with an older no-nonsense teacher. I told her, “The only time you'll ever receive any complaints from me is if you allow him to get by with anything.”

It took me a good six months to actually gain control over Wesley, but even then I had to watch him like a hawk. Trouble was as natural to Wesley as flying is to a bird.

God sent a lovely old retired missionary couple into our lives – Paul and Faith Schoeming. Wesley adored them and they quickly became his adoptive grandparents. They would sometimes watch Wesley for me. Amazing as it seemed, Wesley seldom gave them any trouble. I'll never forget the Schoemings and their love for Wesley and for me.

One day I took Wesley to visit my foster mother for a visit after threatening life and limb if he didn't behave. In the basement there was a piano. Suddenly I heard sounds coming from the piano. I rushed downstairs and was about to skin Wesley when I realized that he was actually trying to make music come out of that instrument.

A few days later I said, “Wesley, would you like to take piano lessons?” He said, “No!” When I asked him why his reply was, “If I take lessons, I'll have to practice.” A few days later I informed Wesley I had signed him up to take piano lessons, like it or not. I went on to tell him, that after six months he could quit if he so chose. Well, quitting day never came. After one lesson Wesley was hooked. As it turned out he was some type of musical genius. The piano teacher had to be careful he didn't hear a piece of music he was to learn to sight read because if he heard it once, he would sit down and play it perfectly.

Wesley became an accomplished pianist in an unbelievably short time. One memory that particularly

stands out was during the Christmas season. We went to the church to attend the Christmas service.

Before the program started I was visiting with friends, and suddenly I realized, no Wesley! I looked around and there in the sanctuary I spotted him. He was sitting at the organ – playing away. I dashed up to him and said, “Wesley, get away from that organ.” He said, “I'm supposed to be here – the regular organist had an emergency so Debbie, the pianist, asked me to play. As it turned out it was true! Debbie had given him a few tips about playing the organ – two keyboards, petals, push certain buttons, and etc. Yes, Wesley played the organ for the Christmas program and did so quite well.

Unbelievable!

Wesley always had a touch for the extreme – especially in his choice of clothing. If I didn't watch him when dressing for church, he would look like a clown. Well, when the cat's away, the mice do play.

My good friends, Tom and Lynne Mahoney, agreed to keep Wesley while I was away for a weekend.

Only Tom Mahoney can adequately describe Wesley's Sunday get-up. With his major obstacle of his creativity being absent (me) he pulled out all the stops. I'd give anything for a picture of Wesley's exotic attire and the shocked expression on the Mahoneys' faces! It is still a treat to have Tom tell of his Wesley escapade.

Wesley always wanted a cat. Though I like cats, I refused to let him have one. His mother kept a number of cats and lived in a cat fantasy world. I just didn't believe owning a cat was appropriate for Wesley.

As it turned out my cousin’s dog had a litter of puppies that would be very small. I chose a small male which had a pronounced malatrusion of the lower jaw. Very cute and full of zip. He was so small I put him in my shirt pocket as we were driving home. I asked Wesley if he wouldn't like to hold the puppy.

His response, “No, I don't like dogs! I wanted a cat!” I said, “That's okay, Wesley, I've been wanting a dog for quite a while so he can be mine.” After driving a number of miles Wesley relented and said, “Well, I guess I will hold him.” After a few licks on the cheeks all thoughts of cats suddenly disappeared. It was puppy love at “first bite.” We named the puppy “Stormy” because we brought him home on a very stormy night. As it turned out it was the perfect name for him.

Usually when a child gets a pet, the care usually falls on a parent. Not so in this case. For the next five years these two were inseparable and Wesley was very responsible to feed and water his beloved “Stormy.” It goes without saying Wesley pestered and teased the little fellow. I always monitored to see there was no abuse or cruelty, which Wesley never did. Stormy was quite capable of holding his own. On more than one occasion Stormy would let Wesley have it. When Wesley complained, I would say, “If you can't pay the fiddler, don't dance the dance!” A mutual understanding quickly came forth.

The bond between Wesley and Stormy was a marvelous thing to behold. Stormy was by far the most therapeutic thing that ever happened to Wesley. He was something that was Wesley's to love. A friend that never betrayed him, returned Wesley's love a hundred fold, and was always thrilled when Wesley came home. The love and loyalty of a dog has never been adequately described though poets, authors and artists have tried to do so.

I've already done my little splash on dogs, but I do remember the first dog in my life. His name was “Freshy,” a mid-size, long-haired dog greatly beloved by the whole family. When he died, it was like a family member had died – in a real sense it was – though not human but as close it comes.

Back to Stormy, it took the two of us to contend with and help a broken little boy. I would not have been able to reach Wesley without Stormy.

Thank you, God, for man's best friend and especially for Stormy. Yes, I loved him, too, but he was never mine. He was exclusively Wesley's.

Another memory. One day I looked at my phone bill and noticed that a long distance call had been made to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It just so happened I didn't know anyone in Pittsburgh and upon further investigation I found that Wesley had made the call to the Heinz Ketchup Company. Wesley had been put on a sugar free diet hoping it would curb his hyperactive behavior (which it didn't do).

Wesley had made the call to find out why Heinz put sugar in ketchup (one of his favorite foods).

One of the places that Wesley and I lived was in a cabin in a forest. I was the watchman for a children's camp. Most of the time the campgrounds were empty which meant Wesley and I were free to run around the forest with Stormy. There were acres and acres of forest with the Molalla River flowing through it. The perfect place to run and swim. Swimming that takes me way back to Newberg, Oregon where we first lived. Shortly after I got Wesley I signed him up for swimming lessons over his objections. He said, “I'm not taking lessons.” I told him, “We'll see about that!” The next day I took him to the swimming pool for his first lesson. Wesley said,” I know what you are trying to do. You're trying to drown me (I must confess the prospect probably crossed my mind more than once – kidding, of course, just kidding).” I said, “Drowning or not, like it or not, get in there for your lesson.” When the lesson was over, Wesley was singing a different tune. He had decided that it was his thing. Wesley became a very capable and strong swimmer and it was the one sport that he excelled in.

The stories of Wesley would require a book of its own. It would make you laugh and it would make you cry. Yes, I've done my share of laughing and crying as memories of Wesley have come to me while writing about him. Though he was never what you would call normal, he was a very special person. I learned to love him and tried my best to help him to recover from so much abuse. When all is finally said and done, I did help him some, but not enough to undo all the damage that had been done to him.

He's been gone for nearly fifteen years and yet I still miss him.

After having Wesley for five and a half years children's services and Wesley decided he could return to his mother whom they decided they would rehabilitate. It all boiled down to this: would Wesley continue to live in a home with rules and regulations or with his mother where he could run the streets day and night with no restraints.

Wesley's grandmother bought him a new Spinnet piano. When he returned to his mother obviously the piano went with him. Shortly thereafter Wesley's older brother sold the piano to purchase drugs. A few months after that he, Wesley's brother, stood in front of his mother, put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Within twelve weeks from returning home Wesley was institutionalized again. For the next number of years Wesley's life spiraled downward like a plane on a collision course with the ground – drugs, alcohol, jail, prison and etc.

In the meantime I had moved to Florida. When Wesley had reached his eighteenth birthday, he asked if he could come back and stay with me. I agreed on the condition that he either get a job or go back to school, plus no alcohol or drugs. He enrolled in Pensacola Junior College (now Pensacola State College) in the G.E.D. Program. He buzzed right through the program. I'll never forget his

graduation. He was so proud and so was I. A very special day and a very special memory.

I mentioned Wesley's musical abilities as being somewhat genius. Music was not his only exceptional talent. One evening he went over to the University of Northwest Florida's (UWF) computer lab and was able to break into their computer system which was highly illegal and didn't win him any points with the folks at UWF. But can you imagine being able to hack into a complicated system like that without having taken any computer classes? No, I can't imagine it since I am in fact a computer illiterate.

Not long after this Wesley returned to Oregon and back to his destructive lifestyle. He spent a few years again in prison and returned to his old drinking and doping friends.

About fourteen years ago I got a call from Wesley. He told me that he was dying of leukemia and that he only had a very short time to live. Knowing Wesley's imagination I called his doctor who told me, “If you plan on seeing Wesley alive, you had best be here within the next two weeks.” Virginia, Melanie and I flew to Oregon to say good-bye. We took Wesley out to the campgrounds where we had lived. He showed us his favorite spots – the cabin he and Stormy would sleep in after disturbing all the forest animals. We took him to a number of other places that had been special to him. We went to a Chinese restaurant which was his favorite place to eat.

Wesley told me, “Frank, the worst mistake I ever made is when I left you. The only real life I've ever had was when I was with you.” Now this is the part of the Wesley story that is by far the most amazing. Wesley said, “Frank, I'm not angry at God for cutting my life short (he was thirty five). I'm thankful for the years I was given. My regret is how I threw them all away. I see children at the hospital who will never have a life. Yes, I'm thankful!” He went on to say, “To be honest I'm thankful for this disease for it's given me time to get ready to see God. I could have died from a drug overdose or a number of things and gone straight to Hell. But I've been given time to make peace with God. Now I am ready for Heaven.”

I find it utterly astounding that of all the people I've ever known that it is Wesley that had such a profound insight and demonstrated such a wonderful way to die.

To think he was thankful for his life – a nightmare of a childhood. He never owned nor drove an automobile. He never had a wife or had any children. He lived most of his life in abject poverty. He never knew his father, and he was locked up like a wild animal at the age of eight. Went to prison several times...Yet he was thankful for his life! God forgive us who have been so blessed, yet like the Israelites leaving Egypt for the Promised Land we murmur and complain.

To top it off he was thankful for a disease that he knew would kill him and he was spiritually aware enough to realize he was given a second chance to make it to Heaven. Somehow God was able to give Wesley insight in the eternal versus the earthly. How few ever truly reach that point. He being dead, yet he speaketh!

One final memory- a happy one. For Wesley's graduation I took him to Disney World, the Epcot Center, Universal Studios and Sea World. What a happy memory – Wesley in the fantasy capital of the world! He fit right in. I believe Wesley escaped into fantasy because the real world was too hard for him to bear. Haven't we all sometime in our life been tempted to do the same?

As it turned out Wesley did not die within the two weeks predicted. The leukemia went into remission

for eight months. Wesley's sister called m on Christmas eve to tell me that Wesley had died. She told me he was calling for me when he was dying.

Christmas eve is always a difficult day for me. The memories of a little boy I met in jail – the one who wanted to know why Heinz put sugar in ketchup – the one who said, “I know what you are doing. You want to drown me.” He will forever be in my heart!

Who knows? Maybe someday when I enter into Heaven maybe Wesley and Stormy might be the first ones to meet me. What a happy day that would be!

Thank you, God, for Wesley and the joy he brought to me. It wasn't easy but it was worth it. Oh, Lord, how many Wesleys are among us? Children who have been cast aside, who have been beaten, abused, lost and forgotten. Oh, help us to do our best to ease their pain.

The Wesley part of this book was almost more than I could bear to write. I had to start and stop a number of times. I had believed that I had recovered from the grief, but as I began this difficult task of remembering the grief, it became fresh and new. I confess, a number of times I wept uncontrollably, but if the writing of Wesley's life will inspire others to minister, to take care of, to comfort some suffering child, then all the sobs and the tears were worth it.

There's a valuable lesson to be learned that I shared with my daughter Melanie many years ago. I said, “Melanie, this life is full of things we lose. At this time in my life most of those who were closest to me are gone. I must now make a choice. I can keep track of all my losses and be miserable or I can count the things that I still have and be happy. The choice is ours.”

There are also many lessons to be learned from the memories I have shared. Life has its difficulties, its tragedies, but it also has its happy times – this is probably one of the important lessons for myself. Yes, some of the things I have experienced were terrible. But I don't have to look too far to see other people whose situations were far worse than mine. I've held dying babies in my arms because they had nothing to eat. I've seen young boys and girls who were forced into prostitution to be able to survive.

I've read of children being shot down in the streets because they were considered to be nothing more than vermin.

The question begs for an answer...”Do you care? Do you really care? Does your caring motivate you to really do something? That something might actually be becoming involved within the lives of children or to give to someone who can and will. Bob Pierce, founder of World Vision, famous prayer is, “Let my heart be broken with the thing that break the heart of God” - a worthy prayer for all of us.

Thank you, God, for Wesley. I think of him often. In spite of his exotic ways I learned to love him just like you love us in spite of our exotic ways.

I'm so thankful for your sending him my way. I look forward to seeing him in our Eternal Home, forever in Your presence. What a Happy, Happy, Day! Do you happen to have a cabin in the woods with the River of Life flowing nearby? If so, I'll look for Wesley who will be scouting it out.

Epilogue As I have mentioned, this book was written over a two year span. Most of the first half was written in Haiti and the second part was written in Brazil.

If you are unaware- when a person is over sixty five, polite people ignore his habit of repeating and just act as if it were the first time they heard whatever was said. I am hoping the readers of this book will do the same thing for me in regards to my many recounting of various ideas or experiences.

A couple of years ago I overheard two pastors commenting on an acquaintance’s very successful ministry. The one pastor said to the other, “Do you realize he didn’t start that ministry until he was seventy years old?” Now that caught my attention. I said, “Well God, maybe there’s still time for me to do something more for you.” The Bible says, “In our weakness He is made strong.” It goes on to say how He chooses the weak and the foolish to do His work. That being the case, I consider myself to be highly qualified. Thus, I am in the process of reactivating our former ministry, Shepherd of the Street Ministries.

Within the next few months I hope to make a visit to Saint Croix (American Virgin Islands). A struggling church has asked me to consider helping them with various ministries- street and beach ministries, college outreach, literacy, English classes for non-English speakers, and discipleship.

Many would consider Saint Croix to be a strange place to do missions in that it is a popular vacation place. The sad reality is that wherever an economy is tourist based a huge underclass sustains it. In the Virgin Islands there are many poor locals as well as foreign nationals who need help- socially, educationally, and especially spiritually.

Saint Croix is very near Haiti where I visited two years ago and I would like to give that desperate place some help. One of our mission’s first projects is to help sponsor a young 18 year old Christian man. His name is Saintama. He is a very fine and dedicated Christian. Through the generosity of an uncle he has been able to finish high school, but his uncle is unable to help him go to college. I believe this young man has the ability and dedication to make a difference in his country if he is given the opportunity.

I am also planning on opening a Bible Institute for those who have a heart for missions. The students will receive a basic Bible foundation as well as learn how to teach English. These students will obviously have a high level of fluency in English. With this background they will be equipped to share the Gospel and have a tool (English classes) to draw people to Christ. This method is being used quite successfully all over the world.

When asked who my sponsor is my answer is, “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” If this mission be God’s then He will sustain it.

Not only am I asking for financial help, but I am also seeking those who might be called to be a missionary, whether it be here in the U.S or on a foreign field. It’s been said of missionaries, “Some were called. Some were sent. Others just went.”

My prayer is that God will call many to this last day harvest and their answer will be, “Here am I Lordsend me.” Yes, the harvest is great but the laborers are few- “pray ye therefore that the Lord of Harvest will send forth laborers.”

Please dedicate yourselves to pray for Virginia and myself. Pray for our provision, our protection, our healing, and that the Lord will be our guide.

If you feel led to contribute financially to this mission, or would simply like to know more about it, please send your letter to: Fire International Ministries c/o Renato Jesalva P.O. Box 2312 Matthews, NC 28104-4208 You may also call 850-256-5906.

Whether you are able to contribute financially or not we covet all of your prayers.

Conclusion As I complete this book I am within two weeks of my traveling to Oregon to celebrate my fiftieth high school class reunion. Fifty years? Seems like only yesterday we were roaming the halls of Molalla Union High School. So many memories of our classmates, many who have passed away. Memories of our teachers who were paid all too little but gave us all so much!

Memories of our small, quiet town (not always so quiet). Walking down the street and hearing, “Hello, Franklin, and how are you today?” Attending the ball games (the seating capacity of our basketball gym was greater than the population of Molalla). Swimming in the Molalla River at Fryer's Park.

Crystal clear water so much so that we could see the trout swim by. Picking berries and beans to earn enough money for our school clothes. Hunting and fishing (in my case only fishing). The Cuban Missile Crisis practicing for being bombed by the Soviet Union. We went down to the basement where we sat on the floor and placed our heads between our knees Being in Mr. Beary’s math class when it was announced that our president, John F. Kennedy, had been assassinated and the days of mourning that followed. The apple machine and the milk shakes in the cafeteria. The custodian, Harry Norquest, who was loved by all the students.

I guess I had best put an end to this because the memories are never ending. Well, one more – sitting in Mrs. Martell's English class with her doing her best to teach me what a preposition was. Certainly, she never dreamed that I would follow in her footsteps and become an English teacher! I can still see her standing in front of us with her silver gray hair, long sleeved dress, collar up to her neck, her hemline four to six inches below knees. Shoes that I described as “roach stompers.” A string of white popbeads that I popped for her at any chance I got.

God knows what that woman did for me. She took an out of control, defiant fourteen-year-old boy and within his four years of high school, she applied her snake charming skills on him. Having done so, she helped me to find myself as well as finally finding a way to teach me prepositions (by the way I have used her unique method to teach many of my students).

When I get to Molalla, many of the old places I knew will be gone (I've returned several times throughout the years). Little will remain from years long past but I plan on returning where our high school once stood. There I will hear in my memory, “Franklin, don't run in the hall!” Plus, many other unheeded instructions. And my heart will ache for just one more chance to pop those pop-beads!

Having come to this stage in our lives Virginia and I are hoping to return to the mission field. We are in the process of de-junking our lives. Moving into a smaller house and ready to go wherever the Lord is willing to lead us. We've both decided to “wear out” instead of “rust out!” We are believing God to make whatever years we have remaining to be the most fruitful of all.

“Room At The Cross” - Oh, thank you, Jesus, for making room for me and thank you for making room for those who read this book. Thank you for dying on the cross bearing not only my sins, but the sins of the whole world. It was at the cross where by faith I received my sight and now I am happy all the day.

Amen and Amen!

There's Still Room At The Cross There is still room at the cross and Christ most certainly will meet you there. Have you asked Christ to be your Savior? If not, you can do that right now. “Though millions have come there's still room for one, yes, there's room at the cross for you.”

Admit you are a sinner Romans 3:10 “As it is written, there is none righteous, no not one.”

Romans 3:23 “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” Sin must be paid for Romans 5:12 “Wherefore, as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned.”

Romans 6:23a “For the wages of sin is death...”

God loved us and Christ took our place Romans 5:8 “But God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

Romans 6:23b “But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord” Ask Christ to save you Romans 10:9, 10 “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be save. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.”

Romans 10:13 “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.”