The Master’s Touch II

By Mildred Nelson Smith

Chapter 1

The Calling of a Seventy

Delbert Smith entered the pavilion happily greeting other appointee ministers of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints who had been called together by the apostle in charge of the area for a weekend of worship, study and fellowship. It was a rare privilege to be under Apostle Oakman’s tutelage, and my husband, who was then a young seventy, anticipated the forthcoming study expectantly.

It seemed to Delbert that the class had hardly started when he heard Brother Oakman saying, “If you will please stand, we will close the class with a prayer.”

“Close the class? Why, he had just begun!” Del remonstrated silently and looked about him amazed that the others seemed ready for its ending. As the prayer proceeded, he gradually became aware of what had happened that had made him lose track of time.

As the class opened, Delbert had been abruptly removed from the beautiful Palos Park setting in which the group was meeting to an even more exquisite locale - a place of ethereal beauty. As in a dream he turned slowly, surveying all about him, trying to comprehend the wonder and splendor of his new environment. A pinpoint of light on the far horizon captured his attention; he stood transfixed, watching it intently. As he watched, the light began to grow steadily, increasing in size and intensity as though the source of it was advancing toward him. Awe and wonder swept over him as the light drew nearer, and he began to distinguish within it the form of a man. Hardly had the form appeared when to Delbert’s mind it was identified as Jesus the Christ.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of unworthiness. In one swift motion he ducked his head and threw up his arm to cover his face. Still the figure advanced and Del felt the imprint of Christ’s thought on his mind. Although no word was spoken, the seventy’s attention was directed toward a large lump of bituminous coal that lay upon the ground.

“Pick it up!” came the command transmitted without words. Continuing to shield his face from the magnificent Presence he stooped to comply. Carefully he lifted the chunk of coal from the ground, and in response to yet another unspoken direction held it out to the Divine One.

Delbert still did not dare to look at the figure clothed in light. Instead, his gaze was focused on the coal in his hand as he extended it toward the Master. To his amazement he saw the finger of Christ reach out and touch the coal, transforming it into the largest, most exquisite diamond Del had ever seen. Each facet flowed with the beauty of the reflected light of the Master. With reverence Del stood contemplating the transformation when Apostle Oakman’s voice intruded with the announcement that the class was over.

For weeks Delbert pondered the experience, awed by its impact on him. He dared not speak of it lest he be misunderstood.

Then one night I received a call intended for my husband. “Can you get a message to Delbert?” asked the caller when he found that the seventy was not in town.

“He probably hasn’t had time to get to Albert Lea yet,” I replied, “but I’m sure I can get him tonight.”

“Then tell him he’s got to come back over here.” I knew that “over here” was 110 miles away in another state for I recognized the caller as Ken Holloway, who had just been baptized that day in Minneapolis.

“What’s the problem?” I inquired. Del had already gone a hundred miles in the opposite direction, and I knew he would want to know the reason for returning immediately to the area in which he had just been working.

“I have a man who wants to be baptized!” Ken spoke excitedly.

Ken and Mopsy had returned from their baptism to their home in the beautiful resort community surrounding Lake Chetek. Although Ken was still a breadwinner, many of their friends had retired to the leisurely life of fishing, boating, swimming and golfing. Just across the way in a little cottage sheltered by stately oaks lived Jess and Marie Butcher. Jess Butcher was a retired bartender and of no professed religion. Marie was a good Catholic. The Butchers and the Holloways had been best friends since the Butchers had moved in.

When the Holloway car had slowed to a stop, Jess and Marie had emerged from their front door as though they had been keeping watch. As Ken struggled with his crutches in getting out of the car, Jess accosted him.

“Where the _____ have you been all day?” Jess’s rough greeting was friendly and concerned. He had kept a close eye on Ken since the accident and didn’t want him doing anything that would delay his recovery.

“I’ve been to Minneapolis to be baptized,” Ken announced happily. Had it been a few weeks earlier, he would have used even stronger expletives that Jess.

“Well, what do you know?” Jess mused. Then he continued, “That’s something I’ve been thinking I ought to do- be baptized,” he explained to make sure that Ken did not misunderstand.

“Come on in and let’s talk about it,” Ken said as he adjusted his crutches and led the way across the drive to the house.

Pausing only to invite his guests to seat themselves, Ken swung himself across the room directly to the telephone and called Paul Harcourt, a priesthood member who lived near by, to come and talk with Jess. When Paul left, Ken called for the seventy.

“Do you know what he did?” Ken asked. “He left without saying one word to Jess about baptizing him!”

I smiled a bit into the telephone. It was good to feel the enthusiasm of the newly baptized man. “Perhaps Paul feels that Jess should know a little more about the church before he gets all the way into it, “ I suggested gently.

“Then tell Del he has to get over here and teach him!” Ken was accustomed to having things done when they needed to be done.

“I’ll have him call you tonight, “ I promised, “And Ken, it has been a wonderful day, hasn’t it?” I reminded him, fearing that his disappointment that his friend’s baptism was not arranged immediately might dim his memory of his own happy experience with the Christ.

“It has been wonderful!” Ken agreed thoughtfully.

Delbert called that night then followed that call with a visit as soon as it could be arranged. Because Ken still was not able to move about freely, the meeting was arranged in the Holloway home.

“I know all about you ministers,” Jess bragged, not at all the humble suppliant Del had thought he might find asking for baptism. “Why, I’ve talked to drunken Catholic priests, Protestant ministers, and Jewish rabbis.” The seventy knew he was recalling his days behind the bar. “You don’t fool me one bit!”

My husband wasn’t quite sure whether Jess was being contemptuous or just issuing a challenge. Praying silently for direction the seventy replied patiently, “I’m not trying to fool you, Jess. Ken said you wanted to be baptized, and I think you ought to know what you’re getting into before you take that step. I’d like to tell you about Christ and his church. Do you want me to, or don’t you?” The seventy’s voice was firm but he smiled as he spoke.

“Sure I want to hear you,” Jess said slowly, then glanced surreptitiously at Marie, wanting but not asking her approval of the arrangement.

It was nearly two o’clock the morning of the visit when I awakened with a start at the ringing of the telephone. “Mildred,” Del was on the line, “I won’t be home tonight. We’ve just stopped talking to have some lunch, and the Holloways have invited me to get some sleep here before I make the drive into the city.”

Again and again it happened, the drive to Wisconsin for a cottage meeting, the late night call. Finally, Del just arranged to stay overnight each time he went to teach the Butchers.

“Jess thinks you’re great!” Ken informed the seventy-one nights after Jess and Marie had gone home.

“He does?” Del asked in surprise. “He doesn’t act like it! Why, I’ve never in my life seen a man fight so hard against the truth. He trys to tear down everything I say!” There was a tone of exasperation in my husband’s voice.

“Yeah, but you ought to hear him quote you when you’re gone,” Ken said reassuringly.

After one particularly lively discussion that had gone on into the night, Marie suddenly accounted, “I want to be baptized.”

“You do ?” Jess looked startled for a moment , then rushing across the room to Marie, he folded her in his arms. “Oh, Marie,” he spoke tenderly and his voice quivered with emotion. “I have waited so long for you to say that!”

“You have?” It was the seventy’s turn to be surprised and puzzled. “Then why have you been heckling me so?”

“Delbert, you know Marie is a Catholic. I have been asking all of the questions I thought she would need to have answered before she could decide to make the change, “ Jess explained earnestly. “You will baptize us, won’t you?” In his earnestness, Jess almost sounded afraid that Del would deny him that blessing. “I know that my life has been everything but saintly, but…”

The seventy didn’t hear the rest. In that moment he stood again in the presence of the Christ, shielding his eyes from His radiance and holding out toward him the lump of coal. Again he saw the finger of the Divine One touch the coal, and he wondered anew at the shimmering beauty of the diamond that sparkled in his hand.

With the imprint of the same Spirit by which the experience was first received, Delbert knew his mission as a seventy; to take humanity, however unrefined, and hold it humbly up to the Christ. That was the call of the seventy- to watch reverently as the touch of the Master’s hand transformed life into a beautiful reflection of himself in all His glory, intelligence, truth ,and love. That was the joy of the seventy!

“Jess,” the seventy said as he enfolded the man and his wife in his own long arms, “it will be the happiest moment of my life!” and his voice trembled with the wonder of it.

Chapter 2

Ken Holloway’s New Life

The tall, lanky Wisconsin farmer rubbed his eyes. Did he really see what he thought he saw? Deep down in his heart he hoped it was not so. Ken Holloway was the one man in the world that Willis tried to avoid, and here he was listed on the hospital roster as a patient. He could not avoid him here.

It wasn’t that Willis was angry with Ken or hated him or anything like that. It was just that Willis could not tolerate the foul language that spouted continually from the man’s mouth ! In addition to his farm, Willis worked at the local feed mill. When he saw the foul mouthed salesman approach the mill, Willis always tried to find something far away to wholly occupy his time so he didn’t have to listen while the owner negotiated his purchases.

In addition to being a farmer and a feed mill operator, Willis was also an elder and the pastor of the local congregation of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. In that capacity, he regularly visited the hospital. On those visiting days, he made it a practice to scan the list of patients and visit any that he knew or felt that he could bring ministry.

Outside room 221 , Elder Metcalf found a woman weeping. Slight, raven haired, attractive even in tears, the woman obviously was overcome with grief. Her proximity to Ken’s door indicated to Willis that she must be Ken’s wife. The good man’s heart was touched. Compassionately he introduced himself.

“How is he ?” he inquired nodding toward room 221’s door, still unaware of why Ken was there.

“The doctor says he can’t live.” Mopsy responded, trying to brush away her tears with a tissue already hopelessly sodden. A sob shuddered through her body as she struggled to regain control. “Only God can help him now!”

In had been two days now since the accident, Mopsy was finally able to explain. The handsome, debonair fertilizer salesman had been traveling from one customer to another. Surrounded by an aura of success from his last call, he sped across Wisconsin hills onto a level stretch of highway that skirted the beautiful lake country.

It was October, and even though winter was making feinting passes at the area, it was clear that fall was still very much the mistress in charge. Brilliantly colored leaves still clung to a few of the trees or lay in heaps beneath the clusters of oaks and maples in the farmyards.

This morning there were icy spots on the highway. The police reported that it appeared that Ken had slowed a bit as he approached a spot that caught the morning sun in a suspicious sort of way. But the motorist coming from the opposite direction did not see the reflection of the sun on the ice. Without warning his car skidded directly into Ken’s pathway . There was a shuddering crash, and Ken lay helplessly entrapped in the wreckage of his car. It took a gargantuan effort just to get him out of the wreckage, and no one thought he could possibly live!

“The doctors found thirty two breaks in the bones of his chest alone, many of them puncturing his lungs” Mopsy continued. “He has a severe head injury. His legs are both broken, the left one so badly that it looks as though someone had just tried to twist it off his body. The doctor says they won’t even try to put it back together.”

All the time Mopsy was talking, Willis kept remembering her words, “Only God can help him now!” Finally he spoke.

“Mrs. Holloway, “ Willis was emboldened by the promptings of the Spirit. “I am a minister , an elder in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The scriptures tell us to call for the elders of the church when we have need of healing. The elders are to anoint us with oil and pray for us. If we pray in faith, God promises to hear and answer our prayer.”

Mopsy responded immediately. “Oh, would you pray for Ken?”

Remembering Ken’s usual irreverence even with the name of deity, Willis hesitated. “I will, if he wants me to,” he said.

“But he ca’nt want anything, “ Mopsy protested. “He hasn’t been conscious for even a moment since the accident.”

“Well, let’s go see.” Willis proposed and the two of them entered the injured man’s room.

Leaning over the helpless man, Willis spoke his name. Then he asked, “Do you know me?”

The eyelids flickered and Ken whispered faintly, Willis. Willis Metcalf, Inland Mills.”

Mopsy could hardly contain her joy! Tears flowed freely again, but now they were tears of hope.

Again Willis explained the Lord’s instruction for the elders to anoint with oil and pray for the sick and asked if Ken would like for him to act upon that instruction. Ken nodded, and Willis prayed.

Excitement radiated from room 221 as the news spread that Ken Holloway was conscious. Treatment that had been delayed because of his condition and the expectation of death was begun. As it became apparent that life was imminent instead of death, even the mangled leg began to receive attention.

Arrangements were made to bring an orthopedic surgeon from St. Paul to perform surgery on the leg. Fully conscious now, Ken asked Willis to come and pray again that the surgery would be successful. As Willis prayed this time, he asked specifically that the Lord would guide the surgeon’s hands.

The morning the surgery was scheduled, the specialist called to do the intricate procedure went to Ken’s room to explain what would be done and what results could be expected. Ken listened patiently as the surgeon explained the need for a metal rod to be inserted, the complications presented by the twisted muscles, the many breaks, etc. etc. The operation, the doctor said, would take approximately six hours.

Impatient to get on with the surgery, Ken said to the doctor, “What you don’t know, sir, is that the Lord is going to guide your hands!”

Startled, the puzzled physician left the confident patient to scrub for the operation.

The operation did not take six hours. It took less than one hour and a half. The chief surgical nurse described the experience as comparable to a symphony.

“I always had the instrument the doctor needed in my hand before he needed it, “ she explained in amazement.” And he worked with a skilled precision that I have never witnessed in all my professional life ! ” In fact, she was so moved by the experience that she began to ask Ken questions about his new found faith.

AS soon as Ken was released from the hospital, Willis called for the seventy to come to Chetek and teach the Holloways the gospel. Among those who came night after night to learn about this wonderful Lord whose love and power could change lives so profoundly was the surgical nurse who had witnessed that power in the operating room.

During the time of recuperation, Ken resumed his work as a salesman, calling by phone. As he contacted each of his old customers he would first identify himself, then proceed to explain his wares and negotiate the sale. Almost always, Ken told us with a little chuckle , the customer would interrupt the sale to inquire, “Who did you say this is?” Ken would repeat his name only to hear the customer protest, ”This can’t be Ken Holloway. Ken couldn’t talk without swearing!”

The day came when a baptismal service was arranged for the Holloways in Minneapolis. Ken was still on crutches and had to be helped into the font. I was in the congregation, my heart nearly bursting with love and joy for the wonderful event. But when it was finished and Ken was lifted from the water , I was disappointed. I expressed my feelings.

“Ken,’ I said. “ I really expected you to walk out of that font on your own! I expected you to be healed completely in that water!’

“No,” Ken smiled quietly and said gently, “The Lord has too much to teach me. He couldn’t let me loose so soon!” Then he added as if by an after thought or as an affirmation of the presence of the Spirit in his life to date, “but, you know, I haven’t used a foul word since the day Willis first laid hands on me when everyone else had given up hope!”.

*****

When the seventy began cottage meetings with Jess and Marie Butcher, one of the local priesthood questioned the wisdom of such a procedure. “That man has done everything in the book,” he affirmed, “and he still does some of them. I don’t think we really want him in the church”

“Don’t worry,” Delbert consoled the troubled man. “Not everyone to whom I tell the gospel is baptized.”

But Jess and Marie Butcher were baptized at the church in Minneapolis. Soon after the baptisms were finished, the priesthood member who had questioned the propriety of sharing with the Butchers accosted the seventy with, “Do you know what Jess Butcher just did?”

“Yes,” replied the seventy, “he just got baptized”.

“No!” remonstrated the indignant man. “He went out on the front steps of the church and lit up a cigarette! Why did you baptize him?”

The seventy was taken aback, but in that moment the Lord supplied the answer. “I baptized him because I know that man has caught a vision of the kingdom. For anyone who has caught a vision of the kingdom, that sort of thing becomes unimportant.”

Moments later the Holloways and the Butchers joined the Smiths in the almost empty living room of their duplex home. Word had been received from the church officers that the Smiths were assigned to Hawaii and would be leaving as soon as the Sylvester Coleman family was ready to join them for the journey. Only bed linens and personal belongings were to be taken with the exception of a few appliances not available in Hawaii or available at great expense. Everything else was to be stored or disposed of . We were nearly ready for the transfer. Our only furnishings left in the living room were orange crates that served as table and chairs. Jess entered carrying the cigarette he had lit on the church steps and so offended the priest who had questioned his baptism. I hurried to find something to be used as an ash tray. Jess guessed what I was about.

“Don’t bother ,Sister Smith,” he said firmly. “this is the first thing that has to go!” With that he walked to the front door, flipped the offending article out the door and returned, never to smoke again.

Once we were in Hawaii, Ken kept us apprised of the happenings in Chetek, particularly with respect to Jess and the church. First he said Jess was going out three times a week on cottage meetings with the pastor, running the projector for him. Then he wrote that Jess and Willis were still going out three times a week on cottage meetings, but now the pastor was running the projector for Jess!

Jess was almost single handedly remodeling the church. He had put in new stairs to the lower auditorium that made that part of the building much more readily accessible, especially to the older members of the congregation. He had put in a new furnace. He had made a cry room for young mothers. On and on the reports went. Jess was ordained. Jess was an elder.

By now it was confirmed that Jess was one of those chunks of coal tha the Lord’s finger turns into shimmering diamonds. For a lot of years we lost track of the Butchers. Then some forty years later, with the help of Seventy Bob Elrod, we found Jess and Marie again in Wisconsin. Marie was confined to her bed in a nursing home but her mind was still alert. With a warm smile she welcomed us and recalled those early days of ministry and still bore her testimony of the Lord’s goodness to them through the years. Jess was still very much the minister though now his activity was limited by age. His testimony, too, was that the Lord had been good to them especially in giving him all those years in which to minister for Him.

FROM YOUTH UP

Chapter 3

Papa Learns to Read

“Is that the best you can do, Alma?” Mr. Adams, the teacher of the one room Missouri school, had waited patiently for the shy sixteen year old to spell out the words of the passage he had been asked to read aloud.

“That’s the best I can do!” my embarrassed father responded. He could only attend school for three months or less each year, depending on the weather. If it was good enough for outside work, Papa had to work. His father was schooled in the tradition of the “Old Country.” His own schooling had ended at age nine when he was forced to begin supporting himself, and he was certain his own sons should take their share of responsibility supporting the family. Only if the weather was bad did Papa get to school.

Even then , it seemed strange that he could not learn to read. He was very good at arithmetic. And history? He loved history! He listened intently as that subject was discussed in the classroom and remembered everything

he heard. But he could not read. At noon when the other men would scan an entire newspaper, Papa might get one or two headlines spelled and pronounced well enough to understand them.

“Just don’t come back to class,” Mr. Adams instructed. “You just take up too much time!” Embarrassed and ashamed, Papa took his seat.

In spite of his ineptness, there was one book Papa wanted passionately to read. He wanted to read the Book of Mormon. Time after time he would open the book , spell out the words and try to make sense of the small bits he could piece together only to be disappointed. Finally in desperation he cried, “Lord, I can’t do it ! Help me! Please, please help me!”

Once more he took up his Book of Mormon. This time when he opened the book , he could read! There was no more spelling of word. Not only were the words recognizable , but their meaning was explained to him instantaneously. Even the strange names were pronounced for him . Delighted, he read on and on.

My father’s reading was not confined to the Book of Mormon. Now he could read anything that he wanted to read with amazing clarity and understanding. The Bible, Doctrine and Covenants, Church History and other good books became his passion. At Christmas and birthdays, if we wanted to make him happy, we could always count of a book for his gift. Scriptures were his first love and poetry probably his second. Both were used skillfully in his ministry.

As a very young child, I well remember awakening many times at night to find the kerosene lamp lighting the dining table covered with books and my father bending over his tablet with a pen frequently dipped into his inkwell as he marked his scriptures or made notes of the great ideas that came to him from them. Time after time Papa would rush into the house as though on some urgent errand only to enthusiastically share some new insight he had just received for his next sermon or in answer to a problem for which someone had asked for his help. Each insight had to be first shared with Mamma, always with the hopeful query, “Do you get the point?” Once confirmed, the “points” with their supporting scriptures would then be written down for future use in inspiring sermons or saving ministries graced by the Spirit of God in their presentation. Troubled families came from miles around to get his help. Many a marriage was saved by his inspired counsel.

As a child, I was constantly exposed to the Book of Mormon along with other scriptures through his generous sharing at home and in the church. He was one of the first in our area to take the course in preaching offered by the Stake officers and was known for his succinct, scripture filled sermons that were always short and often finished with an appropriate inspirational poem. For a long period of time he taught a Book of Mormon class for all ages on Sunday nights before the regular church services. Farm chores had to be done early or left until very late on Sunday evenings so we could drive the three miles to church in a lumber wagon for him to teach. Other farm families did the same just to be a part of the class.

At the time of his death, he was the teacher for a church school class. When his assistant teacher declared that she could not take the class that first Sunday after he died because she was too upset by his death, I volunteered. I could not think of anything Papa would rather have as a memorial than a good church school class!

Even in that class, the familiarity I had with the Book of Mormon because of Papa’s teaching stood me in good stead. There was in the class a man, older than Papa, who was a pest! Constantly he interrupted the discussion with some inane observation or errant thought. I began to wonder why such a man still lived and Papa was taken. Then the story of the slaughter of the Anti Nephi Lehi people by their own brethren came to mind. The record says, “We know that there was not a wicked man slain among them; but there were more than a thousand brought to the knowledge of the truth; thus we see that the Lord worketh in many ways to the salvation of his people.” That was it! Papa was ready. The disruptive class member needed more time!

Chapter 4

Grasshoppers

“ Grasshoppers! Grasshoppers !” The urgent cry went up from the barnyard where my family was just finishing the morning chores. Even as a very young child I had been taught how to prepare some of the foods we usually ate for breakfast, and on this day, as usual, I had remained in the house to prepare breakfast instead of joining in the outdoor work.

The presence of the voracious creatures was not surprising. For weeks during that memorable summer, we had been protecting our equipment from them as much as possible . If we were hoeing in the corn fields, cutting out weeks the cultivators could not reach, or pitching hay from windrows onto the wagons or from the bull rakes onto the stacks, we were continuously cautioned to bring our hoes and pitchforks in from the fields even for the brief rests we took. We were accustomed to sheltering the handles of our tools from the burning sun when we rested, but this summer it was different. Any exposed handle wet with sweat was an irresistible temptation to a grasshopper, and the person who inadvertently left his instrument so exposed was almost certain to return to a hoe or pitchfork so pitted and pocked by the insatiable insects that it was impossible to use the tool without cutting and scratching and finally blistering the hands that tried to wield it. But the urgency of the cry from the barnyard signaled something different from the situation with which we had been coping all summer. This was an invasion of unprecedented enormity.

I ran to the window and saw my father racing toward the crest of the hill just north of the smoke house where our land touched the farm of our nearest neighbor. Curious and concerned at his evident haste, I quickly abandoned my current task and sped across the hill following him .He topped the rise just ahead of me, and we both stopped running, transfixed by the scene of complete devastation that met us. A horde of grasshoppers had attacked the neighbors cornfield and was systematically stripping every leaf from every stalk as the creatures marched inexorably toward our land. Only bare stalks were left standing where moments before there had been a promising field of corn.

As the grasshoppers made their way down the hill toward the barbed wire fence that was the only barrier between our land and them, I heard my father praying. Simply and earnestly he told the Lord of his need for that crop. He had a large family to feed , and he always tried to help others in need. He had always paid his tithing and wanted to continue to do so, but, he explained, if there was no crop, there would be nothing with which to pay tithes. In expectant faith he asked the Lord to prevent the hoppers from stripping our fields.

We waited breathlessly as the pests ate their way right up to the fence. We watched in grateful fascination as they lifted in a cloud that momentarily masked the sun, then flew over our farm, away to the west, leaving our fields and all the rest of our neighbor’s fields untouched. Right then and there we offered prayers of thanksgiving and Papa even helped compensate the Hudson’s for their loss by purchasing the remaining stalks for feed for his pigs.

Chapter 5

Papa and the Bull

It was a beautiful summer day down on the farm in Northwest Missouri. Papa sent me to the south forty to herd the cows. A violent flash flood had washed out the fence that separated the pasture from the cornfield, and the cows had a taste for tender young corn growing across the now docile creek. It was my assignment to see to it that no cow left the pasture to satisfy either her curiosity or penchant for tastier food. No one of us even gave a thought to the fact that not all of the herd was female.

Since the task was expected to be an easy one, I took a bucket of gooseberries with me. My intent was to find a nice shaddy position close to the breach in the cornfield fence, spread my newspaper carpet around me and the bucket of wild berries and remove both the stem and blossom ends adhering to the tiny fruit to while away the time. My presence near the breach was to be adequate deterrent for any ideas the cows might entertain about eating the corn.

All went well for an hour or so. The berries were slowly filling the container set beside me and the cows munched contentedly on the lush pasture grass. Suddenly a fierce bellow split the summer air. The bull, who had apparently just become aware of my presence, came charging out of the herd, head down and nostrils flaring, headed directly for me and my gooseberries.

Instantly I looked around for some place of safety. There was none except up in a tree, and I had never been successful at climbing trees. Not once had I found one that I could conquer unless the branches began very close to the ground! One glance at the shade that I had chosen showed there were no such climbing aids, however, it did offer some possibility. I had been sitting under two trees growing close beside each other so as to form a kind of crotch between them that I quickly mounted with alacrity, almost walking up between them, and soon found myself ensconced in branches just above the reach of the charging bull!

The trees that sheltered me were, however, quite young and fragile under the ferocious onslaught of the enraged creature that now assaulted them repeatedly. For long moments he would paw the ground and bellow then charge the trees, using his head for a battering ram propelled by his almost ton of weight. Under each onslaught the trees trembled and I was forced to hold onto their slender branches in sheer terror to remain above the massive head that was tossed high into the air after each encounter. With each blow, I because more and more frightened that the trees would not be able to survive.

Needless to say, I was praying from the time I first heard the bull bellow. Now my prayers intensified as I called on the Lord for deliverance from the intractable creature. Suddenly, right out of the blue sky, it began to rain. The bull had just raised his face to reach as high as he could into the trees toward me when the deluge began. With full force the water hit the upturned face. The bull shook his head as though in amazement, turned and galloped away to join the herd. The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

As soon as the animal had abandoned his quest, I surveyed the area looking for a safer place just in case he should notice that there was no more descending water and return. The pasture stretched for several hundred yards around a hill that bordered our neighbor’s forest. If I could just get to the other side of the hill without being seen by the bull, I should be able to cross the fence to the wooded area and be safe. From there I could reach home safely by a roundabout way that I was certain I could follow.

Hurriedly I slid down between the trees and ran as fast as I could for the forest on the other side of the hill. By running fast, I quickly put the hill between me and the cows, climbed over the fence and kept running through the forest. After what seemed a long time, I saw an opening in the trees and was certain that I had reached our neighbor’s farmyard. Imagine my amazement when I cleared the forest only to find myself face to face with the herd of cows from which I was fleeing. I had run in a circle through the dense woods and was now on the herd’s side of the hill on which I had counted for protection.

I turned and started running again, this time not so sure that I was fleeing to safety. I was tired and frustrated and scared, probably more so than there was reason to be, for the bull showed no interest at all in my unexpected presence so near to him and his harem. Just then I heard my father’s voice calling my name. I stopped and looked toward the sound. There was the most welcome sight I had ever experienced. Papa was riding on a horse and calling to me. He had heard the bellowing of the bull and knew I must be in trouble , so saddling his horse he had come from the far end of the farm to rescue me and my gooseberries.

Chapter 6

A Teacher For His Children

The current teacher at Whiteford School was a strapping six foot some inches tall and handsome as a movie star. His coaching skills were phenomenal as could be attested by all the other rural schools whose districts bordered Whiteford. They had all been beaten by the Whiteford softball team at one time or another. Recesses and noon hours were lots of fun for most of the students. The children idolized him! The only trouble was that many of the students were not learning much from books ! Those for whom learning was easy or who already had a good start in the basics could get along pretty well, but for those for whom reading , writing and arithmetic were difficult, there were problems.

The Nelson family had three children in the school, one of whom was a much better ball player than he was a student. Our parents were concerned ! School board elections were just coming up and Papa and Mamma were praying about the welfare of their children and others in the neighborhoood. They finally decided that the only way to change the situation was for Papa to get elected to the school board and see to it that a more scholastically inclined teacher was obtained.

In those days one did not declare his or her candidacy and campaign for a seat on the board. The entire district just met on the designated day, candidates were nominated and the elections took place on the spot.

It was just three quarters of a mile through the fields to the school house where the elections was to be held, so Papa walked just as the children almost always did. On the way he was praying, asking the Lord to help him get elected and promising that if he was successful, he would do all in his power to hire Neva Ross, a well qualified teacher who was still without a situation.

Suddenly Papa heard music, beautiful music sung by a magnificent choir. In those days there were no televisions, no radios , no boom boxes, no tape recorders, not even any wire recorders from which the music could have come out there in the middle of the fields. Gramaphones were pretty much confined to parlors of the wealthy, and there were none such within miles of my father. The music had to be heavenly music and the choir made up of angels. Papa stopped to listen, awed by the beautiful sound.

Then a strange thing happened. Two voices stood out from the others and Papa recognized them as the voices of Neva’s father and mother. Aunt Letty, as we children called the beautiful lady who had given us all music lessons until her untimely death, and Uncle Will, whose years as our pastor were likewise cut short in death, were singing with the heavenly choir!

No words were spoken concerning the school board election, but when the music faded away, Papa went on to the school confident that he would receive the post and that Neva would be the one to teach the children during the next school year. And it was so. Neva taught at the school until she was called away to teach other teachers at the Northwest Missouri State Teacher’s college. Her tenure at Whiteford lasted five wonderful , productive years !

Chapter 7

Maple Grove Tongues

Wednesday morning of the Farwest Stake Reunions back in the nineteen thirties was a special time for the youth. Early in the morning we would hike to the Maple Grove church several miles north of the camp. There we would participate in an early morning prayer service and breakfast and hike back to camp in time to join with the adults in prayer and testimony later on that morning. The Wednesday morning of which I now speak was even more special than any other we had ever known.

Many of our leaders were in the shaded back yard of the church preparing breakfast. We were inside the white frame church seriously engaged in prayer and testimony. Suddenly, according to Neva Ross who was our Guilford youth leader, some of the workers stopped their work and asked sharply, “Did you feel that?”

Whatever “that” was, many had felt it and were anxious to know what it was all about. Immediately all of them abandoned the breakfast preparations and ran to the open windows of the church to see what was transpiring inside.

Inside I was seated just behind Wayne Simmons when Patriarch Ray Whiting arose and moved to the front of the rostrum. Suddenly Wayne turned to look at me. I was not long out of high school and quite shy in the presence of a young man whom I respected so highly as Wayne. I would have been uncomfortable had I seen his inquiring glance. But I did not see it. I was totally absorbed in the ministry Brother Whiting was about to give. It was only later that I learned of Wayne’s query.

When Wayne saw that I was not paying any attention to him, he directed his attention toward those in charge of the meeting. Soon, however, he told me later, he turned to look at me again. He said he felt a tapping on his shoulder and thought I was trying to get his attention. When the tapping came the third time, and I was obviously oblivious to anything that was happening to him, Wayne became aware that it was a messenger from the Lord who needed his attention.

As Wayne looked toward Brother Whiting, he saw not only Brother Whiting but a heavenly messenger standing by his side. The heavenly messenger was identified to Wayne as a Nephite. When Brother Whiting finally composed himself and started speaking in a tongue with which none of us was familiar, that language was also identified to this dedicated young man. It was the Nephite tongue. It was the beginning of Wayne’s realization that he had a special calling to minister to Book of Mormon peoples.

Others who were there later testified that they saw angels hovering over the youth in the congregation. My sister saw the Christ with outstretched arms inviting the youth to come to him . My entire attention was given to Ray Whiting as he spoke and as he interpreted the language in which he first spoke.

So far as I know , no one recorded the message that was given that morning. I only remember the assurance of love that I felt and the urgency of the counsel that some who were there had only a short time in which to do all that they would be permitted to do for the Lord on this earth.

There were rumblings of war in Europe, but few, if any of us there had the slightest notion that war would come to the United States or that we would be involved. War did come, however. Many of us gathered at Maple Grove that Wednesday morning had to participate in it, and some of us did not survive it! The Lord had chosen to create a dramatic moment in our lives to draw us closer to Him.

Chapter 8

Scarred For Life

I was eighteen and teaching my first school at Fairview, a little rural school just north of Barnard, Missouri. The early winter snows had been followed by rain that turned them into fields of ice that now blanketed the rolling hills of northwest Missouri. My students skated gaily over the rough terrain. Those of us not so proficient on skates wore cleats made of the triangular cycle sections of mowers bent down at each of the three corners and riveted to harness straps fashioned into sandals and made to fit over our boots. Without the cleats, we could not stay on our feet. On that first morning after the ice storm, I stepped out of the door of my boarding house and suddenly found myself coasting all the way to the end of the lane without benefit of a sled, graded papers, books and my sack lunch flying in every direction as I fell. It was coasting party time, all right. Of that there could be no doubt, and tonight’s moonlight party for the community had just begun.

I was eighteen, and here I was staring into the school’s new first aid kit’s mirror at a face sliced open from above my left eye all the way down to my collar. Blood flowed profusely from the vent, splashing finally into the basin of cold water from which I had dipped the clean white cloth that I now held to the wound trying unsuccessfully to staunch the flow of crimson fluid.

Whether it was the cold water or the shrill cry of the young girl who had just entered the building and discovered me, I was suddenly aware of the unusual events of which I was a part. Perhaps it was shock. Or maybe I really did want to reassure my student. At any rate, I laughed a silly laugh then asked for my brother who had come to enjoy the party and then to take me home for the weekend.

Immediately Mary Lee disappeared from the door, and again I was alone bathing my bloody face with the now blood stained cloth. I tried to remember . What had happened? Why was I here? The school children had been coasting down the hill inside the neighbor’s fence at every recess of the day. When the neighborhood youth came for the moonlight party, they started to go directly down the road with their sleds. That route required driving through a crossroad intersection then maneuvering around a bend and across a narrow bridge. I thought that too great a risk to take at night and so suggested that we follow the course the children had used inside the pasture. Their run took them down the hill where they made a turn that took them parallel to a barbed wire fence that skirted the road. That would be safer, I reasoned, than following the hazardous road route!

I was the first one down the hill. Where the children had been successful in turning to ride parallel with the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the hill, I was heavier than they and it was dark. Only the moon lit the area with its eerie glow. I did not see the fence coming so quickly and I did not make the turn. Instead, I hit the hedge post with my head so hard that the staples holding the barbed wire in place bounced out of the post leaving the wire dangling. The force of the impact knocked me and the sled backwards, and I was riding it unconscious when it passed through the treacherous barbed wire that now dangled menacingly beside the damaged post. It was the post that damaged my head and the wire that tore through my face, neck and knee.

But I didn’t know all of that then. Vaguely I recalled feeling a warm liquid flowing down my cold face as some force impelled me to pick up my sled and head for the schoolhouse. Twice I had reached up to test the fluid and try to determine what it was. Each time I withdrew my hand more puzzled than before. Then I remembered nothing.

Now I was again conscious , standing in front of the first aid kit that I had just that day hung in the one room school house. I was bathing not only a gaping wound that ran from above my left eye all the way to my coat collar but also one that slashed jaggedly across my face under my nose. Whether it was the cold water from the basin below or the sudden outcry of the young girl who had just entered the room that brought me back to consciousness, I did not know . I only knew that I was terribly hurt and no one seemed to know. No one was helping me!

Strangely enough, my first reaction to the puzzling situation had been to laugh. It was a silly, embarrassed laugh. Here I was supposed to be hosting the community coasting party, and I was inside the school bathing away blood that still flowed copiously from two gaping wounds on my terribly marred face. What had happened? Why was I there ? How would I get the blood to stop?

“Kenneth! Kenneth!” I heard the call go out beyond the school house door.

Kenneth? Was my brother here? I had already forgotten that I had asked Mary Lee to get him. If Kenneth was here, I had nothing to fear. Kenneth was two years younger than I and very small for his age, but Kenneth would take care of everything! With that assurance , I continued to try to bathe away the blood while I waited for Kenneth to come and make everything right.

“Sis! What happened/” I heard his voice and smiled a crooked smile with the right side of my mouth where the muscles were still connected.

The next thing I remembered, we were in the office of the country doctor who cared for all the medical needs of the entire area. Vaguely I heard him talking about his decision not to try to sew my face together for fear that stitch marks would only intensify the scar that was inevitable. Butterfly bandages, he said, were new, but he would like to try them. The jagged cut under my nose worried him most. Like the slash down the cheek, that cut had penetrated the oral cavity and he could not tell for sure that it had not damaged the salivary glands so that there might be drainage to the outside unless he could get that wound secured perfectly. And there was the eye. Even though the sinus above the eye was crushed and the wound resumed just below the eye, the strong bone of the brow had protected the sight from injury; but the scar could easily contort the contour of the eye to make it horribly disfiguring.

Shock, too, was of concern to Dr. Humberd. Carefully he wrapped his own long fur coat around me and helped me into the back seat of our family Model A Ford. “Now take it easy! “ he instructed Kenneth, “And be sure to keep her warm!”

The roads were rough in those days. There were some five miles of rutted gravel and three miles of even more deeply rutted dirt roads between the doctor’s office and home. I felt every bump., even with Kenneth’s careful driving and my semi-conscious state.

With my head swathed in bandages made very thick to absorb the still oozing blood and wrapped in the doctor’s great fur coat, I knew I could be a very frightening sight to my parents. “Go in ahead of me.” I instructed Kenneth. “Tell them that there had been an accident but that I am all right.” Then while my brother ran ahead , I stumbled to the house trying hard to pretend there was nothing very wrong with me.

Monday I was determined to go back to school to teach, bandages and all, but the kindly school board members decided that the school needed a new furnace and this was the time to get it. They cancelled school for a week!

By the time school resumed, I was still held together by butterfly bandages, and the wrappings protecting them were still generous. While everything seemed to be mending well, there was still one serious problem with my appearance. As it healed, the cut that had barely missed my eye was now drawing my left eye into a grotesque appearance, like something one would design for a frightening make-believe monster. Kindly as the children were, they could not help staring wide eyed when they encountered me. The younger ones were not certain that they should not be frightened. I was concerned.

The possibility of having a scar all the way down my face had not troubled me greatly. I had known from the time I was very young that I was not beautiful . One day my aunt was fixing my sister’s beautiful curls for some long forgotten event. As she worked, she spoke of her beauty. Then she turned to me and remarked with a little laugh, “And you, you ugly little mutt!” My hair was straight as a string and very unattractive. The fact that I knew I was ugly, though , kept me fro being especially concerned even when I knew my scars would be as long as my face and very red. If I was not beautiful in the first place, their presence could be of little consequence. But for my eye to be disfigured to the point of grotesqueness was more than I could easily accept.

Wednesday night always found us at church. This Wednesday night, I went with a special purpose. I asked the elders to pray that my eye would heal in such a manner that my appearance would never detract from my testimony of the Lord, Jesus Christ. As is the custom in our faith, the elders anointed my head with oil , laid their hands on my head and prayed as I had requested. When next I looked in the mirror, the grotesque angle was gone from the lower lid. My eye had returned to its normal shape! The rest of the scars continued bright and red down and across my face, but rarely did anyone seem to notice.

One day when I had returned to college to complete my educational degree, I had dashed into the restroom for a moment. Since I was editing the college paper, serving on the student senate, doing my student teaching, living in the home management house and carrying a full load of academic subjects, I had little time to think of my appearance. This time a timid young woman approached me cautiously. “I- I envy you your scar!” She finally blurted out her message and then hastily retreated as though fearing she might have offended me.

“Why?” I was startled. Although I rarely gave any thought to the ugly red streak down my face, I hardly considered it desirable.

“ Everyone on campus knows that you are here,” the meek little voice explained. “No one knows I am around!”

Still too surprised to think of anything really intelligible to say, I murmured something I hoped would be reassuring, and rushed off to fulfill some urgent duty. I guess the girl was one of those people who just seem to fade into the woodwork. I don’t remember ever seeing her again.

Years have passed. The scar is still there. It is still ugly and clearly defined. I can trace it with my finger from above my left eye where the sunken place in my head still hurts occasionally, down my cheek, across under my nose and down my throat where the wire incision barely missed my jugular vein. There are scars on my knee, too, from the same accident, but they are rarely seen. But through the years when the subject of injury and scars comes into a conversation of which I am a part, someone will frequently ask in surprise, “Your scar! What scar? I never noticed before that you have a scar!”

Truly the blessing for which I asked did not stop with returning appropriate proportions to my eye. Throughout the hundreds, even thousands of lectures I have given inside and outside the church, even appearing frequently on television during the six years I worked for the University of Missouri Extension Service in the St. Louis area, my appearance seems not to have detracted from the testimony I have to bear. That testimony is not always telling of the Lord’s many rich blessings to me and mine. More often it has been sharing the truths God has shared with us both in science and religion. Thank God I didn’t need a pretty face to share that testimony.

And I’ll always be grateful for my aunt’s honest evaluation of my appearance . Had I thought I was beautiful, the presence of the expansive scar might have caused me great distress. Early in my young life, the Lord had prepared me for a life of joyful service whatever scars remained.

Chapter 9

Seek Learning By Study And Also By Faith

“You’ll never get anywhere in that field ! “ It was my good friend and benefactor, Harold Jobe speaking as we traveled from Northwest Missouri State Teacher’s College in Maryville around Harold’s newspaper route which helped pay for his college. With it, Harold made it possible for me and several others to attend college, too, by allowing us to ride with him for seventy five cents a week. When Harold learned that I had chosen to major in home economics, he assured me that was not a field with a future.

Much as I valued Harold’s advice, I continued to pray for direction in my career and found myself continuously guided into the field I had initially chosen. One happening after another that I could only attribute to divine providence propelled me from situation to situation until that career was indelibly established, linking my secular studies with my religious beliefs. The illness of a dear friend and secretary was the final event that determined the character of my career.

It was war time. I was working on Delmo Labor Homes , six communities of homes that had been built by the federal government to house the poor agricultural workers of southeast Missouri on the delta of the Mississippi that extended into Missouri. My secretary, Lauree, who had been accustomed to serving the East Prairie and Wyatt camp s from our East Prairie office, now found it necessary to move from place to place and serve seven of the camps plus the main office in Sikeston. After a rather prolonged absence from east Prairie, she returned to work for a week or so. I gave her work to do and departed to work at Wyatt for the day. When I returned, the work had not been done . Lauree said that the women had been in to visit with her and I accepted her explanation knowing that the residents loved and missed her.

The next day I gave her the same work to do and left again. Again I returned to find the work undone. Later I found the words, “I’M SCARED!!” written in large letters followed by the multiple exclamations points scattered through my files and the library where she had evidently hoped I would find them. Unfortunately, I did not until much later.

On the next day, I was with my friend all day. She seemed much like herself except that she was unusually flighty. Once she wanted out of the car to pick flowers. She flitted among the flowers joyously and I had difficulty getting her back into the car to resume our trip. When I took her home to Sikeston that night, she said she was afraid and wanted me to stay with her. I couldn’t stay because I had a food preservation demonstration scheduled on the East Prairie camp the next morning, so I assured her there was nothing to be afraid of and left her alone in her apartment.

While I was giving my demonstration the next morning, Paul Cornelison, our area supervisor in whose office she was to work that week, came to the door, called me out and into my office. Then he called me into my private office, placed his hands under my elbows as if to support me and said, “Brace yourself for a shock, Lauree has gone completely berserk!”

That morning our usually prompt secretary arrived at the area office an hour late with no apology. She had gone by the dime store and bought a lot of trinkets with which she tried to demonstrate to Paul how his work of managing the farms should be handled. Later we found that she had gone to the Greyhound Bus station to try to get a bus to work, which was just around the corner. The attendants there sent her away thinking that she was drunk. Paul , too, aware that something was terribly wrong, sent her home to her apartment. Very soon there was a call from a frantic landlady. Our secretary had gone into her room, locked the door, upset the wastebasket on the floor and set the contents on fire. Fortunately, seeing the fire sparked something in her brain and she did put it out, but she would not open her door. Paul came to me thinking that because of our friendship, I might persuade her to let us and a doctor reach her.

When we arrived at her apartment, she had already opened the door. She had taken a shower and was dressed immaculately as usual. She seemed perfectly normal except that she talked all of the time. For our usually timid, retiring young lady, this was not normal! We decided to take her to her home over toward Poplar Bluff. On the way she chattered about everything, even those things I did not want our boss to know. For one thing, several of us had grown adventurous and had applied for transfers to Alaska. Lauree had typed our applications. She told Paul all about it!

When we arrived at the Moran home, we simply told Lauree’s parents that we had brought their daughter home for a rest. She had invited the entire staff to her home to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday, and we would all be there in a few days. We said nothing about her strange behavior thinking that this was probably not the first time it had happened to her and her parents probably would know all about it and how to handle it. But that assumption proved fallacious.

The next day I received a call from the most irate parents you could ever imagine. Lauree had gone to the fields with her father and had gone completely berserk again. She laughed a silly laugh , tossed dirt over her shoulders and called for me. The family took her to the hospital and there the doctors said she was either drunk or drugged. Since she was calling for me, they put two and two together and decided I had had her out on a wild party and really got her fixed up!

When I arrived at the Poplar Bluff hospital, I found my secretary friend locked in the basement of the hospital so she would not disturb the other patients. The doctors were still declaring that she had to be either drunk or drugged. People just didn’t act like she was acting without one or other . All my protests that that could not be the case since she did not drink or take drugs went unheeded. For the better part of a week her parents and I stayed with her in that locked room. She became progressively worse. She continued to chatter, telling stories of entire books in detail, talking about all sorts of happenings in her life and that of her family, sometimes just mumbling unintelligibly. Never did she actually rest except for brief times when one of us would lie down with her and soothe her like a child. Finally she became violent, breaking dishes when we offered her food and otherwise being destructive as her small stature and weakened condition would allow.

Finally I demanded that she see a specialist who would know what was happening to her. Her Poplar Bluff doctors obtained an appointment for her with a specialist in St. Louis. Her parents and I started with her wrapped in a blanket between the two of them in the back seat. Soon she was tied in the blanket to keep her from wrecking the car. Her constant pleading to be in the front seat where she cold play with the gadgets caused me to finally stop the car and tell her that she could come up front if she would let her father hold one of her hands and put the other behind my back. She agreed, and we rode peacefully the rest of the way to St. Louis.

When the doctor opened his door to invite his patient into his examining room, she pulled off her shoes and flung them at him. He ducked the shoes and, shaking his finger at us said, “Take her away and get her some food! I’ve seen dozens like her !”

We retrieved the shoes and while her family took her back to the car, I stayed to write a sizeable check for his services and to inquire, “Where will we take her?” His response was, “To the mental hospital at Farmington. There is only one doctor in the state of Missouri who knows what to do for her, and he is there.”

My next question was, ‘Will she ever be well?”

The doctor looked at me a bit disdainfully and responded, “Of course she’ll be well, but the state you’ve got her in, it will take six months!”

I was shocked. I didn’t know what state I had her in, but I did know at that moment that if food had the power to do this to a healthy young girl’s mind, I had to know more about it. Before I left that doctor’s office, I was determined to return to school and learn what was the connection.

We took my secretary to the hospital, and when those metal doors clanged behind her, it had all too final a ring to it. After a couple of weeks we visited her ,then the doctor said for us to make no more effort to see her until he notified us to come for her. That happened in just about four months instead of the six the specialist had predicted. We got back a beautiful, healthy young girl. She weighed more than she had weighed when we took her in, but now she was her old self.

When Lauree returned to work, circumstances had changed for Delmo and the poor of southeast Missouri. Her services were no longer needed in that area and she declined the government’s offer of a transfer to Chicago. Instead she became the receptionist for the hospital near the one in which she had been locked in the basement room. There she worked until the next fall when Graceland College opened. She graduated from Graceland with honors and again went to work for the government.

During this time, she met a young man whom she wanted to marry. Knowing the seriousness of her illness, the young couple wrote to the hospital to ask whether they should ever have children. The hospital answered back that her illness was purely nutritional and as long as she was well fed it would never happen again. That has been fifty years ago. Lauree’s children have also graduated from college and had children of their own. Lauree has had other health problems from time to time as most of us have, but there had never been a recurrence of this mental aberration.

Back at Iowa State in a Master’s degree program in Foods and Nutrition I soon learned that Lauree’s illness was atypical pellagra. Pellagra is sometimes called the disease of the four D’s: dermatitis, diarrhea, dementia and death. Most pellagrins first evidence their deficiency state by a rash on their hands and feet. Gloved hands and feet they are called. When that symptom was noted, many doctors knew to enrich the patient’s diet with foods such as meats, milk and nutritional yeasts. For some reason, Lauree skipped the first two stages of the disease. Because she went immediately to the dementia, her disease was not recognized until it was beyond the help of simple foods. She needed large amounts of niacin, but the knowledge that niacin was the missing nutrient and could be given in prophylactic quantity was very new. That was the reason that only one doctor in Missouri knew what to do for her. Pellagra had been known for

centuries. The disease followed corn eating people, and corn was a staple of Southland USA. In fact, it was a limited diet comprised principally of soup and cornbread, resorted to in an effort to make her meager expense account cover her needs as she moved from camp to camp outside her normal residential area, that had been responsible for Lauree’s illness.

It was estimated that about 15,000 people died of pellagra yearly and that as many as half the people in mental hospitals of the South in the early 1940’s were there because of pellagra. Thousands of dollars were spent on research to learn what poison if any there was in corn that caused the devastating disease. No toxin was found, but early in that decade the vitamin, niacin, was discovered and proved to be the missing nutrient. It was then that the federal government authorized the enriching of cornmeal and white wheat flours with niacin along with thiamin, riboflavin and iron, all of which were missing from corn and were being decimated by the practice of refining wheat. Pellagra, along with some other deficiency diseases, was virtually eliminated from the general population. Only one other time have I seen it in all the intervening years.

I resigned my position at Delmo to enter graduate school the fall after Lauree was hospitalized. During my first spring semester at Ames I attended a far West Stake Conference at St. Joseph. The business session was to be held on Sunday morning with Arthur Oakman to be the speaker for the conference. First Church was packed. The first instruction given was to tell us how to leave the building in case of fire. Although some questioned the advisability of having a business session Sunday morning because those sessions were not always pleasant, this one was Spirit filled. It did, however, last much past time for the morning worship service. We were asked whether we wanted to hear Brother Oakman preach or break for lunch. We chose to hear the sermon. When it was finished, we were told that there was only enough food available to feed the children. We were asked whether we wanted time to go out and find food or whether we would rather fast and be on hand for the prayer service scheduled for two that afternoon. We chose to fast.

At that Spirit graced afternoon prayer service, Brother Oakman spoke for the Lord. Among other things, he said, “The time will come when though I would like to protect my people, I cannot except they be obedient to the Word of Wisdom.” or words to that effect. He said more that I cannot remember, but those words burned into my consciousness as I realized they were pertinent to the things I was studying at Iowa State.

My father carried his Doctrine and Covenants in the glove compartment of his car. On the way home, I took the book and with great excitement, turned to Section 86 and read, “All grain is good for food, nevertheless wheat for man, corn for the ox…” “See , Papa,” I explained and my voice shook a little with excitement, “The Lord knew it all of the time. Here we have been trying to find a poison in corn, and there was none. It was something missing that is in wheat. There are no wheat eating peoples who have endemic pellagra as do corn eating people. Now we know it from experiments but the Lord knew it all of the time and tried to tell us how to live healthfully!” Then my father, the farmer-minister, and I had a long talk about the difference in the digestive system of the ox. Cows have an extra stomach, the rumen, that we have learned is a veritable factory of vitamins and proteins that are needed for growth and health. When the cow finally passes the food into her second stomach for assimilation, the needed nutrients are there. We do not have the ability to enrich our food in the way a bovine does. The nutrients have to be there when we eat it. That day the Word of Wisdom became inseparably connected with my expanding knowledge of nutrition.

Because of that connection my offer to teach the people of the church has resulted in my giving many classes o the subject in a large variety of settings in and outside the church. My professional teaching and writing was profoundly affected by the knowledge that I could trust the word of the Lord to guide me through the labyrinth of conflicting information of an infant science. Because of it , I did not have to make the mistakes that others of my profession were making in interpreting the available data. For the church , I wrote The Word of Wisdom: Principle With Promise published by Herald House in 1977 and its companion volume, Word of Wisdom Helps :Food, published n 1979 . And because of it, I was sometimes able to assist my Seventy husband in his ministry. One time in particular I was thankful for my knowledge of pellagra.

It was the only time after I left Southeast Missouri that I ever saw pellagra again. The institution of enrichments for breads and cereal products essentially eliminated the disease from the general public. While we were in Canada, however, we had a good church friend who was a double amputee. One summer we kept hearing that Ernie was very ill. Extreme depression seemed to have hit this usually affable Deacon. He had lost his legs to a debilitating disease characterized by blood clots in his legs. To prevent one of them breaking loose and lodging in his heart or his brain, he was amputated, but that was not the cause of his depression. He had long ago adjusted to that life and was very active at home and at church. Something else was bothering him. Although we were too far away to visit, we often prayed for our good brother’s blessing.

By the time we returned to Saskatoon from our summer activities in camps and other church responsibilities, Ernie had reached the depth of his depression. When we called to see whether we could visit, his wife told us that he had refused even to see a relative who had driven some three hundred miles one way to see him, but he had never refused to see any of the church people. She would ask. Ernie said we could come.

Mary ushered us into Ernie’s bedroom. Delbert began immediately to visit with the sick man trying to cheer him as was his custom. I stood aghast at what I saw. There, lying on top of the covers were two gloved hands of a pellagrin ! I had never seen the disease more pronounced on any of its victims that I had encountered in the South. These were textbook manifestations of the disease.

As soon as I could graciously do it, I sought out Mary and asked, “Mary , has the doctor said anything about Ernie’s hands?”

“Oh, yes.” Mary responded. “He gave me some lotion for his hands and some vitamin A for him to take. “ Then she hastily explained, “It didn’t do any good!”

“No! I’m sure it didn’t !” I answered her firmly. “Would you mind if I got him some niacin?”

Mary was puzzled but desperate for some solution to Ernie’s plight. “If he needs niacin,” she said a bit hesitantly, “I’ll just have the pharmacist down at the hospital fix some up for him.” The hospital was just a block away and the state of Ernie’s health was well known to all the staff.

Mary went straight to the telephone and called the hospital pharmacy. The pharmacist assured her that Ernie had no need for niacin, so she asked him to talk to me. I introduced myself to the man. “Sir,” I said respectfully but firmly, “I am a nutritionist and I have seen pellagra. This man has pellagra!”

“Oh,” was the startled reply. “If that’s true, then he needs niacin!”

“Yes, sir!” I agreed.

“I’ll get it ready immediately.” I could almost see him rush away from the telephone feeling the urgency of the situation.

Delbert and I stayed with Ernie while Mary went to the hospital and obtained the niacin. Two weeks later we dropped by the house to deliver something, the nature of which I have forgotten. Ernie was sitting in the living room surrounded by a number of guests. His depression was gone. His hands were smooth and pink like a baby’s skin.

Two weeks later when we were in town for a longer period of time, we called to see whether we could visit. This time Mary said they had an appointment for Ernie’s checkup at the hospital that afternoon. Could we come the next day ? Of course we could.

When we arrived at the house at the appointed time, Ernie had just finished scrubbing the floors. His checkup had given him a clean bill of health and he was eagerly awaiting our visit. The field of study that looked as though it had no future had once more brought good to God’s people. The Lord’s wise counsel to “ Seek learning by study and also by faith” had once again been justified.

Chapter 10

Like Precious Faith

“You can’t go to Cornell ! Why, I would n