From: Fern Crouch Willner. When Faith Is Enough. Belleville, Ontario: Essence Publishing, 1999.
DEDICATION
This book is lovingly dedicated to my parents
Sidney and Blanche Crouch
The Fourth of July church picnic was a yearly, and sometimes memorable, highlight for members and relatives of the Quakertown church in Quakertown, Connecticut. It was July 5th, 1937 when Sidney Crouch and Blanche Phillips, with their attendants and pastor, took their places amongst the surprised picnickers and conducted their unannounced wedding.
Dad was proud of the woman he had won. Mom was born in Fullerton, California in 1912, the daughter of pioneer evangelists who travelled from Connecticut to California in their "gospel truck." While in southern California, they received the Pentecostal experience. As a little girl, Mom learned to play the tambourine and joined her parents in leading singing during their revival meetings. Their life of faith was not an easy one, but one remarkable experience held Mom's faith steadfast during her challenges of life.
Mom loved the sunshine, and she had learned a repertoire of songs like, "Heavenly sunshine, heavenly sunshine," "Sunshine, sunshine in my soul today," "Jesus wants me for a sunbeam," and "Let the blessed sunshine in." One morning as she lay in her little bed singing, she was startled to see a beautiful, glowing hand appear. It was like nothing she had ever seen before, but when she raised up to see it better, it faded quietly away. The experience was so remarkable, nothing in her life would ever convince her that God wasn't real.
I never heard Mom preach, except to me and my siblings, but she was a quiet force to be reckoned with. Her confidence in God ran deep, and she knew that if she could instill faith in God in her children, they would be safe. To that end, she taught us in family devotions, she disciplined us with determination, she prayed for us without ceasing, and she loved us unconditionally. She never sacrificed her convictions or her morals as we challenged her faith while ours emerged. She was an anchor for us during the testing, teenage years of self-discovery, and a haven of stability as our own homes and ministries developed.
Dad loved his seven children. I remember the days he took me for coffee at the diner. We walked into the men's unofficial meeting place, and I watched Dad's eyes twinkle as he proudly introduced me to his friends. I was a little embarrassed but honoured by Dad's pride. How I missed the gentle wisdom and that vote of approval when Dad died in 1973 while I was in Africa.
Mom continued to strengthen us by her faith. Then, on December 9, 1998, she slipped quietly away, leaving us with a legacy of faithfulness, a shelter of love, a spirit of joy, and a bedrock foundation of faith in God. This book is not only my story, but it is also a reflection of my father and mother's guidance and my heritage of faith. Thanks Dad and Mom!
Chapter 1
FROM RATS TO REVELATION
"Who is he that overcometh the world, but he that believeth that Jesus is the Son of God?" (1 John 5:5)
A piercing pain struck my left hand. I stirred in the darkness and heard a thump off the end of my bed. Still groggy with sleep, I struggled to reach the source of the pain. I felt my hand. It was warm, wet and sticky. Why? Sleep fled and my senses were alert to danger as I crept out of bed and turned on the light. Blood stained my nightgown and dripped onto the floor. I grabbed my hand to stop the bleeding and saw the four sharp tooth marks of a rat. Cold, quiet fear made me shake involuntarily. Would I die of rabies? How do you feel when you die? How long does it take? I stumbled downstairs to my parents' room and woke them up.
"Mom, Dad, a rat bit me."
Dad cleaned and bandaged my wound and let me spend the rest of the night close to them, but I didn't sleep much. I kept waiting to die. I didn't want to. I was only ten years old, too young to die. Morning came and I was still alive, but Dad let me stay home from school that day.
Dad and Mom had worked hard to clean up the old nine-bedroom house they were buying since returning from Texas. A few years earlier, Mom was diagnosed with tuberculosis. I was only four when they took me away and sent me to live with my aunt and then, my father's mother. When doctors decided to put Mom in a sanitarium, Dad was certain she would never come out alive. He packed a few belongings in the car and collected us four children from relatives. I remember the day he came to Grandma's and got me. He held my little hand in his big strong one as we walked across the road to the waiting car. In my other hand I clutched a paper sack containing my clothes.
We fled to southern California where Dad built us a new home. Then, during a church service, Mom was prayed for and healed. We moved to Houston, Texas where Mom's brother Palmer and his wife, Virginia lived. Dad bought a gas station and Mom's mother came to live with us so Mom could rest and be with Dad. The station in the sun became her clinic as she regained her strength. Prayer, fresh air, and the hot Texas sun worked wonders. Finally, with Mom cured, they decided to move back home to Connecticut.
Quakertown, Connecticut was one of those "blink-your-eye-and-you'll-pass-me-by" kind of little towns. We didn't have a grocery store, a school, or even a gas station, but right in the center of town was a little white church. It was pastored by Fred Watrous, one of the local men, and it was here that the foundations of my faith were strengthened.
Fred had a large family which helped him run the small garden shop and nursery they owned. He worked hard to make a living, like the rest of the men in Quakertown, but on Sundays, kindhearted Pastor Fred faithfully shepherded his little flock.
When the church service was in progress, some of the local residents who didn't attend the church meetings were often seen sitting outside on their front steps listening to the singing. Our little church was blessed with an abundance of naturally-gifted musicians. A row of accordionists sat across the front of the church just below the platform. To the right of them was the piano, and on the left was the organ. Then on the platform, just behind them, was a surround-sound orchestra. A distant cousin played a violin, another a trumpet, Uncle John played the trombone, and Aunt Alice blew a hearty sax. There were even drums and guitars which added rhythm to the enthusiastic playing.
Leading the accordions was Roger Watrous, nephew of the pastor. He not only played the accordion with the strength and vibrancy of one who is divinely anointed, but he sang with the same fervour. We watched in awe as he stretched the accordion a full arm's length while he sang, "When He reached down His hand for me." It was heartwarming to join in with friends and relatives as they sang, played, and ministered because of their love for God and their faith in Him. Later, when Roger imported a lovely young wife from another town, everyone thought it was tremendously appropriate when he sang one of the congregational favourites at his wedding reception, "I won't have to cross Jordan alone."
As Roger and the musicians continued to lead the church in songs like, "Anywhere, anywhere, fear I cannot know, anywhere with Jesus I can safely go," "No never alone," and "Who will go?" I am sure they never guessed that one of the little girls who sang along with them would one day preach in Africa. They never knew that the words she learned from them would give her the faith to continue an amazing journey which sometimes seemed destined for death.
Now, Pastor Fred never claimed to be an orator. There were some Sundays when we found it difficult to stay awake, especially the Sunday that he read the whole 119th Psalm and carefully gave an original exposition on each one of the 176 verses.
Then there was the beautiful, sunny Sunday that the bees came out. Pastor Fred was preaching, and I was trying to pay attention, when we heard a sound. I sat up to see where it came from. Someone in the front seat was respectfully trying to make a bee go away. The sound grew louder as more bees emerged from the platform area and sought landing rights on members of the congregation.
A couple of mothers with babies tiptoed quietly out of the sanctuary. Pastor Fred continued to minister. I noticed a few worried glances and flushed faces as the believers tried to maintain their composure and show respect in the house of the Lord. But as the bees continued to swarm, those sitting in the front row cautiously rose, one by one, tiptoed down the aisle, and exited out the front door.
Pastor Fred was dedicated. He still ignored the intrusion and continued his sermon. Those in the second row squirmed uncomfortably. Then, with bowed heads, they sneaked down the aisle. "Oh, goodie," I thought, "this is great fun." I knew I wasn't being very spiritual, but it was a wonderful diversion from the usual service schedule.
People rolled their eyes in silent communication and respectfully smothered grins as they cautiously continued to exit. Finally, it was my turn, and I happily joined the church family on the front steps.
Pastor Fred was to be commended. He stayed faithful to his post until all the members had left and the swarm of bees made it impossible to preach. He made me think of stories I had read about sea captains always being last to leave a sinking ship.
His boys were not as spiritually-minded that morning. They hurried off to find a ladder and a large metal wash tub. With the help of some of the other male church members, they smoked the rest of the bees out from under the eaves, collected the honey, and shared it with all of us. It was a different type of communion that we enjoyed that warm Sunday in spring as we broke honeycomb together on the front steps of the church.
Another Sunday I remember well was the morning we had a guest speaker, a missionary from Africa. He told frightening stories. Once, he was mangled by a lion. He was rescued, but on the way to the hospital, he had a near-death experience. We were a captive audience as he described the event in vivid detail. He lost blood profusely. It sloshed back and forth on the floor of the car as they drove over the rutted jungle roads toward help. The devil talked to him, he said, and taunted him as he drifted in and out of consciousness, but God saved him. It was scary. At the conclusion of his story, he challenged us to commit ourselves to serve God with all our hearts. There in my seat I prayed, "Lord, I'll go anywhere you want me to go, and I'll do anything you want me to do, but please don't send me to Africa!"
Suddenly, I recalled hearing that God often calls us to do the very thing that we don't want to do. Hurriedly I changed my prayer, so that God would change His mind.
"God, I'll even go to Africa," I offered hopefully, not knowing that God would take me at my word.
When I was eighteen years old, tragedy struck. My brother Sidney died in an attempt to climb the Old Man of the Mountains, a mountain in the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire. Fred Whipple, a cousin and former captain of the football team at our alma mater, the Norwich Free Academy, died with him. It was a shocking and tragic event later described in an issue of the Reader's Digest. After the terrible loss, Dad decided to give me the college education that my brother had longed for.
My time at Evangel College in Springfield, Missouri, was akin to being in seventh heaven. I made lifetime friends, honed talents, and developed skills. Intertwined with the fun were the disciplines of study and submission to school rules. It all combined to help train me for life and future ministry.
When I returned to Evangel for my third year, I noticed a large tent set up on an empty parking lot in the town. The most amazing organ music I ever heard caught my attention and drew me inside where an afternoon service was in progress. As I watched the young evangelist pray for the sick, I was astounded to see some remarkable healings take place.
"It must be wonderful to be used of God like that, " I thought.
After more observation, I approached the evangelist and asked to join the team. He needed a secretary, and I was hired. As we travelled through the South holding healing meetings, I saw daring examples of faith. But it wasn't long before I realized that our young team needed a much more solid foundation from which to launch acts of faith. In innocence, I had evaluated the character of the team by the miracles that I saw. I didn't know then that, according to the Word, you will know a tree by its fruits -love, joy, peace, long-suffering, etc. -not by its gifts -tongues, interpretation, word of knowledge, gifts of miracles, etc. The fruit of a tree or a Christian is exhibited in direct relationship to the quality of its life and nature. Gifts are freely given by God and are not the standard used to qualify personal character. The gifts of God are not necessarily the endorsement of God.
But there was one amazing incident that took place while I was with them that I will never forget. The evangelist had decided to print a magazine with testimonies of healing and asked if I would do the interviews and help write the articles. I agreed.
We were in a southern city holding a healing crusade in an auditorium, and I was watching the healing line. I saw a child brought forward for prayer who was wearing a leg brace. One of his legs was four inches shorter than the other. This miracle, if it happened, would be very obvious, and I determined not to miss any part of the anticipated healing. When the child finally stood in front of the evangelist, I found a good vantage point, fixed my eyes on the child's leg, and made sure I did not blink or allow my attention to get diverted in any way.
The evangelist had the brace removed, knelt, placed the child's heels in the palms of his hands, and prayed. I watched. The leg grew. But strangely, as both legs slowly became the same length, I didn't see any jerking or any movement of any kind. Although I watched carefully as faith produced a miracle, I never really saw it happen. God performed a divine act of creativity, but He hid its process from the human eye. Afterward, the child ran, the family laughed and cried, and the audience was ecstatic. I pondered what I had just seen.
Are most miracles like that? Does God often hide His miracle-working process in secret and reveal His results unannounced? If so, human perception may lead one to believe that prayer is not making a difference, if no obvious change takes place during those early stages of hidden transformation. Therefore, it would be entirely possible for us to walk away from a test too soon and ignorantly leave behind a miracle in progress. And sometimes, unless we stop to compare the original condition with later results, the completed miracle may even go unnoticed.
Hebrews 11:13 says, "These all died in faith, not having received the promises " Did those Hebrew believers understand that realm? Were they so convinced that their answers were coming, it didn't matter to them when the results of their faith were revealed? Stepping across the time-line of death into eternal life didn't mean their faith was a failure. It simply meant their answer was revealed in another dimension.
One of the choruses we sang in Quakertown was, "Faith is the victory, faith is the victory, O glorious victory that overcomes the world." God knows the impatience produced by our shortsightedness, so Hebrews lets us know that faith will keep us steadfast while God is preparing His answers in secret. There are many areas of life where we need overcoming faith, and this is one of them: to continue having faith when we don't see any response to our prayers. 1 John 5:4 says, "For whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." Faith is vital to overcoming and Revelation declares that overcoming is vital for every Christian. We are not called to be passive, to coexist with evil, or to learn to tolerate sickness and sin. By faith we rise up, live in agreement with God's Word, and enter into a state of victory. When we are tempted to be weak or give up, we are told to "gird up the loins of our mind" (1 Peter 1:13) by strengthening our minds with the truth (Ephesians 6:14).
There are many promises to the overcomer. Revelation says:
Most of these promises to the overcomer are prefaced with a very important instruction, "He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches" (Revelation 2:7,11,17,29, 3:6,13,22). The instructions of the Holy Spirit give us faith to believe in God's promises, faith to continue walking in His instructions, and faith to implement His instructions in the nature and character of an overcomer.
I finally realized that my place was no longer with the evangelistic team and returned home to Quakertown to sort out my life and find God's direction. One night after reading my Bible and praying as usual, I fell asleep and dreamed an unusual dream. I saw myself standing on a platform, preaching to hundreds of people. The anointing of God was strong on me, and I preached with tremendous power. Interestingly, I didn't only dream the dream, I physically participated in it. As the power of it grew, it became so strong that it shook me awake, still preaching and still shaking under the anointing.
As I lay there trembling, I became aware that God was doing something in a divine dimension that I did not see or even understand. What was it? Was He revealing that somehow, sometime, somewhere, I, a girl from a lowly, country home, would preach to hundreds? What did God have in store for me?
Chapter 11
CULTURE SHOCK IN THE NIGHT
"And I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel." (Isaiah 45:3)
The tropical sun shone brightly as we bumped along the rutted, dirt road leading from the dispensary into town. Bethanie was feeling much better, and I was tremendously relieved to have a new family doctor. We looked about our new surroundings won- deringly as we rode. A few palm trees swaying gracefully offered little shade to the occasional pedestrian. But, the people seemed friendly. Some of them waved and smiled as we passed.
Where would home be?
We were told that during the time that Kalemie was under Belgian rule, beautiful homes were constructed, complete with swimming pools and flowering terraced gardens. Well-supplied shops offered imported foods. A theater provided entertainment The train station boasted uniformed attendants and faultless punctuality. A well-equipped hospital provided excellent medical care. Two and three-decked lake-boats lay in the harbour.
Now, the town of Kalemie consisted of thousands of mud huts in various sectors, surrounding the core of the town. The one-time pride of Belgian colonialists lay a skeleton of its former beauty. African residents did not have the money or the expertise to continue the prosperous lifestyle.
Our Land Rover pulled onto a sandy church compound and parked in front of a weather-beaten frame house. Its windows were like empty, lidless black eyes staring vacantly out of its poverty.
"Why are we stopping here?" I thought. "Surely no one lives here."
To my amazement, a hand waved from the frame window, and a cheery face appeared. Presently, the little woman came bounding outside, hugged us all soundly, and greeted us as if we were long lost friends.
"You can stay with us until you find a place, though it isn't much," she grinned as she led the way inside. Beulah Gardner and her husband, Fred, had arrived only three weeks earlier.
Curious children, chattering excitedly, gathered in a swarm to view the newcomers. They followed us to the entrance as we were guided inside the house, then clustered about the door and vacant windows watching our every move.
As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we surveyed the mission home. The rough cement floors were cracked and bare. Wooden walls were unfinished. There was no electricity or running water. The furniture consisted of several worn, wooden chairs, a simple wooden table, and a bed. Our hostess happily seated us, then busied herself heating water for tea over her little African charcoal burner that sat on the floor. We looked hesitantly about us. So this was Zaire.
The Gardners were excited for us when Charles came in with a joyful announcement a few days later.
"The Lord has provided us with a home of our own," he exclaimed.
Everyone was anxious to see it, so off we trekked down the sandy road, across the bridge spanning the Lukuga River, and up the hill to Kankomba. At the top of the hill lay a mission station that had been built by Brethren in Christ missionaries twenty years before. The compound consisted of a cement block church with wooden shutters and a cement floor, three houses constructed of burned mud brick with tin roofs, and several outhouses. The landscaping was typically meager. Scraggly crabgrass struggled to live in the sandy soil. There were several palm nut trees, some guava trees, and some mango trees that provided shade and food for the compound residents. Two huge trees, similar to elms, stood in front of the house that would soon be our home.
Charles explained that when the local pastor and elders of this church heard of our arrival, they wanted us to live in one of the houses on their compound. Their representative led us inside. The walls and floors were cracked and covered with black soot. Rusted screens on the windows had gaping holes which extended an open invitation to hungry, malarial mosquitoes.
Something hung down over our heads that appeared to be rotted canvas. Evidently, it was once a ceiling. tittle hands sought mine, and a timid voice half whispered, "Mama, are we going to live here?"
"Yes we are, Honey," I answered as cheerfully as possible, "and we are going to make it look pretty."
We moved in and busied ourselves trying to make our home "pretty" and safe. Searching through the village stores, we were elated to find foam mattresses and nylon mosquito nets. Bedroom spaces were designated on the floor, and soon, neat mattress beds canopied with billowing mosquito nets adorned the appointed sleeping areas. Someone lent us a single bed that was assigned to me and our unborn baby of seven months.
A single pipe with a spigot on the end of it brought water into the kitchen. But we soon discovered that water only came twice a week, generally around 3:00 a.m. We found a large empty, metal oil drum and placed it under the tap to be filled whenever water came. We boiled some of the water for drinking and used the rest for laundry, cooking, and cleaning. Water was a precious commodity.
The small room adjoining the kitchen became our pantry and bathroom. We kept a metal basin filled with water on the lowest shelf to wash our hands in. On the edge of the shelf, Charles pounded nails to hang towels and wash cloths on. Our bathtub was a bucket. We learned to shampoo last or our wash water would be filled with suds.
At the end of one busy day, I retired to the bathroom for a bucket bath. The water was cool and refreshing, even if it was scant. Finally, I plunged my head into the bucket, soaked my hair, and applied shampoo. I attempted to rinse but got soap in my eyes. Blindly groping for a washcloth I knew was hanging on a nail, I felt something fuzzy. It wasn't the washcloth. I hesitated, opened one eye a little, and peeked. There, with his hands carefully folded above his head clutching my nail, hung a little bat. How had he gotten there so quickly and quietly?
We had heard unusual sounds in the ceiling. Now I knew what it was. We had moved in with a community of bats. One set of tenants was going to have to vacate the premises, but how does one give an eviction notice to bat attic residents?
One evening, as we stood outside talking, we noticed small flying creatures emerging from under the eaves of the house in droves. It was a bat exodus. Evidently, the tiny residents felt our noise level was too high for their liking and found quieter quarters.
After busy hours of work and planning for our growing family, sleep was a welcome time of renewal. One night after Charles tenderly kissed me good night and securely tucked in the mosquito net, I fell asleep only to be startled awake when the quiet of our makeshift haven was pierced by foreign sounds. From the valley below, beating drums and drunken voices rose as some kind of orgy began. Evidently, local beer, called pombe, was contributing to the volume level of native revelry. The sounds of chanting rose ominously. They were accompanied by driving drum beats that wafted menacing winds of fear right into my heart.
Hour after hour the chanting voices continued, and the pulsing drum beats throbbed relentlessly. Fear of the unknown etched its own dread into the scene. It had been twenty years since missionaries fled from Kalemie or were killed during the Simba Rebellion. Local church members wel- comed us as new missionaries with open arms, but we weren't sure if the unchurched residents endorsed that welcome.
Were some of the people still carrying animosity toward whites? Did our presence revive repressed resentments from colonial rule? Were they angry with the arrival of foreigners? Would roots of bitterness rise unrestrained and emotions become inflamed while they were under the influence of locally-made booze? Would this party remain in the valley or were they planning a visit that would express their disapproval? When recalling past atrocities, this wasn't outside of the realm of possibility.
In the solitude of darkness, I had a much more enlightened view of the situation we had come to be a part of. The prophetic words that had been proclaimed over us during the glory of church conventions didn't mention confrontations by foreign darkness and ignorance. The promises sounded wonderful then.
I tried to sleep, but the atmosphere was sodden with sultry sin. My heart froze. I prayed, then dozed. More drums. Another hour passed. When and how would this end? Delving into my store of memorized Scripture and hymns, I began a quiet recitation.
"Not by might, not by power, but by my Spirit saith the Lord" (Zechariah 4:6).
"Perfect love casts out fear" (1 John 4: 18) .
"Anywhere with Jesus I can safely go."
"I will trust and not be afraid" (Psalm 56:11).
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty" (Psalm 91:1) .
"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night" (Psalm 91:5a).
The Word worked, and I slept. When I awoke again, at 4:00 a.m., the party was finally over. In the stillness, I had time to think.
Our situation resembled the word that God gave to Abraham, Moses, and Joshua. He showed them the land, gave them a promise, and then told them to go and walk it out. He said to Abraham, "For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed forever. Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee" (Genesis 13:15,17).
To Moses he said, "Every place whereon the soles of your feet shall tread shall be yours" (Deuteronomy 11:24Cj.). Then, He passed the same promise on to Joshua, "Moses my servant is dead; now therefore arise, go over this J ordan, thou and all this people, unto the land which I do give to them, even to the children of Israel. Every place that the sole of your foot shall tread upon, that have I given unto you, as I said unto Moses" Ooshua 1:2,3).
When God gives us promises, they are never really ours until we walk them out. The problem is, the promises given on the sunlit mountaintop of glorious church conventions may not gleam as brightly in the valley of obedience when enshrouded by clouds of opposition. However, the end result of victory is not dependent upon the circumstances surrounding it. It is dependent on the truth of the Word offaith. Though circum- stances seemingly change for the worse, the Word remains the same. Truth cannot lie.
King Cyrus did not understand the ways of God, but God sent His servant Isaiah to explain some principles of divine authority to him.
I will go before thee, and make the crooked places straight: I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron: And I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel (Isaiah 45:2,3).
Does God allow darkness? The Word says He does! In fact, He explains that treasures are found in the darkness, that hidden riches are found in secret places. A natural example of a treasure found in the darkness is the diamond. A diamond is formed under high temperature and pressure. It is the hardest naturally occurring substance and one of the most valuable. The most valuable diamonds are completely colourless. Imitation diamonds may resemble genuine diamonds so closely that only a jeweler using scientific testing can tell them apart. However, imitation diamonds are softer than genuine diamonds and may show scratches and other signs of wear.
God knows exactly how much pressure and heat we need to make us scratch-resistant. If our scratches are on display, or if we are clouded by sin, unbelief, self-centredness, fear, etc., we can expect more heat if we are to become genuine. Isaiah 45:7a says, "I form the light, and create darkness." When God is finished turning up the heat in the darkness of our trials, scratches won't mar the reflection. Cuts and blows will only serve to create a more beautiful jewel, a many-faceted jewel that reflects the wisdom and precision of the Master Craftsman.
Moses knew what darkness was. In Exodus 20:21, "the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was." The people were afraid of the tangible darkness that they saw. The magnitude of this divine phenomenon terrified them, but God was there and Moses knew that He was. He entered into the darkness with confidence, he met with God and returned with the greatest governing laws that man has ever known, the Ten Commandments.
God used darkness as a means of protection when Pharaoh pursued the Israelites Joshua 24:7). "And when they cried unto the LORD, he put darkness between you and the Egyptians, and brought the sea upon them, and covered them." The darkness was a tool of deliverance in the hand of God. It became a hiding place while the sea rolled back and a miraculous path was laid to liberation.
Faithful Daniel, who prayed three times a day, was betrayed by his peers and thrown into the lion's den by a misguided king. This Daniel, who had interpreted the king's dream, had boldly declared, "He revealeth the deep and secret things: he knoweth what is in the darkness, and the light dwelleth with him" (Daniel 2:22) .Did those words come back to mock him as he sat in the dirty darkness? This man of integrity and sterling character believed his God to be of even greater integrity, and He was. God sent His angel into that darkness to shut the lions' mouths.
David experienced the darkness as he was pursued by jealous king Saul. He had been anointed for rulership by the prophet Samuel, but the caves he hid in were a far cry from palace living. Where was the prophetic word that promised honour when he feigned madness in order to escape from a heathen king and spittle drooled from his mouth? Where was the promise of greatness when only discontented men, in distress and in debt, sought his leadership in the cave of Adullum (1 Samuef22:1)? Yet, it was David who wrote in Psalm 139:12, "Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee." And in 2 Samuel 22:29, he announced his faith when he said, "For thou art my lamp, O LORD: and the LORD will lighten my darkness."
No one knew more than David the darkness of the human heart, the deceit of the enemy, and the frailty of man. But when the love of God exceeded all expectations of mercy, and grace restored the repentant king even after an adulterous affair, David wrote, "Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness: he is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous" (psalm 112:4).
As we follow God by faith through the unknown paths of divine guidance, may patience protect us from aborting His plan when darkness hides the victory from view. Every great man or woman of God has learned that God is the God of the darkness as well as the light Therefore, be strong and of good courage. Arise! Go with God!
Copyright © 1999, Fern Crouch Willner (Quoted with permission of the author.)
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