We spent roughly the first half of the summer doing “one-night stands” in churches. This covered in part, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, among others. Then we began a “conference ministry,” spending a week at various camps and conferences in New England, and finally Canada. Just for a finishing touch, we went to the Prince or Princess of Bible conferences, Winona Lake. (Short story over.)
The first camp we visited was Jack Wyrtzen’s Word of Life camp, in Schroon Lake, New York. This was for high school students. What a great place that was. And we began our ministry coupled with a trumpet trio of high school kids from Coatsville, Pennsylvania. I think that they were there for the summer, and we were only there for a week.
The trio was two sisters, with a middle brother sandwiched in between them. Their dad was an accomplished trumpet player, as I recall, and he had trained his kids. He may have been active in Jack Wyrtzen’s ministry. Anyway, we were the “special music,” along with the kids. And they were magnificent trumpeteers. We kind of swaggered a little as we met the “kids,” but the first time we heard them play we were, to put it kindly, “put in our place.” They were extremely talented and proficient musicians.
Recreation consisted of the cabins competing against each other, so the quartet, and trio, were pretty much left out. Ultimately we joined forces and became a “volleyball juggernaut.” Just for fun, we challenged some counselors to a match, and won. We were off and running. I do not know how many matches we had, but we challenged everybody we could find. We won every game that week. Like I said, “unstoppable.”
The week ended, all too soon, and we went on to another camp in New Hampshire, I believe. Most of the rest of the schedule is buried in the mists of time, but I recall that. (Actually, I recently unearthed some brochures for the Quartet, and there may even be a summer itinerary in there somewhere. Not important.
What was important was that the next camp or conference also had some volleyball nets, and we resumed our athletic conquests. I don’t think that I mentioned that our quartet had a piano player, so that made five of us. With the three of the trio we had eight players, which, at the time anyway, was a regulation team. After we left Schroon Lake, we were down to five, but we were all reasonably athletic. We continued our winning ways.
This continued throughout the summer. Occasionally we ran into a smaller venue and one “team” actually had a couple of grade school kids. As I recall, we magnanimously refrained from spiking on the smaller players. But we won, and won, and won. Once in an early week, we were struggling. One of us, maybe me, I’ll tell you why in a minute, called out, “For the Trumpets!” That spurred us on and we won several consecutive points, pulled out the game and the match.
All during the rest of the summer, we had a rallying call, “For the Trumpets!” and we relied on that for a talisman of good luck. It might have been me, because the older sister was a senior in high school. I had developed a “minor” crush on her at Word of Life, and she had given me her address. I don’t recall if it was at camp or her home, but I had written regularly, and did throughout the summer.
I also sent her our schedule with the addresses of the upcoming camps, and I think she sent me a letter or two over the summer. After returning to school, I continued to write and she wrote back.
The next to last camp/conference was Keswick (Kessick) in Canada. We had been undefeated all summer and were pretty proud of that. Keswick was a facility that had a summer staff of workers to take care of motel-like accommodations that the atendees used. So their staff had been together all summer. And guess what they had been doing. Yep, playing volleyball.
The challenge was given and the date for the “big match” was set. They were as athletic as we were, or more so. All summer we had played eight man teams with our five. The eight they put on the court were like a rebounding machine or trampoline. Every ball that went over the net popped up and was “set” for their spikers. You know the rest.
We held our own for a while, but eventually, inexorably, the score mounted–in their favor. “For the Trumpets!” sounded on nearly every serve. The Trumpets were not able to inspire or spur us to even a draw. I do not recall even losing a game, let alone a match all summer. They won the first game. Other details are hazy, but they won the second or third game, and thus, the match.
We immediately challenged for a rematch, and they agreed. I think we won the second match and, as my memory serves, we had scheduled the “rubber match” but were not able to play it before our tenure at the camp ended. We left with a draw and some pride, but our perfect record was ruined.
Ironically, our last camp, Winona Lake, was not expecting us, so had not scheduled us to sing. We were invited to stay for the conference, but with no promise of performing. We had been gone for over two months and a chance for an early dash for home was very appealing. One of the guys lived fairly close and he could get home in just a few hours. The rest of us headed south and I dropped off in St. Louis and flew to McCook, Nebraska. This was my first time on a commercial plane, so this was a new adventure.
After a week or so off, I headed back to Longview. And here the story takes a very intersting turn. During the first day of chapel, a new English teacher announced to the student body that he was starting an intercollegiate debate program at LeTourneau and anyone who was interested was invited to try out for the team.
I had read a book on debate in high school and was fascinated with the exercise. My ears perked up and I went to the first meeting. It was going to entail a tremendous amount of extra work outside of regular classes. But, due to my service on the quartet, I had a scholarship for my junior year. I did not have to work, so was able to commit to the team.
He said, “Try out for the team.” It turned out that anyone who would come to meetings would make the team. And that changed the direction of my life just as much as the first chemistry class that I took in high school. Until the class, I was undecided as to what I though the Lord wanted me to do. Chemistry changed that, and I went on to get a degree and even a masters in Chemistry. I taught it on the high school and college level for nearly 20 years. Then I worked on a hazardous waste process that used biochemistry to detoxify noxious and toxic substances.
I am still a chemist. Debate also captivated my interest and trained me to present and defend ideas and positions. I use those skills all the time. I would not be here without chemistry and debate.
And the next step in the story is tied directly into that. The year of debate, my junior year, earned me a scholarship for representing the College (now a University) on the debate team. I debated two years and the final year was on a scholarship for debate. My Junior year was compliments of the Quartet, and now I had a second year paid.
That gave me a second summer of not having to work to pay tuition and expenses. In the spring semester of my junior year, another group appeared in chapel. It was a team of recruiters from Word of Life seeking college students to be counselors at the camp for the summer. There was no pay, but they did provide room and board. (I may have described the accomodations in an earlier post. They were primitive at best, but the food was good and plentiful.)
Since my final year of tuition was insured by my debate participation, I had a second summer “free.” The Lord made it possible for me to be accepted by the camp, and I was set for another summer of “travel.” Only this time I would go a long way, sit still for two and a half months or so, then travel back. Only after the fact did our campus pastor, Sarge Grey, tell me the full story of my acceptance by Word of Life. In short, it was a miracle. But that, again, is another story.
Remember the high school girl I had been writing during the summer? So did I. I had kept up a steady flow of letters about college and debate and anything else I thought would interest her. It was to showcase LeTourneau College for her and her family. Uh huh. All for the school. Right.
When I told her that I was going to Word of Life for the summer, she seemed enthusiastic. She said that her mom had insisted that I stop in Coatsville to spend the night. It was right on the way to Schroon Lake. And for me, coming from southwestern Nebraska, anything east of the Mississippi was “on the way.”
So with much anticipation and trepidation, I left home, probably on a Thursday in early June. I drove all the way to New Lenox, Illinois, where my mother’s sister and her family lived. Googling the trip now, shows it at about 13 hours. Of course, I-80 did not go through Omaha, so that added a good hour or more, and my 1963 Corvair Monza was not the most speedy vehicle on the road. A long day is a generous description.
The next morning, a Friday by my time line, I left for Coatsville. This time Google shows 13.5 hours and that is probably optimistic. I left early. And finally, late in the afternoon, or even early evening, I arrived in Coatsville.
To say I had great expectations is an understatement. I had visions of her falling into my arms and declaring undying love and fidelity. We would finish our educations and wait to see what the Lord had in store for us. Or something equally enthralling and exciting.
I knew the address. I had been writing to it for at least nine months and perhaps close to a year. There were no GPS helps, but “asking around” was almost foolproof. I found the house.
I wobbled to the door. This was a combination of 13 plus hours crammed into the front seat of my Monza and uncertainty as to what reception I would receive. I knocked. I knocked again. I peeked into the window–the windows. It seemed that no one was home. I checked the address. It confirmed the place that I had sent to, and received return letters from. No one was home.
I may have sat in the car, or maybe I just squatted on the porch. No telling how much later, a car drove up the drive and into the garage. I don’t even remember who was in it, but after they had entered the house, I knocked again.
The door opened and I introduced myself, explaining that I was a friend of their daughter. (Did you notice that I have not used a name? I have a total blank.) “Oh yes!” the mother exclaimed. Either she was the driver, or had also just arrived. “This is the day you were coming. I bet she forgot. She is out on a date. They will be back in about an hour or so.”
I backpedaled faster than a clown on a unicycle facing an irate lion tamer whose path he had crossed. I felt like a clown as well. I stammered that I would go to a hotel and go on to Schroon Lake the next day. We were supposed to check in on Saturday afternoon, just like a camper for our first week of training and orientation. Google now says seven hours. Pshaw! A piece of cake.
She would not hear of it. I was 26 or more hours on the road with about eight hours of sleep. The least they could do was give me a good meal, gratefully accepted after two days of burgers, fries, and Cokes, and a good long night’s sleep. Her husband could map out the best route to Word of Life, as they drove it often.
Reluctantly, I accepted, and did have a pleasant evening with the family. Older Sister did get home and we exchanged a cordial, but perfunctory greeting. I had misjudged her interest by about 180 degrees. Either in direction or temperature. I do not remember if I even wrote to her from camp. I doubt if I got a letter back if I did.
Well, Word of Life certainly did not begin with the bang that I was expecting. But, as earlier posts indicated, that was another turning point in my life. Chemistry, debate, and Word of Life. What an odd conjunction of influences that is. And, without the “deflection” afforded by each one, I cannot guess where I would be today. God did some amazing miracles to take me from Hitchcock County Nebraska to Texas to New York, back to Texas, to Iowa, to Illinois, and finally to Tennessee. I have called this home for over 30 years. And I am about to settle down.
Word of Life actually had two paddle strikes on this pinball as it careened through life. And for that, this Screwball is profoundly thankful. Thank You Jesus.
End of story–for now.
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