“Hmm, yes . . . I see,” said the lady. “Unfortunately Rev. Spurgeon did not have time to explain everything to you.”
“Everything . . . like what?”
“My dear, being a missionary requires training . . . and support.”
“Support—I don’t understand. What kind of support?”
“Financial support.”
“I don’t understand. I thought . . .”
Young Hope’s voice trailed off. This was not going the way she had anticipated. Fatigue was setting in from the days of meetings, then the train ride, and now the long walk through London’s streets.
“You have to raise a portion of your own support,” the woman went on, “or have a church willing to sponsor you. We receive donations, of course, but it is not enough to pay all of our missionaries’ expenses. We mostly pay for materials and building supplies. If you qualify—”
“Qualify . . . I thought anyone . . .”
“If you do, as I said, we will make what effort we can to help you raise support. But the missionaries themselves have to raise enough to cover a good deal of their own expenses.”
“But why . . . why can’t I just go?”
“It takes time for all this to be arranged. Sometimes these preparations require years.”
“Surely I could be of help to somebody.” Her eyes began to fill. “Why should it take so long when all I want to do is help people?”
“I am sorry, dear—you are young and inexperienced. You need training as well as financial support. I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you at this point. I suggest you talk to your pastor.”
Hope could still recall the great preacher’s words—“He calls us one and all as missionaries to the lost souls of the world.”
And now this lady said she couldn’t go, that she needed training and money, that she had to qualify. She thought all she needed was a willing heart.
She had no money! If she had to have money to go to the mission field, how would she ever be able to go!
“But the preacher said we were to go into all the world. He said nothing about all this.”
“The board has regulations, my dear. If you receive some training, and if your church agrees to help support you, perhaps in time you could—”
“I don’t have a church. I don’t have a pastor. I don’t have anything. And I used every penny I had just to get here. Now I have no place to go.”
The woman seemed genuinely moved by Hope’s plight.
“My dear, my name is Lanore Weldon,” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful. “We do have an opening in our office right here. It is a paying job—not very glamorous, I will admit. But at least it is working for the mission board, which is a little like being a missionary, don’t you think?”
London! thought Hope. She hated the city. She hated the very thought of staying here, even if it meant serving the Lord.
How could she ever be a missionary . . . in London!
Slowly she turned and left the office. Once back on the dreary sidewalk and walking away, in no direction and with no destination, tears of disappointment and loneliness at last began to fall in earnest from her eyes.
————
Before Hope could complete her tale, she and Amanda arrived in Grindelwald. When her business was done, they enjoyed tea and a light snack together at one of several cafes, and then began the return walk to Wengen. Amanda’s legs were tired, as much from the altitude as the exercise. Yet she felt such a sense of exhilaration that she was eager to begin again.
2. * The first portion of this paragraph adapted from Charles H. Spurgeon’s sermon entitled “Heaven and Hell,” originally preached on September 4, 1855, in a field beside King Edward’s Road in Hackney.
3. * This paragraph adapted from Charles H. Spurgeon’s sermon entitled “India’s Ills and England’s Sorrows,” originally preached on September 6, 1857, in a service on a day set aside as a national day of humiliation.
19
Raw Trainees
From an obscure vantage point upon board the HMS Dauntless, Commander Charles Rutherford watched as the vessel’s newest midshipmen and cadets finished their morning drills. They had been at it since before daybreak.
“You are the sorriest set of trainees I’ve ever laid eyes on!” shouted the lieutenant in charge to the line of recruits as they stood before him stoically at attention.
“Such a fat collection of milksops and weaklings I have never seen . . .”
Charles chuckled to himself at the words.
“ . . . couldn’t fight your way across the street, much less across a continent . . .”
Every recruit for generations had endured the same insults and had been put through the same grind, thought Charles.
“We put to sea in two days. How do you expect us to win this war with such . . .”
Charles turned his gaze away from the drill deck and surveyed the other ships lined up along the shoreline of the Scapa Flow. Many had already put to sea. Two steamed out just this morning. The naval effort was gearing up quickly to combat the German fleet, which had already sunk several ships. All the United Kingdom trembled in dread of possible invasion. Fortunately, there had been no submarines in Scapa Flow as earlier reported, or anywhere else for that matter. But the orders were still to get out onto the high sea as quickly as possible and thus reduce the risk.
As Charles’ eyes took in the scene, he could not shut out the barking commands of the lieutenant behind him. He smiled again. How well he remembered his own days as a new trainee, and the lieutenant just like the one now putting these new cadets and midshipmen through their paces. He had to endure the same rigorous hours and odious duty, the same insults. It was Royal Navy tradition.
Poor George, he thought. He was having a rougher time of it than the rest. There must be no hint of taking it easy on him because of his father’s presence on board. So the lieutenant was bending over backward in the opposite direction.
Charles did not watch the drills often, and tried to stay out of sight when he did. His father-heart would have rescued George from it had he been able, or taken the abuse himself. But this was the Royal Navy, not Heathersleigh. To interfere would be the worse thing he could do. There was no reason to interfere anyway. George was handling himself well under the adversity.
“You there, Midshipman Rutherford!” barked the lieutenant. “Stand forward.”
Charles again peered down to the deck below as George took three strides in front of the line of cadets, then locked his legs again in place, his eyes staring straight ahead.
The lieutenant came forward and brought his face straight into George’s with a menacing glare. A long, tense silence followed.
“Did you shave this morning, Rutherford!” he shouted in George’s face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get some help next time! Perhaps one of the others will show you how it is done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your uniform—what excuse do you have?”
“Sir?”
“Your uniform is dirty, Rutherford! What do you have to say for yourself?”
“That these are fresh trousers this morning, sir.”
“Silence! I will be the judge of whether they are fresh or not.”
George continued to stand stoically at attention while the lieutenant now scrutinized him from head to toe, then took a step back.
“On your knees, Midshipman Rutherford.”
George hesitated momentarily.
“On your knees! I want you to scrub this deck.—Petty Officer Blankenship,” he cried out, “bucket and brush, front and center.”
George slowly bent to the deck. The bucket of water arrived, full to within half an inch of the brim. The lieutenant deliberately took the end of the mop handed him by the petty officer, then shoved the bucket toward George, making sure the water sloshed over and onto him. As he did, he stepped back to avoid any backsplash on himself.
“Scrub, Rutherford!”
Geo
rge dipped his hand into the bucket, found the brush, and began to scrub the deck. The other cadets watched in silence, staring ahead, each hoping he would not be next.
For about a minute nothing was heard but sloshing water and the scrubbing of the brush.
“At ease, Rutherford,” said the lieutenant.
George stopped.
“On your belly, Rutherford.”
Again a moment’s hesitation.
“You seem to have trouble obeying orders.—On your belly!”
George now flattened himself on the wet deck he had just scrubbed.
“Twenty push-ups in double-time!”
Still the cadets stood watching without expression as George complied.
“On your feet, Rutherford!” now barked the lieutenant.
George stopped the exercise, lay for the merest second, then stood back to his feet, breathing heavily.
“I see that the knees of your trousers and your shirt are wet and soiled, Rutherford,” the lieutenant shouted. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
George was silent.
“Rutherford, I am speaking to you!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think you are a mummy’s boy, Rutherford. What do you have to say?”
“Nothing, sir, that you are right, sir—my uniform is dirty, sir.”
“That is better. You will find that it goes easier when you obey the first time. Is that understood, Rutherford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“About face, Rutherford. You will be confined to quarters this evening for sloppy dress. Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.—Left face!”
The line instantly snapped ninety degrees to its left.
“Gunnery drill to aft, flagmen, fore, radiomen first deck, engine room detail to third deck—dismissed to your posts. Forward . . .”
Charles turned and made his way down the ladder to the main deck. The line of midshipmen marched by in single file past him as they separated for their assignments. Charles saluted and held his hand to his hat as they passed.
George approached a third of the way through the line. He gave no sign of recognition toward his father other than a brief flickering glance of his eye, then returned to the back of the head in front of him. Charles likewise gave no hint that they were even acquainted. At the end of the column the lieutenant returned Charles’ salute, then continued past.
That evening Charles popped briefly into George’s barracks at a time he knew he would find him alone. They saluted.
“Not such a pleasant day, eh, George?” he said, easing himself into a bunk opposite George’s.
“I’ve had better,” replied George with a groan. “Actually, it was better before you came.—Sorry, Father.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” laughed Charles. “All part of the game.”
“Some game!”
“You’re holding up well, George, my boy,” said Charles. “I’m proud of you.”
“I was so angry this morning!” said George. “It was all I could do not to lose my temper.”
Again Charles laughed.
“I know exactly how you feel,” he said. “I went through it too. It’s all part of the regimen. Lieutenant Forbes is a good man. He bears you no ill will.”
“I do not like to disagree with you, Father, but he has it out for me. Can’t you tell?”
“I know it looks that way, son. But actually, he’s showing you favoritism.”
“What! With that kind of treatment?”
“Why do you think he picked you to put through that ridiculous exercise?”
“I thought because he doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t you think Lieutenant Forbes knows it’s all nonsense as well as everyone else?”
“I don’t suppose I thought about that. I just thought he was being unreasonable.”
“Not at all, George, my boy. He put you through all that just because he knew you wouldn’t lose your temper, and would obey whatever he said. He chose you because he knew he could depend on you. He chose you because he wanted to show the other cadets how a true navy man obeys orders under stress. And you came through with flying colors.”
“If you say so!” laughed George, already starting to feel better about the incident. “I was still pretty mad.”
“But you controlled it. Those cadets may face enemy fire and torpedoes before long. They will need to trust Lieutenant Forbes enough to obey his every command, no matter what he orders them. To do so may save their lives. Your obedience today, and not giving way to your temper, was part of that valuable lesson. And he did you another favor besides.”
“What’s that?”
“Your peers will respect you for weathering such treatment. What would they think of you if Lieutenant Forbes made it easy on you because I am here?”
“I don’t suppose they would like it much.”
“You see . . . Lieutenant Forbes is actually helping you out.”
“You put an interesting interpretation on it!” said George.
“Mark my words, once we set sail and before we return to England, Lieutenant Forbes will be one of your best friends on this ship. He will depend on you, and you will trust him. The others will see it, and will respect you both more highly as a result.”
“How do you know that, Father?”
“It is always the cadets they’re hardest on who are the ones to watch. They are pushing to see who has leadership qualities and who doesn’t. If a young man can’t take the pressure, he’s not going to be fit to lead. Command means pressure and stress. They’ve got to find out who can hold up and keep his head under it.”
“I see what you mean. I still don’t like it,” laughed George.
“No one does. But stress is what fashions leaders.—Well, I had better get out of here,” added Charles, rising. “You’re supposed to be confined. We don’t want anyone thinking I’m breaking the rules.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” George said. “You outrank Lieutenant Forbes.”
“Perhaps. But you’ll never catch me using that fact unfairly, or my credibility and yours would both be undercut. Lieutenant Forbes has to have my support too. Everything through channels, you know.”
“Thanks for coming by, Father. I needed the dose of encouragement.”
Again father and son saluted. Then Charles left George alone again and returned to his own cabin.
20
The Will of God
As Amanda and Sister Hope made their way back over the hills, they talked casually about many things. Again the subject of the chalet’s ministry came up. Amanda was more curious than she realized about the spiritual aspect of the sisters’ activities. She found questions popping out of her mouth she had not planned. Eventually her questions led down a path she would not have anticipated.
“But what is it you want people to do when they come here?” she asked. “What do you tell them?”
“We encourage people to do only one thing,” replied Sister Hope.
“What is that?” asked Amanda.
“The will of God.”
Amanda took in the words as if there was nothing so unusual about them. She did not notice how accustomed she had already become to the spiritual outlook of those around her.
“But that is so general,” she said. “What exactly do you tell each person?”
“That she must discover for herself,” replied Hope. “God’s specific will for every person isn’t necessarily the same. There is an individual will which God speaks into every hungry heart.”
“How does someone know what it is for them?”
“‘Lord, what do you want me to do?’ is the prayer we pray at the chalet,” Hope explained. “We encourage all who come likewise to pray those words. More than merely pray them—to live by them. If we had a creed, which we do not, it would be summarized by those eight words.”
Amanda took in the statement thoughtfully. It sounded just like something her father would say.
“Some of the sisters arrived much like you—lost and alone,” Hope went on. “They found that God’s will for them was to remain with us so that they might pass on the ministry which they received.”
“What do you think God’s will is for me?” asked Amanda.
“You will have to find that out by asking him, Amanda, and by searching your own heart.”
“But . . . but that is not something I know how to do.”
“It is something we all must learn.”
Amanda paused briefly. Then, without having planned it, said, “My father and mother tried to teach me. You’re a lot like my mother, actually. I don’t suppose I was particularly receptive to their efforts.”
“Many young people would say the same,” rejoined Sister Hope.
“For some reason it doesn’t sound so bad coming from you.”
“Another statement many young people would agree with.”
“Why?”
“They find words of instruction not nearly so odious coming from another as from their own parent.”
Amanda nodded. “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I probably would have become angry with my mother for talking about the will of God.”
“Two different people can say the exact same words, but from one the response will be reflection and soul-searching, while the very same words from a parent might rouse annoyance and irritation. It has always seemed illogical and silly to me, but then I am not in a position to under—”
Hope stopped abruptly. That part of her story, she decided, would be best left until later.
“Another reason it does not seem so bad to you now,” she went on after a moment, “is because you are beginning to want to know what to do more than before. Hunger makes a world of difference. Probably there was a time, if as you say you were not altogether receptive, when you were less than enthusiastic about the spiritual training they were trying to give you. Am I right?”
“Less than enthusiastic would be putting it mildly,” replied Amanda.
“But if your father and mother tried to teach you,” Hope ventured cautiously, “it may be from them, even now, that you could most effectively learn about the will of God as we were talking about earlier.”
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