Deputy Sheriff Barney Southall

 

Deputy Sheriff Badge

Deputy Sheriff Badge

One of the most colorful characters from my childhood was “Mr. Barney,” who was a deputy sheriff of Union County for many years during the era of the 1940’s and 1950’s. It was a sign of great disrespect for a young person of my generation to call an adult by their first name, so Deputy Barney Southall was known by me and almost everyone in the county as “Mr. Barney.” He appeared to me as a giant, not simply because he was over 6 feet tall and weighing in excess of 250 pounds, but because of the respect every one seemed to have for him. When I first learned of his exploits, he had been in law enforcement for at least 20 years and had earned that respect from young and old alike.

My Dad (Pop), was a general practitioner in medicine, and it seemed to me that he knew every one in El Dorado and Union County. Because he made house calls almost every night, and some of the calls were into unsafe neighborhoods, Pop would occasionally have a deputy sheriff follow him in his patrol car and keep watch during the time of the visit. More often than not, Mr. Barney was the deputy on call, so he was one of Pop’s best friends and guardians.

I don’t ever remember Mr. Barney wearing his deputy’s hat, but he was always so polite that he may have removed it when I was in his presence which was indoors. As I recall, his service revolver was a pearl-handled .38 caliber, and according to his nephew Barry who inherited the pistol at Barney’s death; it “was rusted from disuse.” The one weapon he carried that was well-used was a black flap-jack. He kept that instrument in his right rear pocket and was known to use it liberally on any Saturday night when there was a dispute or disagreement in one of the more volatile areas of town. It was said that Mr. Barney could remove that flap-jack from his pocket and deliver a paralyzing blow so fast, that the shiftiest character did not have reflexes fast enough to avoid the blow.

It was told that on one particular Saturday night in the St. Louis section of town, which was one of the Black-American districts; there was an altercation between 2 or 3 young men who had been drinking alcohol to excess. Mr. Barney was called to investigate and settle the dispute, and found that one of the men was being unusually resistant. When Mr. Barney held the combatant’s arm and told him he needed to leave the premises and go home without further argument; he jerked his arm away and said, “You ain’t my Daddy to tell me what to do!” With that the flap-jack flashed from Mr. Barney’s pocket and a quick blow to the man’s temple left him on the floor in a semi-conscious state. His associates with whom he had the argument gathered around him and said, “You know who yo’ Daddy is now. Mr. Barney is yo’ Daddy!”

Mr. Barney was a master in settling disputes and more often than not, because of his size and reputation, he could get it done in a non-violent fashion. Pop told me this story that involved a married couple who lived in another high crime area of town called Fairview. It seems they had a physical altercation with each other almost weekly on the weekends when they were drinking either beer or whiskey to excess. Invariably Mr. Barney was called to their home to separate them, and to see one or the other was taken to the Emergency Room for sutures to repair the damages from the fight. On one occasion, Mr. Barney said, “Now listen, I’m sick and tired of breaking up your fights. You two can’t seem to get along, so do you want to get a divorce?” “Yes suh, Mr. Barney, we wants to get di-voced.” Barney then told them to place their right hands on his badge and answer this question, “Do you James and you Sally desire to divorce each other?” “We do,” was their reply. “By the authority given me by the state of Arkansas and the county of Union, I now declare you divorced.” According to Mr. Barney, James and Sally continued living together, but he was never called to their residence again for a domestic altercation. I was not told whether they gave up drinking alcohol, but suspect they did not.

Deputy Barney Southall had a long and faithful service record to the people of Union County, and I feel certain he was never paid a salary that was reflective of his value for that service. His greater value and true legacy has been recorded in the memory of his family and friends that knew and loved him, and countless people like James and Sally with whom he made a lasting difference by his firm but sometimes unusual methods of law enforcement. I just wish there were a few more Mr. Barney’s around.

Dr. John

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“I Have This Pain In My Back”

When I graduated from The University of Arkansas Medical School in 1964, I was certain that I wanted to pursue a career in the field of surgery. My Dad (Pop) was a general practitioner that was experienced in many areas of medical care, but he especially loved performing surgical procedures and the associated drama of the operating room. In looking back through trained and experienced eyes at the procedures he was able to do then, he was an excellent surgeon with superior judgment and skills.

The Medical Center hospital in Little Rock offered the best and most up to date care in the state at that time, but was relatively small in size, and the bed-side experience of the individual physicians training there was limited. I wanted to further my training in a larger metropolitan area hospital where there was no limit to training opportunities. In deciding on an internship, I had visited the city hospitals of Chicago, Minneapolis, New Orleans and Atlanta. I was especially interested in Cook County Hospital in Chicago, but unfortunately, I visited there in December prior to my graduation, and the icy weather I endured during my 2 day visit convinced me that was not the place for me. I opted for Atlanta and the best hospital for me was Grady Memorial Hospital. Grady is one of the largest teaching hospitals in the country, and I experienced things there I had never before seen.

The emergency room was an exciting place to serve as a young and eager doctor. There was a constant stream of patients; particularly on weekends, with injuries ranging from simple lacerations to major trauma involving gunshot wounds, stabbings, and auto accidents. The work schedule of the interns was 36 hours on duty and 12 hours off duty. That was a gruelling schedule, but we not only survived but thrived in an atmosphere where each of us was given great responsibilities and got to perform lots of procedures. When a patient came to the emergency room for a problem such as pneumonia, or a severe asthmatic attack, he was sent to an urgent care unit where the pace was a little slower. The truly urgent problems were treated immediately while the less urgent were asked to wait until a physician was available. The same doctors that covered the emergency unit also covered the urgent care unit. A triage nurse was designated to determine the urgency of any particular problem.

I was assigned to the emergency room during the month of December in 1964, and the weather that year in Atlanta was unusually cold, with several extended days of icy weather. One particular night near 11 PM a man wearing a large, dark overcoat walked to the triage desk and was asked about his complaint, to which he responded, ” I have this pain in my back.” The nurse asked him how long he had that pain, and he said that he developed it that night. Assuming he had sprained his back in some way, she handed him the usual paperwork to complete, and asked if he would take a seat in one of the waiting room chairs, and he would be called into a room as soon as one was available. He indicated he was willing to wait his turn. That night was busier than usual, and there were more than the average number of trauma cases. The man in the overcoat had to wait for about an hour and a half. When the emergency room pace slowed a bit, one of the nurses escorted him into a treatment room and asked him to remove his overcoat so that he could be examined. When I entered the room, he was sitting in a chair facing me, and seemed to be in no great distress. The nurse had just seated him and had not taken his vital signs when I approached him. He said he had the pain in his back since being a witness to a bar-room fight earlier in the evening. I asked where in his back he was hurting, and he turned slightly and pointed to his mid-upper back. I was shocked to see what appeared to be a butcher knife protruding from his chest wall and it was so deeply embedded that only the handle of the knife was visible. The handle was in such a position that the man couldn’t reach it, so he was not aware there was a knife protruding from his back. Needless to say, the intensity level of his treatment escalated, and I called a more experienced surgical resident to assume his care. An x-ray was immediately done and he only had a minimal collapse of his lung, thus no shortness of breath.

The man did well; recovering quickly, and was able to go home in a few days. I learned several important lessons from this emergency room experience that night at Grady. First, never assume that the complaint from an unknown patient coming to an emergency room is a minor condition until proven otherwise. Secondly, get a more detailed history of a person’s complaint before having him seated in a waiting room for more than a few minutes. And finally, when you see a butcher knife protruding from a person’s back, don’t assume that the problem is minor back pain, despite what the patient tells you.

Dr. John

Church Visitation With Brother Tommy

 

Prairie Grove Revival

Prairie Grove Revival

Brother Tommy Freeman is one of my best friends, and he has encouraged me in my Christian life as much as any man, apart from my brother Berry Lee. I had known him during our childhood years when we both played baseball in the Boy’s Club program, but I didn’t make any other connection with him until years later when his sister graduated from the nursing school in El Dorado, Arkansas. At that time, I had been in my surgical practice for over 8 years, and Cathy and I had experienced a spiritual conversion in our lives the previous year. I was delivering the commencement address to the graduates and encouraging them to be a witness for Christ while practicing their profession as nurses. Following the address, Brother Tommy re-introduced himself to me, and asked if I ever preached in any churches. I told him that I would be honored if I were ever invitied, but had not received many invitations at this point. He immediately invited me to speak at his church, the First Baptist Church in Keo, Arkansas.

Years earlier following high school graduation, Tommy had enlisted in the Marine Corps and subsequently married his sweetheart, Joyce Hawkins from El Dorado. At the time of their marriage, she was a junior in my high school graduating class, but I still didn’t connect with Tommy then. Upon his discharged from military service, they ultimately moved to Shreveport, Louisiana where Tommy began working for J.C. Penney in the sporting goods department. They were very active members of a strong Southern Baptist church, and it was there that Tommy felt the call to vocational ministry. He began the long process to complete the college requirements in order to attend Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas. His first  pastorate following graduation was the First Baptist Church in Keo.

I had no idea where Keo was located, but discovered it was a lovely cotton-growing community in eastern Arkansas. The church was realtively small, but filled with some of the most loving and generous Christians, who graciously endured my early efforts at preaching the Word. My friendship with Brother Tommy was sealed, and we began communicating on a regular basis. We spoke with each other almost weekly, and he would invariably ask questions such as, “How’s your Sunday school teaching going?” or “How many people did you win to the Lord last week?” or “Have you been praying with all your patients?” I didn’t realize it at the time, but each week I purposed in my heart to improve in all those areas so I could give Brother Tommy a good report when he called.

Within a year or two, Brother Tommy was called to a larger church, the First Baptist Church of Prairie Grove, Arkansas. The area was quite a contrast to eastern Arkansas, in that this was the heart of Northwest Arkansas, and the time frame was near the beginning of the real estate boom that was fueled by the corporate giants; Walmart, Tyson Foods and J.B. Hunt Trucking. After he had been the pastor for about a year, he invited my brother, Berry Lee and me to preach a 3 day layman’s revival, beginning on a Sunday. We had never been involved in such a meeting and were very excited to see how God might use us in such a revival. Berry Lee was not able to stay the entire 3 days, so he was scheduled to preach for the Sunday morning service, and I would  preach each evening from Sunday through Wednesday.

Tommy wanted everyone in Prairie Grove to have the opportunity to hear us, and began promoting the services about 6 weeks prior to the meeting. Flyers with our photos and biographical data were posted all over town, and the church members began inviting friends and family. The Sunday morning service was well attended, and with Bubba preaching one of his best messages on salvation and spiritual growth, the revival got off to a good start. The members of the church were so loving and generous to us and among other things, had arranged a special lunch at a different home each day. Bubba only got to enjoy the first of the four scheduled lunches. The food and fellowship at each of their homes was enough to make the experience memorable, but there was much more to come. On Sunday evening following the close of the service, Tommy said to me, “John, we need to get up early tomorrow, so we can begin by jogging for a couple of miles; get cleaned up and then go out visiting!” I had no idea what was about to happen.

Following the exercise and a sumptious Freeman breakfast, I thought we would visit a few selected homes, but Brother Tommy was determined to introduce me to everyone that lived within a 10 mile radius of Prairie Grove. I learned quickly from him that the best way to grow a church and increase attendance, is to knock on doors and make yourself and your church known to as many people as possible. We visited downtown stores, shaking hands with all who stopped; I met church members, pastors from other churches and seemingly everyone in town. If everyone had attended the revival who promised on those visits, the church would not have held the crowd.

One unforgettable visit was to the Bailey’s home. Both George and his wife Eula had been faithful members of First Baptist for years, and lived in a unique farmhouse far out in the country. They were unpretentious in their actions and appearance, and it was not uncommon for one or both of them to come to church dressed in work overalls. Among other animals on their farm, they raised goats, because they loved fresh goat’s milk and believed it to be more tasty and more nutritious than cow’s milk. They frequently asked Brother Tommy if they could bring him some goat’s milk, but he always declined their generous offer. On arriving at their house, I noticed some steep steps up to their porch, and there appeared to be a goat on each step. We had to be careful manuvering around each goat because of the congestion and the “clutter” on the steps. Upon their hearty welcome of us, George said, “Come on in boys. Can I get you a cool glass of fresh goat’s milk?” Brother Tommy quickly said, “Dr. Moore really loves goat’s milk and has been looking forward to a big glass of it!” When George disappeared into the kitchen I told Tommy, “I’m going to get even with you over this.” I was able to get the milk down without gagging nor appearing ungrateful for the gift. I don’t know whether that made a difference to them, but the Baileys came to every service to hear me preach. I have a suspicion that they endured my attempts at preaching in much the same fashion that I endured that glass of milk. I am confident that my preaching skills since then have improved, while my desire for another glass of fresh goat’s milk has markedly declined.

Dr. John

“The Devil is Loose in New Orleans!”

New Orleans French Quarters

New Orleans French Quarters

My grandfather, Dr. John Aaron Moore was affectionately known in South Arkansas as “Dr. JA.” He was a pioneer practitioner in family medicine and was also involved in many civic and spiritual endeavors in a rapidly growing town that was fueled by the oil boom of the 1920’s. When the Busey Well No. 1 was completed in January, 1921, it marked the beginning of a population and financial boom for the area. Almost overnight, El Dorado grew from a small agricultural town of 4,000 to over 40,000 residents. Dr. JA (Granddad) and his wife Daisy (Deeji) had moved to El Dorado from Dexter, New Mexico in 1912. They had formerly lived in South Arkansas where he practiced medicine in Lisbon, a small community west of El Dorado. While living in Lisbon for 12 years, they had 3 children; John Walter (Uncle Walter): Lilly Mae (Aunt Mae); and Berry Lee (Pop). In 1910 he contracted tuberculosis and was advised to move to a warmer climate; so he moved his family to New Mexico, where he was able to recover. When they moved to El Dorado to begin his medical practice there, they built their home at 317 N. Jackson, which was 4 blocks from the downtown square. At the time of their move, Pop was 10 years old.

As an early settler in El Dorado, Granddad was a major stockholder in two banks; the National Bank of Commerce and the First National Bank. He was one of the founders and staff members of Warner Brown Hospital which opened in 1921 and  later served as the Medical Chief of Staff for several terms. He was very active in the Masonic Order when they lived in Lisbon and was chairman of the board that built the Masonic Temple in El Dorado in 1924. Granddad’s office was in that Masonic Temple building on the second floor, and remained the office site for 3 generations of Moore physicians until Dr.Berry Lee Jr. (Bubba) built his office on Grove Street in 1967. By that time, both Granddad and Pop had departed this life.

Granddad and Deeji were very active members of First Baptist Church where he served as a deacon from 1912 until his death in 1943. All of their children were baptised there and received their early spiritual training through the Sunday school and the Baptist Young People’s Union (BYPU), which was the name given to the Sunday evening training organization. Pop told me that behind the scenes, all the boys in the church referred to BYPU as “Button Your Pants Up.” As the largest and most highly visible church in downtown El Dorado, First Baptist was a spiritual leader in the rapidly growing boom town. Important decisions affecting the spiritual lives and growth of many were being made regularly. Years later, one of the long-time members and deacons at First Baptist told me when he was a young man and a fledgling member and deacon, whenever there was a business meeting and an important vote was taken on any particular issue; he would “look to see how old Dr. JA voted and always vote exactly as he did.” Granddad’s wisdom and spiritual discernment were well-recognized.

Granddad’s personality and demeanor were that of a dignified professional. Although friendly, he did not have an out-going personality and was never heard publicly telling a joke or a funny story from his life experiences. Whenever seen in public and even while making house calls late at night, Granddad was fully and immaculately dressed in coat and tie, and had his gold pocket watch in his vest pocket with the gold chain openly displayed. His older son (Uncle Walter) had a similar personality, but his younger son (Pop) was just the opposite. Pop was outgoing, openly friendly, talkative and always had a funny story or joke to tell. Pop was usually the life of a party, and he loved life and parties.

When Pop graduated from the University of Arkansas Medical School in 1932, he decided that Charity Hospital in New Orleans was the best place to continue training as an intern, and the city of New Orleans, known as “The Big Easy,” suited his personality well. When not on duty at the hospital, he and our mother (Mimi) frequented a place in the French Quarters known as The Fireman’s Band. It was partly owned by a fellow intern at Charity Hospital, and the typical customers were married couples that enjoyed the atmosphere of Dixieland music, jokes, laughter and the serving of alcoholic beverages. It was not a place that Granddad approved, but he accepted the fact that he and his physician son had differing views on entertainment and definitely had opposite personalities.

After Pop and Mimi had lived in New Orleans for about 6 months, Granddad decided he needed to visit them to determine for himself the quality of training his son was receiving at Charity Hospital. He was also interested in seeing his only grandchild, Berry Lee Jr. (Bubba), who was 5 years old. Granddad rode the train because Deeji was not able to accompany him, and the drive from El Dorado by auto in those days took over 10 hours. Pop took Granddad on a grand tour of the hospital, and was able to introduce him to many of the distinguished faculty responsible for intern training. Granddad told him that he was very impressed with the level of training he was receiving and gave his hearty approval. Pop thought the visit would not be complete without a tour of the French Quarters and also The Fireman’s Band. Pop said his Dad was very quiet during this portion of his visit and had very few questions.

Upon Granddad’s return to El Dorado, he was speaking with his pastor at First Baptist, Dr. John Buchanan and was asked, “Dr. JA, how did you find New Orleans?” According to Pop, Granddad never cracked a smile when he responded to the question, ” Dr. Buchanan, the devil is loose in New Orleans!” Despite the fact that Pop loved living there and receiving such excellent training in Charity Hospital, I am confident that Granddad was greatly relieved when 2 years later, Pop finally delivered Mimi and Bubba from the influence of the devil in New Orleans and brought them to a much safer El Dorado to begin their life and medical practice there. As far as I know, Granddad never visited New Orleans again.

Dr. John

The Bread of Life Soup Kitchen

jesus-breaking-bread-4297852On one occasion in Capernaum, as Jesus was speaking to his disciples and to the ever-present crowd that followed Him, He made this astounding statement, “I am the bread of life that is come down from heaven.” (John 6: 35-40). He was proclaiming that He was their anticipated Messiah and was sent from God to feed and save the world. He also stated that whoever was hungry for eternal life, must partake from Him alone. This word picture and name of Jesus seemed to fit the concept of a name for the soup kitchen that was started by my wife, Cathy and a representative group from several churches in our hometown.

The Bread of Life Soup Kitchen was located in the Salvation Army building, which at that time was in a strategic but very economically depressed area. The initial excitement of these dedicated servants for the beginning of a new ministry was soon replaced with the hard work of planning, preparing, serving and clean-up of approximately 75 meals daily. The spiritual mandate for such a ministry is found in Jesus’ declaration in Matthew 25, that whoever desires to inherit the Kingdom of God, must be sensitive to those brethren who are hungry and thirsty, and should give them food and drink.

Each of the churches involved was given a specific day of the week in which they were responsible for the food preparation, the serving and the clean-up, while Cathy, who was the coordinator, was there every day to make certain that it all happened. The plan included not only the food, but that someone from that church would provide a short devotion or some spiritual nourishment as well as praying before the meal. Some of the churches were more faithful at this than others.

As a result of Cathy’s leadership role in the Soup Kitchen, our entire family became involved with her, both in the physical and the spiritual work done there. It was a time that God stretched each of us, and taught us unique and timeless lessons concerning His provision and His work in the lives of needy people, particularly those who were hungry and thirsty. When we now have a family discussion concerning our Soup Kitchen experiences, the names of some of our special friends come to mind such as; Jimmy, “Razor,” Mr. Ford with his 5 children and Mr. Cornelius. There were many others, but these have a special place etched in our hearts.

Because of Cathy’s leadership and her sense of responsibility for the ministry, our family always worked at the Soup Kitchen on holidays. Cathy didn’t think it was appropriate to ask others to make the sacrifice of being separated from their family on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. At first there were a few in our family that grudgingly “volunteered,” but the Holy Spirit began working on our attitudes. When we  saw the smiles of those being served, and heard the thanks they gave for our service, those attitudes were replaced with joyful anticipation. Whenever family members from out-of-town visited us on holidays, Cathy encouraged them to join us at the Soup Kitchen for a couple of hours. I don’t remember even one that refused her offer, and all told us they received a blessing.

On two occasions, I took my guitar to the Soup Kitchen to have a sing-along with our guests. I’m not sure that many appreciated the type of music I was playing, but I included some well-known hymns, and occasionally could get a few to participate. Our children reluctantly joined in singing, but most of the time there was so much noise from the serving and with people talking with one another, the sound of our musical offering was overshadowed.

One particular holiday, a local store gave us a large number of loaves of day-old bread. There were so many loaves, that I was able to give at least 2 loaves to each person. Some got more, depending on how many family members they said were at home. As I was passing out the loaves, I told those seated at each table they could eat this bread but after a few hours they would be hungry again. I said that when our duties for that meal were over, if any one wanted to hear about “some bread they could eat and never be hungry again,” come to the small office room adjacent to the kitchen. When the meal ended and the floors were swept and mopped, I went to the room and found it packed with at least 12 to 15 people who wanted to know about that bread. I told them that  Jesus was the Bread of Life, and whoever took Him into their life would be filled and never hunger again. When I invited all who wanted to receive Him as  Savior, 7 adults raised their hands. I explained the good news of salvation to them and each one prayed to ask forgiveness of their sins and to receive Christ into their hearts. The following week I called several pastors in town in an effort to get all of them involved with a local church so they might follow their decision with baptism and begin their spiritual journey.

Cathy continued in her role of leadership, and the Soup Kitchen was operated in its’ original location for approximately 5 years. Subsequently the Salvation Army built a beautiful facility in a new location, and the operation of the food ministry was assumed by their leadership. In my opinion, the Army has always had an excellent record of serving the needy and preaching the Good News to all whom they serve. I do not know the present state of the food ministry through the Salvation Army, but I do know that for 5 years, Cathy and a host of faithful volunteers served the Lord Jesus in that place. Our family was privileged to serve with them, and in that experience we learned what it means to have a servant’s heart. In giving we received much more than we gave. That is the promise from His Word in Luke 6:38, “Give, and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, they will pour into your lap. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.”

Dr. John

“You’re Not Much of a Witness”

Grandpa and Grandma Luther

Grandpa and Grandma Luther

Grandpa Luther was never at a loss for words, and often his words would cut through all the pretense of pride and focus on the main thing of Christianity, which is our witness for the Lord Jesus. When I was with Grandpa and Grandma, the two of them would invariably lead all conversations back to Christ and His redeeming work on the cross.

Grandpa never met a stranger, and he would often initiate the conversation with an unknown person by saying something like, ” I’ll bet you didn’t know that I have two birthdays. How many birthdays do you have?” Regardless of the answer, Grandpa used that opening line to give his natural date of birth, and then tell when he was born again into the Kingdom. His follow-up question was always, “Have you had your second birthday?” One of his favorite opening lines when he met a woman was, “I know Someone who loves you.” Usually she would ask, “Who is it?” Grandpa followed with, “Jesus loves you so much that He died on a cross to save you. Have you been saved?” It seemed that every encounter and every conversation led to Jesus.

Grandpa told me of an encounter with a man that he had while on a shopping trip with Grandma to “Walmarks” one Saturday afternoon. He always called the giant chain “Walmarks,” and to this day it is difficult for me to remember that it is “Wal-Mart”. Grandpa was waiting for her to finish shopping and was sitting on the bench in the foyer of the entrance. He said that “an old man” came in with his wife and while she shopped, he sat down beside him. I asked Grandpa just how old the “old man” really was, since Grandpa was in his late 80’s when he told me the story. He said in his usual loud voice, “Oh, I don’t know. Probably 50 or 60.” Grandpa was hard of hearing,despite wearing hearing aids, which I don’t think ever worked very well for him. The two of them sat without speaking for 5 or 6 minutes when Grandpa said loudly, “Where do you go to church?” The man said quietly, “I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.” Grandpa had no idea about Jehovah’s Witnesses nor their doctrine that they do not believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. To Grandpa, one was either lost or saved and was either a Christian or a non-Christian. When the man told Grandpa that he was a “witness for Jehovah”, Grandpa responded with, “You’re not much of a witness! We’ve been sitting here for over 5 minutes and you haven’t said a word about Jesus!” Grandpa said the “old man got up and left.”

In Grandpa’s world, everything was either black or white, and if you love Jesus and claim to be His witness, you need to be telling everyone around you how wonderful He is, and He will save you if you are lost. Grandpa and Grandma Luther lived and witnessed on a different level from any other Christians I have ever known, and that is the reason they led so many thousand souls to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ. When I think about them and the effect of their ministry, I am convicted that what Grandpa said to that “old man at Walmarks” could also be said about me.

Dr. John