
On November 19, 1942, in the small southeast Iowa community of Douds, my mother, having called “Doc Pollock,” gave birth to her fourth of five children, a son, whom she and dad would name Anthony Lee. The doc had come to our house and spent the night waiting for my “breech” arrival. I was the second son. Two sisters had preceded me, and one would yet follow in a couple of years. The family was poor, living in a large frame house just yards from the Des Moines River. It would flood in June of 1947, causing us to load into a rescue boat sent to deliver us from the rising waters.
We were poor, but not because Dad was not willing to work. He delivered eggs, worked on farms and in a rock quarry, and did any other job that he could find to support his family. We had “outdoor” plumbing and took a bath once a week in a tub filled by pumping the well—in short, all the that goes with a family of six that was just able to squeak by. Then, in 1947, my father was hired on at John Deere in Ottumwa, Iowa. We moved there and, from then on, enjoyed a modest living. Dad retired at the age of 62, having been in supervision for several years, and he and Mom enjoyed life together until he passed away at the age of 94. He drew a pension check from John Deere for more years than he was employed by them.
Just on top of the hill, also mere yards from our house, there was a Methodist church that our family attended on occasion. At some point earlier in their lives, Dad and Mom had attended a revival meeting and had professed Christ as Savior. Dad said that they seldom heard the gospel at the local Methodist church, and they did not grow spiritually during those years.
Then came August of 1947. It was a hot summer day in the sleepy little town of Douds, and some of our cousins who lived on a farm, not far from town, asked if my older brother, Teddy, and sister, Nancy, could spend the night with them. After much pleading, Mom said yes against her better judgment, so Teddy and Nancy got on their bikes and followed their cousins to the farm. It was there that one of the boys asked Teddy if he could swim; if so, he said, there was a creek running through the farm that they could “take a dip” in to cool off. I doubt that Teddy ever had the opportunity to learn to swim, but he ended up going to the creek and jumping in with his cousin. Sadly, Teddy—who had just one functioning lung due to diseases and complications at birth—got caught in a swift current that he was unable to get out of. With Nancy on the creek bank screaming for help—help that the cousin was not able to render—Teddy drowned.
That afternoon was life-changing for our family. We soon moved to Ottumwa, where Dad was employed; and our parents, having lost their child, had enough sense to know that it was not just an “accident,” but that God was trying to get their attention. They began to seek God, trying church after church—all kinds of churches—where they could learn more of God and His plan for their lives. One Sunday afternoon, a neighbor knocked on our door and invited our family to attend the evening church service with them. My parents accepted the invitation, and when they entered the doors of the church, it was like they had found what they were seeking. It was an independent, Baptist church, where a faithful pastor opened the Bible every service and preached “the whole counsel of God.” This was home. It was not long before, on a Sunday evening, I knew that I needed to be saved. And so, responding to the invitation, I went forward and was led to Christ by this good pastor, who later baptized me. The whole family was one in Christ before long, and this church became our church home for the next several years. God had, through the death of a child, gotten the undivided attention of our parents, and He was not ignored. They soon found the answers to their questions. From that time on, they became devoted followers of Christ, consistent in their walk with Him. I grew up, then, in a Christian home.
In about ten years, sadly, we had to leave the church. I share this because of a spiritual lesson that I believe is so very important. As I said, we had to leave that church, the church that we loved and grew spiritually in for years. The reason was that my parents, who dearly loved the pastor, sensed that he needed some rest—as in a vacation. The pastor got wind of that idea and thought they were spearheading a movement to get rid of him. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But, not convinced, the dear man of God called a special business meeting for the purpose of having my parents “churched.” They were voted out of the membership.
Thankfully, though, they did not lose their standing in His body. Another independent Baptist church lovingly received them and our family, where we all attended, growing in the faith, as long as we lived there. I wanted to share this painful chapter of our lives for this reason: As long as my parents were alive, I never heard the first disparaging word out of their mouths about the pastor who led his church to disfellowship them. They knew they were not guilty of trying to bring any harm to this dear man of God; they loved him and learned a great deal from his adroit Bible teaching. He just totally misunderstood their motives and acted upon that. I repeat—never, not one time in the many years to follow, did I hear one word of criticism about that pastor, the church, or his preaching. I share this because, had that experience tainted my parents’ view of pastors or churches, I doubt I would have pursued the ministry. After the call from God to preach, I attribute their loving response—sans any hint of bitterness—to my being in the ministry today.
More to follow….
“But by the grace of God I am what I am: and His grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain….” (I Cor.15:10)








