Tales of the Endless Mountains: A True Story of Midwest City Slickers Learning Love and Patience in a Mountain Hamlet

Copyright © 2011 Adell Farley Harvey

Thanks to Rebekah Harvey for the cover photo, and to Bill Farley for restoring the old Endless Mountain photos for the interior photo pages.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Some names have been changed to protect privacy; however, most of the participants in this true story are presented as the author saw them, warts and all. Any misconceptions are entirely the author’s.

Unless otherwise noted, scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-1766-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1767-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1765-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011929582

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/01/2011

For Billy, Mari, and Jeff—to help you become better acquainted with your birth Daddy

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

About the Author

Foreword

The Saga of the Missionary Lark

Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the LORD our God. Ps. 20:7

In 1964, my young husband and I answered God’s call to serve in a rural mission field in northern Appalachia. Armed with little more than a great confidence in God, we bumbled our way through culture shock, church problems, and health issues. Emboldened by the arrogance of youth, we loaded ourselves down with pastoral duties, went where angels fear to tread, and tackled problems that would have made spiritual giants tremble.

Perhaps to cover up our lack of insight and experience, we determined never to gripe or to complain to our mountain congregation or neighbors. We would simply trust God to get the job done. I wrote weekly letters to my mom and Bill’s folks, detailing all our experiences. Both of them kept every letter we sent during those three years. Now, from the vantage point of hindsight, we easily can see where we unloaded all our frustrations. Letters to my mom, especially, read like a habitual whining session, where I dumped all my hurts and complaints on her—things I couldn’t relate to anyone else.

Re-reading the letters I wrote so long ago gave me a fresh perspective on those fateful years, brought back memories long forgotten, and prompted me to write this book. The letters provided me a weekly journal, written as events occurred, assuring the accuracy of our recollections of experiences, emotions, and sentiments.

As faith missionaries, we sent a newsletter every month to thank our supporters, telling them how God was working among the people God had called us to serve. Both of our mothers kept those monthly letters as well.

En route to our field in the Endless Mountains, I kept a notebook handy and wrote about our experiences along the way. Just for fun, the kids and I wrote our journal entries from the viewpoint of our little car Puny. Rushed for time when we finally arrived, we decided to use the journal of our trip for our first prayer letter.

We never dreamed how popular Puny would become. He received encouragement cards, spark plugs, gift cards for engine tune-ups, even Christmas gifts. Later, on a deputation trip back to Illinois, Bethany Baptist Church put a spray of flowers on his hood, threw a welcome home, Puny party for him, and baked him a specially decorated car cake. Puny became our spokesman for the next several years. And The Saga of the Missionary Lark evolved into The Perils of Puny.

Here’s the letter that started it all:

I’m just a little blue 1963 six-cylinder Studebaker Lark. Since my owners call me Puny, I about burst with pride when they asked me if I could pull a 5 x 8 trailer to Pennsylvania! Here was my chance to show them I wasn’t so puny after all!

When they backed me up to that big trailer, though, I’ll admit I shook clear down to my innertubes. Boy, that old gray and orange trailer was huge, and he didn’t look a bit friendly either. He wasn’t about to be pulled by a little fellow like me. But the laugh was on him when they started loading him up. I just stood there gurgling my carburetor and listening to him groan. When that 300-pound barrel of books hit his axles, he really complained. And I almost exploded my radiator when they had that old smart-alecky fellow as full as they could get him…and still had a porch full of boxes to go in. He wasn’t as great as he thought he was.

Of course, my owners didn’t think it was so funny. They needed all that stuff on the porch.

Then it was his turn to laugh when they hitched me up. I grunted and I groaned and put all my horses to work, but even so, he just about yanked my back bumper off. It was obvious I couldn’t pull him out of the yard, let alone clear to Pennsylvania.

Well, the Farleys (they’re my owners) went into the house and prayed for a while, then decided to let God do the worrying. That was surely some weekend. I heard all kinds of rumors that they were going to trade me on a pickup truck (and after all my months of faithful service!). Then somebody said they knew of somebody going to Pennsylvania who would gladly pull the trailer. The Farleys looked in to it, but Mr. Farley, bless his heart, said he thought I could pull the trailer as good as that old station wagon. Maybe he does appreciate me after all!

Meanwhile the trailer wasn’t resting in any garden of roses either. It seems somebody wanted the bunkbeds that were already loaded on him, so they had to unload him, take off the beds, and reload again. Incidentally, that gave him enough room to carry the stuff on the porch. Then the trailer was pretty glad, too, when they sold the last bike. He was going to have to carry it on his roof! And if you’ve ever carried a bike on your roof, you know that can get pretty miserable.

Anyway, on Monday they bought a new trailer hitch and attached it to my frame—one the trailer couldn’t yank off. So when we were hooked together this time we decided, since we were in this thing together, we might as well call a truce and cooperate. So off we went — PENNSYLVANIA OR BUST!

As mile after mile went by, we really began to click. I made a few noises that kind of worried my owners, but actually, I was just spitting and sputting happily at how well I was doing. In fact by Monday night, we were well into Ohio.

Things got a little harder on Tuesday as we got into something they called foothills. If these were foothills, I’d hate to climb the rest of the leg!

When we finally crossed the line into Pennsylvania, you should have heard the excitement! You’d have thought we were the ’49ers reaching California, or something!

At first, that mountain air had all six of my cylinders perking first rate, but as those hills got higher and higher, I started to have my druthers. When the mountain summits reached two thousand feet and more, I had to use all my horses and all my gears to get over the top. Each time I’d think, I’ll never make it. Then I’d hear the kids chanting, I think he can, I think he can, and over the top we’d go! On the way down, I’d join in, I knew I could, I knew I could.

Just as we turned the corner onto Saco Road (that’s our road), that nasty trailer gave a mean lurch, as though to remind me that the load was still there. Spitefully, he tore loose from my overloaded springs. But I hadn’t come that far to be shown up like that, so I gathered all my strength for one final effort and limped on in home.

Home! What a wonderful word! They backed us up to the door, unhitched the trailer (was I ever glad to get rid of him!) and then let me rest in the garage. And did I ever need a rest!

We added a moral to the story at the end of Puny’s tale of woe. The moral of our story is two-fold. Even an underpowered Lark can get the job done if God is in control. Likewise, God can use ordinary missionary families like us if they yield to Him. Please pray for us!

Sadly for Puny, his rest was short-lived.

* * *

Wit-n-wisdom: God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called.

Prologue

Time’s A Wasting!

The minute hand on the clock in the surgery waiting room lingered, suspended, then slowly lumbered on to the next dot on the clock. One minute, two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, and finally five minutes were pushed into the archives of history. Minute after painful minute ticked by, slowly but surely taking the hours with them.

It seemed my entire life had hung like that clock, suspended, ticking slowly on, waiting for this day, the day Bill’s heart surgery would be history and we could get on with our plans to serve the Lord.

The first hint of a shadow crossed our lives in 1955 when we went to the local doctor for our required premarital blood tests. As Dr. Kaufman drew my blood, she gave me a gentle but frightening warning: I hope you’ve weighed all the consequences, my dear. Bill has a very serious heart condition, and I’m afraid the stresses and strains of marriage will prove too much for him.

I felt a momentary pang of alarm, then dismissed the elderly doctor’s warning. With my fresh-out-of-high-school optimism and enthusiasm, I pooh-poohed her comments as those of an excessive worrywart. I knew all about Bill’s little heart murmur caused by rheumatic fever, but one glance at my husky, 180-pound fiancé would show anybody how healthy he was. Football player, all-around athlete—there wasn’t much he couldn’t accomplish.

Besides, hadn’t God called Bill to preach in a very dramatic way just a couple of months earlier? Seated in the front row at First Baptist Church in East Peoria on a normal Sunday morning, Bill had overwhelmingly felt the presence of God. The Holy Spirit came over me in a way I’d never experienced, he said. I was so overcome with emotion, I just sat and sobbed like a baby. I clearly heard God calling me to the ministry.

After the service, Bill went to the pastor’s office for advice on how to deal with God’s call on his life. The pastor counseled him, It was just an emotional experience. God doesn’t really speak to people like that today. Just keep on with your Sunday School teaching and directing our youth ministries. You need to let it cool down for a while.

Bill heeded his pastor’s advice, and let it cool down, though he was still convinced God wanted him in full-time ministry some day. The first year or so of our marriage were rough on Bill. He was attending college, working part-time at a car dealership, and building our house. Then I had emergency surgery in the first trimester of pregnancy, and most the housekeeping chores fell on him as well. Occasionally, the doctor’s warning flashed across my mind, and I would caution Bill to slow down a little. But his health was good, and his annual checkups at the Mayo Clinic were reassurances. The Mayo doctors told him, One day, we’re going to have to repair those heart valves, but we don’t want to risk it until it’s absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, we’ll just keep an eye on you and hope that open-heart surgery techniques continue to improve.

Heart transplants and open-heart and bypass surgeries were still in the distant future. The best we could hope for was that Bill’s heart would continue to function until the medical world figured out a way to fix it.

Still mindful of God’s call on our lives, we worked diligently in our local church, studying, preparing for the day Bill’s health would be restored and we would go into full-time ministry. We lived in anticipation of that day when heart surgery would correct all his problems. But each year, Bill returned from his annual checkup at Mayo’s with the news, Not yet.

We built a three-bedroom house and soon filled the extra bedrooms with Billy, Jr. in 1956 and Mari in 1957. Our family complete, Bill took a nice, safe job as an engineering draftsman at Caterpillar Tractor Co., and I became a professional secretary for the same corporation. We had excellent insurance, which would certainly cover the heavy expenses of open-heart surgery. Our long-range plans called for us to keep our positions at Caterpillar, let the insurance pay for the surgery, and then serve the Lord on the rural mission field when Bill’s heart was repaired.

While we were waiting, God sent us to several small churches as pulpit supply and eventually called Bill to serve as tent-making pastor to a couple of churches near our home in Central Illinois. This enabled us to fulfill our call to ministry, still protected by the security blanket of Caterpillar insurance.

Bill became increasingly restless with this plan, his burden for rural America intensifying. In the fall of 1963, on our way home from work, he surprised me by pulling into a parking lot at Detweiller Park. He shut off the engine and turned to me, a serious look on his face. Dollie, the clock is ticking. I can’t wait any longer. I want to apply to the RHMA and go full time!

A lot of what ifs troubled my mind, but Bill seemed so certain, I knew God was speaking to him. If that’s what you feel God wants us to do, let’s go for it, I agreed.

Others didn’t see it quite the same way, trying to discourage us from doing anything hastily. Eight years of waiting was hasty? Bill’s dad, especially, was against the plan. Are you crazy? he demanded. Who’s going to pay for your heart surgery if you give up your job? Who’s going to take care of Dollie and the kids when your heart gets worse?

With his usual, gracious spirit, Bill tried to calm his father’s fears. Dad, I know beyond a doubt that this is God’s plan for us. God will take care of everything if we just trust Him.

And I suppose if you thought God wanted you to go out on the expressway and stand in front of an 18-wheeler barreling down on you, you’d do it? Dad demanded.

Bill considered his dad’s question. Yes, if I was this certain that it was God’s will, I’d also expect Him to protect me.

Dad finally relented and became one of our staunch supporters, although we often suspected he continued to doubt our sanity.

We went through the mission application process, were accepted by the Rural Home Missionary Association, resigned our positions at Caterpillar and in our church, and headed for the Endless Mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania. Thus began a journey of faith that took us 800 miles from home, at least 60 years back in time, and light years ahead spiritually.

While the rest of the world struggled through the turbulent ’60s, we were tucked away in the remote community of Riggs in northern Appalachia, having the time of our lives.

Chapter 1

Expectations meet reality

I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. Philippians 4:11b

When Rev. Longenecker suggested that Grace Baptist Church in Riggs, Pennsylvania, would be a good fit for us, I was ecstatic. I poured over pictures of quaint New England villages, gorgeous white churches with spires reaching grandly skyward, picket fences swathed in climbing roses—what an ideal place for our very first missionary assignment!

We envisioned our new field as not too much different from home. Our town resembled the pictures of New England, boasting beautiful tree-lined streets, pristine farmland, and tidy farmhouses. Settled by Mennonite farmers, Central Illinois benefited from their influence. Its well-kept farms, mint-condition machinery, and park-like lawns all spoke of the Mennonite motto: Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

Both Bill and I had enjoyed detasseling corn every summer as teens on many of those farms. How often we had lounged in the front lawns of those farmsteads, eating our lunch and taking a break from walking the mile-long rows of corn. When the big yellow bus loaded with 30 or 40 of us teenage workers would pull up to the side yard of the farmhouse at noon, we raced for the porch swings or the nearest shade, eager for an hour of pure bliss. Ah, yes, those Illinois farms were rural utopia!

Could Pennsylvania farms be any less? After all, the Keystone State had its share of Mennonite farmers. Isn’t that where the Pennsylvania Dutch lived? We blithely made our plans to resign