With the exception of Mary and
James, my people openly regarded me, during my
theological course, as a dweller in outer darkness,
and even my mother's love was clouded by what
she felt to be my deliberate and persistent flouting
of her wishes.
Toward the end of my university experience, how-
ever, an incident occurred which apparently changed
my mother's viewpoint. She was now living with
my sister Mary, in Big Rapids, Michigan, and, on
the occasion of one of my rare and brief visits to
them I was invited to preach in the local church.
Here, for the first time, my mother heard me.
Dutifully escorted by one of my brothers, she at-
tended church that morning in a state of shivering
nervousness. I do not know what she expected me
to do or say, but toward the end of the sermon it
became clear that I had not justified her fears.
The look of intense apprehension left her eyes, her
features relaxed into placidity, and later in the day
she paid me the highest compliment I had yet re-
ceived from a member of my family.
``I liked the sermon very much,'' she peacefully
told my brother. ``Anna didn't say anything about
hell, or about anything else!''
When we laughed at this handsome tribute, she
hastened to qualify it.
``What I mean,'' she explained, ``is that Anna
didn't say anything objectionable in the pulpit!''
And with this recognition I was content.
Between the death of my friend and my departure
for Europe I buried myself in the work of the uni-
versity and of my little church; and as if in answer
to the call of my need, Mary E.
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