The very next weekend, I visited Amber and told her I was hearing from God and carrying a burden to join up with Billy Graham. I told her how there could even be a connection between my playing bluegrass music and working for Billy Graham: both had the initials B.G. It had to be a sign.
She had never heard of Billy Graham so I had to explain it to her, telling her all about the crusades and the Evangelistic Association in Minneapolis and all the things I thought I could do there.
After she heard it all, she smiled and told me about a vision she’d received from the Lord, a railroad boxcar with a big letter “I” on it. At the time she had no idea what it meant, but now we could interpret that vision in a better light: Perhaps this suggested my mode of travel to Minneapolis. We decided to write down anything the Lord might give us. Things were cooking and we had to keep a record of it. Someday it would make a great book.
Monday morning, seven o’clock, the big horn sounded. Armed with a broom and rattling gun, I headed for the hull. Bill sent me down into the double hull compartments again, this time to sweep, and to mark any cavities in the metal with white crayon so the welders could come through later and fill them in. Another helper had been there before me and had decided to favor future generations with some lurid artwork. I rubbed it out, and as I stood there, crayon in hand, God began to speak some new ideas to me.
This was a time of preparation. I wrote a P on the wall to represent that.
But soon there would come the call. I wrote a C on the wall.
I would go first, leading the way, blazing the trail. I wrote an L.
And then, having begun a wonderful ministry with Billy Graham, I would return—I wrote an R—and bring Amber with me. I wrote an A.
So there it was on the dark, rusty wall of a crab boat under construction: PCLRA. Where once a dirty picture had been, I had written an encoded prophecy in the same awesome vein as Daniel’s Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin. The handwriting on the wall. It was God’s plan for my life.
I called Amber that night and told her all about it. She was thrilled because she’d received another vision from God that day, this time of a huge banjo bridging Seattle and Minneapolis. The meaning was obvious and we were giddy with joy.
Now it was only a question of timing. Right now I was being prepared, but when would the call come? Perhaps we should set out a fleece as Gideon did in the Book of Judges, a way for God to indicate his will in a tangible way.
Well, the drumhead on my banjo needed replacing, but the size was nonstandard and the guy at the music store said he’d have to special order one. There it was, our fleece. Amber’s vision of the huge banjo verified that. “Lord,” I prayed, “when you want me to go to Minneapolis, have that drumhead come in.”
I waited, and prayed, and worked at the shipyard another week.
And then the music store called. The banjo head I’d ordered had arrived.
The sign from God!
The next day, I went to Bill the supervisor and said, “I have to quit. God has called me to go to Minneapolis and work for Billy Graham.”
He didn’t seem very impressed. He just got me my paycheck and went back to work. I figured he’d never heard of Billy Graham either. I got out of that big, drafty building and walked into the sunshine. Even the weather was saying Yes! This is God’s will for you!
The time had come to break the wondrous news to my folks.
They were godly, Spirit-filled people. I knew they would be thrilled.
As we sat at dinner that night, I made the announcement. “God has called me to work for Billy Graham. I’m going to Minneapolis.”
They just sat there, looking back at me, chewing, not saying a thing.
Finally Mom asked, “What about your job?”
“I quit.”
Dad asked, “Do they know you’re coming? Have you written to them or called them?”
“No. I’m trusting God. It’s all in his hands.”
I told them how my last paycheck from the shipyard should be enough for a train ticket over there.
“Where will you stay?” Dad asked.
“Oh, God has that all figured out. I’m just supposed to obey and go.”
I told them about the visions, and Mom got tears in her eyes.
Apparently she was deeply moved by the miraculous touch of God upon my life.
“I’m ready to step out in faith,” I said. “I’m ready to believe God and go to Minneapolis.”
“Okay,” Dad said. “Just be sure to buy a round-trip ticket.”
I left Seattle on a Sunday afternoon. Before the train was to leave, I took the bus up to the north end of Seattle to say good-bye to Amber. It was a tearful good-bye, but a moment filled with holy expectation. We knelt together on the floor of her grandmother’s living room, our hands clasped in prayer, and praised the Lord for this moment, this launching of a great mission. I paraphrased the Lord’s words as I told her, “I go to prepare a place for you, and I will come again to receive you, that where I am, there you may be also.”
“I’ll wait for you,” she replied, but her voice trembled a little.
Was it hesitation? Doubt? No, it couldn’t be. Just emotion, that was all. Anticipation of the great things God was about to do.
Then we kissed in the name of Jesus. Her kiss was less fervent than usual, but I pushed the nagging thought out of my mind. This was God’s will. I would go and find my place, I would send for her, and we would live together forever in service to the Lord.
With pack on my back, shipyard clothes on my body, and banjo and briefcase in my hands, I caught the bus heading south to the King Street Station. By four o’clock I was on a train bound for Minneapolis.
By now it was October. When the train arrived in Minneapolis on Monday, the leaves of Minnesota were in their fall brilliance and the wind was cold. As the train pulled into the station I looked across the railroad yard and there it was, just as I had expected: a big railroad boxcar with the letter “I” on it. God had spoken! He was with me! I was moving in the realm of the miraculous!
The city was big, busy, and totally alien to me. I had the address of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association written on a piece of paper, so with directions from a porter at the train station, I set out walking, the very picture of a homeless vagabond.
I never got lost, not with the Lord guiding my every step, my every turn. Sometimes a cloud overhead would take on a shape to point the way. Once, a construction crane pointed left like a huge finger and I followed. I walked for hours and saw a lot of the city.
Then I came upon Hennepin Avenue and knew I was closing in on Canaan. God was faithful. Following the street numbers in descending order, I walked and walked, block by block, until I came to the front door of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association.
This was the moment, and suddenly I felt nervous. How was my faith? Did I still believe? I felt a little doubt, but refused to acknowledge it. A doubt just like this one may have kept Andy Smith from being healed, I reminded myself. There was no room for doubt in the service of the Lord, only belief.
Drawing upon the Lord for courage, I opened the door, and went inside.
The receptionist, a nice lady in a white silk blouse and navy skirt, looked up from her desk. I smiled at her the way Jesus must have smiled to those who were hurting. Perhaps the Lord was going to give me a word to share with her, a touch of healing, a message of hope.
“Would you like to talk to one of our counselors?” she asked.
Well, she must have been doing all right and didn’t need a special touch from God today. I said, “Sure,” and she placed a call.
A nice man dressed in a suit and tie came into the lobby, shook my hand, and directed me into a conference room. He had black, curly hair and a moustache and I’d never seen him on television. When he introduced himself, I didn’t recognize his name. When I introduced myself, he didn’t seem to recognize my name either, and he didn’t seem to be expecting me. Somehow we got on the subject of happines
s, and from there he began to ask me what my idea of happiness was. By the time he asked me how I thought I could obtain happiness, I figured he was getting ready to share the gospel with me.
“Oh, I’m already saved,” I told him, and then figured it was time to enlighten him and get this meeting on the right track.
I recounted the previous months of seeking and hearing from God—the signs and visions, the prophecies, the fleece. I knew he would be impressed.
Well . . . he didn’t break down crying or anything. But he did invite me to pray with him as he asked the Lord to bless and guide me. Then he led me to the receptionist’s desk and told her I would need an application.
The receptionist disappeared behind a set of double doors and came back with an application form several pages long. I took it and sat on the couch again.
And then I stared at it. An application? I had not seen this in any of my visions, nor heard about it in any of my prophecies. I began to try to fill it out, and it started badgering me about my education and experience. There were no blanks to fill in anywhere regarding my prophetic gifts, my preaching and teaching ability, or even my banjo playing.
At last I finished, saying all I could say about myself, which wasn’t very much, then went back to the receptionist and handed the application to her. She thanked me for my interest, told me there were no openings at the present time, and pressed a buzzer to let me out.
That was it? My big calling from God? It was over?
Faith, I reminded myself. You’ve got to have faith. There had to be another door of opportunity somewhere. God wouldn’t send me clear across the country just to fill out an application and be turned away.
I recalled seeing the offices of World Wide Pictures on the other side of the building, around the block. That had to be it. I wasn’t supposed to work in Billy Graham’s office anyway. I was an actor, an artist, a musician. I could serve God in the movies. I started walking.
The World Wide Pictures office turned out to be smaller than Billy Graham’s office, and I quickly realized that they didn’t make the movies there. But I pressed on, introduced myself to another lady receptionist, and got myself another meeting with another well-qualified and experienced man in a suit and tie. I repeated my story —the months of seeking and hearing from God, the visions and prophecies Amber and I had received, the vision of the banjo stretching across the country, the prophecy I scribbled on the wall just like God did in the Book of Daniel. All of it.
He told me he was happy about all the wonderful things God had done in my life, but he just didn’t have any positions available.
I was in and out of there in less than fifteen minutes.
I spent the night at the Y, and when morning came, I was still a man of faith, trusting God to complete his purpose, but not having the slightest clue why I should remain in Minneapolis. I walked back across town to the train station and used the other half of my round-trip ticket. As the train rolled westward, the long, seemingly pointless journey began to make sense. God was testing me just as he tested Abraham, to see if I would obey. Of course. Sometimes God asks us to do things that don’t make a lot of sense just to see how devoted and obedient we are. Well, I was sure I passed the test, and that meant God could trust me with the next step. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Amber.
In Seattle, I went straight from the train station and caught a bus to the north end of the city, where Amber lived with her grandmother. I didn’t know if she would be home or in classes at the university, but I got right out there anyway, knowing it was all in God’s hands.
Amber was home. My heart soared. I hugged her and kissed her and praised the Lord.
Her embrace was not so enthusiastic, and she quickly let it fall away as she asked, “Well? Tell me what happened.”
I told her about my two brief visits in the offices on Hennepin Avenue and how they turned out. Then I added how God had set this whole thing up as a test of my faith. “I passed the test,” I said, “and that can only mean that wonderful things are in store.”
She nodded as if she knew all along what God would do. Then she scribbled a little note and handed it to me.
She was resigning.
Although I’d been through some very abrupt changes in the plan over the past few days, I still wasn’t used to it. I had to ask her what she meant, and she had to tell me in several different ways. She didn’t want to be my helpmate anymore. She no longer saw things my way. It would be foolish for us to get married. She wanted to pursue her education. There was no way our relationship would work out. We were through.
Standing in her grandmother’s living room with that note in my hand was like standing in that lobby in Minneapolis. No position available. No reason to stay. Dead end. I did the same thing here as there. I responded in faith, seeing the miraculous hand of God even in this. I smiled, put the note in my shirt pocket, and spoke prophetically, “You’ll come back, and I’ll wait for you.”
I HAD IT ALL PLANNED. I would give Amber some time to listen to the Lord and sort it all out, then go to see her on Christmas Eve, the ideal day for a heartwarming, tear-jerky reunion. I bought her a beautiful Bible. I found just the right spot in a nearby park where we could walk, talk, and embrace. I could see in my mind how she would run into my arms and kiss me, big fluffy snowflakes falling all around us.
On Christmas Eve, I fasted and prayed all day. Nothing had worked out from high school graduation up to this point, but now the time of testing was over, now would be the big turnaround.
Now all my faith would be rewarded and the world would know that there was a God!
When I knocked on the door, her gift in my hand, she wasn’t even there. Her grandmother told me she was over at her boyfriend’s house and would be spending Christmas with him and his family. I left the Bible with the grandmother and walked back to the bus stop, taking a short side trip through the park where the tear-jerky reunion scene would never happen.
We didn’t even get fluffy snow that day. It was raining.
In mid-January, I had my very last conversation with her by telephone. She thanked me for the Bible and said she planned to use it in her Bible as Literature class at the university. Apart from that, she had no other use for it. Christianity was fine for me, but not right for her. She and her boyfriend were now attending a Unitarian church and she felt far more comfortable with that.
How can I say it? Finally, my foot came off the throttle. The wind went out of my sails. My boiler blew a rivet.
It was a moment, that’s all, a precise point in time when, at long last, a different kind of belief broke through to me. For the first time, I actually believed her.
She really was history. The love we had, transcendent and unassailable, a divine gift, a special miracle forged in the foundries of heaven, ended back in October, as quickly as her resignation. I had refused to accept it, but right now, with my hand still on the telephone, I finally let the truth in: our love was gone. It was over.
And then the dominoes began to fall.
That’s the caveat that comes with being “led by the Spirit”: if you dare to question one thing, you have to question everything.
With Amber gone, what did that say about all those visions, signs, and prophecies that God supposedly gave us? What did the Minneapolis debacle tell me about my encoded prophecy scribbled on the wall of the crab boat? Could I finally admit that boxcars with a big letter “I” on them belonged to Intermountain Railways and were commonplace in most every major train yard in every major city in the country? Could I admit that a banjo head on special order was bound to arrive sooner or later, God or no God, fleece or no fleece? Could I face the fact that Billy Graham and bluegrass having the same initials carried about as much meaning as that license plate with Amber’s birthday on it?
When I laid hands on Andy and Karla and prayed for their healing, God didn’t heal them. It wasn’t a matter of the healing taking time or them waiting until they had the right degree of faith, or any othe
r explanation we came up with. God didn’t heal them. I thought I had the gift of healing and didn’t. I prayed for them to be healed and they weren’t. And as for all the shaking I did, well that’s exactly what it was: shaking I did.
As to the Kenyon–Bannister prayer meetings, the original fire had gone out for want of logs on the hearth. The Kenyons and Bannisters were still having their meetings and I suppose Mr.
Kenyon was still the bishop of the island, but nothing more remained. David Kenyon had gone back east to college. Bernadette Jones had gotten pregnant—contrary to Mrs. Bannister’s prophecy, Barry the boyfriend never became a Christian and they never furthered God’s kingdom together. Karla Dickens was living in Seattle and pursuing a business degree, while Andy Smith had gotten his girlfriend pregnant, married her, and was currently trying to make a living as a composer and piano teacher. Harold Martin, who once tried to get me to smoke pot, was still smoking pot for all I knew, getting into yoga and eastern religion, and working as a flagman for the county road crew. Clay Olson had gone on to Bible college to pursue the ministry, and Benny Taylor, his pimples now fading, was racking up perfect grades at the University of Washington.
We used to be young, unstoppable soldiers of the cross, led by the Spirit, taking the world for Christ as we marched arm in arm.
There was going to be a great revival, starting with us. We were on fire and those who were lukewarm would have to get on fire too or eat our dust.
But my fellow soldiers weren’t there anymore. While I was chasing visions, signs, and prophecies all the way to Minneapolis, each of them caught a different train and left while I wasn’t looking.
In mid-October, I was eighteen, in love, full of the Spirit, and on a train bound for Minneapolis. By mid-January, I was nineteen and a nobody with nowhere to go, sitting on the bed in my room at home, plunking absently on a brown, fifty-dollar banjo and feeling a new and frightening kind of loneliness. Jesus seemed far away, and strangely enough, I was content to leave him there. I didn’t want to talk to him; I feared and distrusted anything he might say to me.
The Frank Peretti Collection Page 67