The life story of Arthur Gordon through 1963 in his own words
I was born March 12, 1925 on a farm near Unionville, Pennsylvania, a small village in southeastern Pennsylvania. It is a typical small village with a post office, general store, service station, etc. The surrounding countryside is farmland. The land is not real hilly or flat, more rolling.
My father's nationality, a few generations back, is Scotch and Irish, and my mother's, two generations back, is English. They of course do not speak with an accent unless it might be a southeastern Pennsylvania accent. I had a brother who died of lockjaw (from an infected vaccination) when he was six and I was three. I cannot remember him. I called him Charlesee; his name was Charles. I called my mother and father "mom" and "dad", and still do. They call me Art.
Violet Charles
Dad's name is Charles N. Gordon. Mom's is Violet M., and was Whitworth before married. Mom and Dad live in an apartment above us, in the house they bought when I was a Sophomore in high school in 1941. They occupied the whole house until my family moved back to Pennsylvania in 1957 after I was released from the hospital. We moved into the downstairs and they upstairs.
I suppose you would say my story began even before I was born, back with my grandfather, whom I called "Grandad." He was truly a godly old man--I remember him as old, actually he was in his sixties and seventies when I knew him. He sort of reminded me of what Abraham must have been like.
W.H.Gordon (Grandad)
Grandad had eleven children, two died, he reared nine. My main recollection of him was as he sat in his swivel chair in the shop--he owned and operated a plumbing business, my dad and uncle worked for him--thumbing through his well-worn, dog-eared, very soiled Scofield Bible. He knew his Bible well. He had a real burden for his children and grandchildren. He gave each of the grandchildren a Scofield Reference Bible upon their graduation from high school.
Grandad's Bible
Grandad directed two Sunday schools in two chapels on the Lord's day, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon. These were the only services held in either of these chapels and most of the people did not attend elsewhere. So what they got in Bible study, they got from him.
He always managed to leave a witness with the salesmen, customers, and friends who frequented the shop. They would talk for awhile about things in general, then he would begin to tell them of something he told his classes on Sunday, and before they left they had heard something of the gospel. One minister in the area said Grandad had done more for the cause of Christ than many ministers. Some folks would stop by the shop just to hear him tell of his experiences with the Lord.
Well, as I said, I think this is where my story began. I know Grandad spent many hours on his knees in prayer for his family. Most of his family have shown the results of those prayers with their interest in the things of the Lord.
It was through Grandad (her father-in-law) that Mom came to know the gospel. She used to think, as a child and young adult, that by keeping the Ten Commandments one was accepted with God. She wanted to go to Heaven, and feared Hell, and she knew she wasn't really keeping the Commandments, but she thought if she tried real hard, everything would turn out alright. If the preacher of the church where she attended preached the gospel she never recognized it.
Grandad used to send Mom tracts through the mail and when talking to her would invariably bring into the conversation something he had taught the previous Sunday. Gradually she saw the difference between what she thought God required and what He really requires of us--not slavish obedience to law, but faith in Christ.
When I was three, in 1928, we moved from Unionville to Russellville where we now live. Russellville is also a small village set in a farming community in southeastern PA, a little more south than Unionville. It too has its general store, a garage, a service station, a plumbing shop (Dad's and uncle Harold's), a paint shop, with about 30 homes and some 100 people. Dad and his brother have been running the business since Grandad died in 1948, Our village lies south and west of Philadelphia, about 50 miles.
Shortly after we moved here Mom was asked by another lady to help out in the Sunday school in the local Baptist church. At the time there were no preaching services and the Sunday school was small. Mom taught one class and the other lady the other class. Shortly, though, a minister, Charles N. Garrett, was called and Beulah Baptist Church got back on its feet.
Beulah Baptist Church where Art attended
I guess these were the three main elements or influences in my life that brought me to the place of recognizing the rule of Christ in my life--Grandad, my mother, and this church. It wasn't until much later, however, that I surrendered to Christ.
From my earliest recollections I have gone to church and known about Christ. Our first preacher (not the first in the church, for the church was founded in 1823, but the first when we were connected with it) was thoroughly fundamental and preached the Word of God faithfully and fearlessly. Several were saved and added to the church. I was one of the large group of children during those years who were baptized and taken into the church. I am sorry to say this didn't mean as much to me as it should have, but I knew the "language" and qualified to become a member.
As I look back, I can see that my main interest in life, as with most young people, I suppose, was to have a good time, which for quite a few years centered in baseball. I used to eat, sleep, and spend most of my time thinking about, talking about, or playing baseball. I spent hours bouncing a rubber ball off the steps in front of our house. I could play a nine inning game in this way. I pretended I was the pitcher, the steps the batter. When I hit a certain spot on the steps it was a strike, another spot was a ball. When I hit neither of the spots and the ball bounced back, it was a grounder or fly, as the case might be. Sometimes the ball hit on the edge of the steps and flew over my head which was an extra base hit. I would bat stones and play a game in a similar manner.
Sometimes we kids of the village would get together for a game. Two of us might get together often for a game of catch. Once in awhile we would coax an adult to get us a game with another village. I played on the Oxford High School team as a Sophomore, Junior and Senior. I attended OHS from 1939 through 1943, when I graduated. Our team didn't do so well, I think we won one or two games, but we loved to play, and I think no one loved it any more than I. I was no Mickey Mantle, but what I lacked in skill, I made up for in desire.
I was a country kid. Kind of bashful. Tried most of the more common vices, but was never really shackled by any of them. I tried chewing tobacco one day on my uncle's farm. The hired man, whom we called Shorty, claimed chewing tobacco "cut the dust" from his throat while putting up hay. I took a cud but after about five minutes had to make my exit to find a place to lose my lunch. I tasted Shorty's wine but it tasted too much like medicine. I tried to mock some of the swearing I heard but never became too efficient. I was more or less afraid to take God's name in vain. I smoked for awhile, but always ended up by throwing the pipe or cigarettes as far as I could throw them.
I had many of the childish episodes most kids have. Like the time my cousin Sue Donnelly (now Mrs. Fred Crozier, missionary with her husband and three children to Alaska) and I had a disagreement over her leg ache. We along with some others were walking the half mile to school. We attended a one-room country school. The day was blustery and Sue complained of having a leg ache. I told her it was only her imagination. She said it wasn't. I said it was. Next thing I knew a guided missile in the form of a lunch box was whizzing by my head. She missed, and picked up a dented lunch box. We continued on our way, and I suppose argued over something else before we got to school.
All of us kids went to church more or less regularly. Morning and evening services, Sunday school and Young Peoples' meeting. I never made my appearance at the prayer meeting. I got to the place where I thought I couldn't understand (too young, you know) the preacher. So I begged off from morning services for awhile. Anyway I hated to help take up the offering. And I could hardly wait to get home and to the funnies to see how Dick Tracy was making out.
The Young Peoples' Meeting and the evening services were more interesting. Not the actual service, but the by-play that went on when we thought the preacher or the one officiating wasn't looking. When I see young folks doing the same today, and how disgusting it looks, I realize how disgusting we looked to others who had come to really worship the Lord. Too often, I am afraid, we made those meetings in our church little more than "boy meet girl" affairs.
As I look back, I can clearly see that I was a hypocrite. For the benefit of the adults of the church I was pretending to be something I wasn't. When I was with the gang that swore and told foul jokes, I could join in. When with those who gave testimony to Christ, I could give a testimony of a sort. I had the name of a Christian, but certainly not the heart of a Christian. I did most of the things Christians do. I was apparently moral, honest, and clean cut, but not always so. I wasn't noticeably any worse that the rest of the kids. I think the term that the adults used of us was "They are 'good' kids." But the Bible says "There is none good." And I was a hypocrite. I was a little "white-washed sepulchre," from outward appearances nice and clean (with a bit of normal orneriness, of course), but full of deadmen's bones.
I was somewhat aware of the deadmen's bones inside of me. I knew I wasn't what I should be. But I didn't give too much thought to it. I guess I thought I could consider those things later. I was afraid to die and meet God, but that was quite a while in the future, in the meantime I had life to live, which for me seemed to consist in mundane things like being entertained at the movies, playing a ball game, etc. Only at night when alone in my room and sometimes in church would the haunting reality of eternity crowd into my thoughts. But I wouldn't entertain those thoughts long, and to salve my conscience I would drop beside my bed and pray my stereotyped little prayer for Mom and Dad and me. I might even do God a big favor by reading a verse or two, picked at random from the Bible, and then jump into bed, my religious duty done for the day.
Throughout grade school and high school I was about an average student. I didn't like to study. Sometimes tests and other demands in school caught up with me, then Mom and I would have several sessions with the neglected books until I could pass the test. She was very patient. I was very trying. On occasions we would get into a rather heated (most of the heat on my side) discussion over something I wanted but which she knew I shouldn't have. One such discussion ended with me rushing out of the house "hopping mad," Mom following pleading with me to calm down and not do anything rash, I got in my car, backed out of the lane, and rushing the motor tore up the road as fast as the car would go, leaving Mom standing in the front yard, looking wistfully after her foolish and selfish son.
I often wondered what she did when she got back in the house. I have an idea she prayed, as was her habit. I only went about a mile when my conscience smote me bitterly. I swung in a lane and turned the car around, only this time more gently, and headed slowly home. I was sorry for my behavior and apologized for my brief, but foolish, episode.
When I found it necessary to take my problems to someone, that someone was always Mom. I was reluctant to go to anyone with problems, but she was the one who generally heard them in the end. Dad and I shared our love of baseball together. Dad managed our home town team for several years. I attended every game. Sometimes I would have an opportunity to fill in, though yet very young, when a player failed to show up. After the twilight games some of us would sit around till the stars were out and the crickets and kneedeeps were singing merrily down by the creek, we would sit around discussing the pros and cons of the game. Dad and I used to play catch a lot. He taught me how to throw a "round-house" curve and knuckle ball, and how to field a grounder. Often after the game we would sit around the score book and study the different plays and the batting averages, etc.
Dad and I enjoyed doing things with the car together. It was a great day, I remember, the day we traded in our '28 Pontiac for a '32 model. It was Saturday afternoon, and we picked up the "new" car on our way to a ballgame. I don't know who was the proudest or the most excited, Dad or me, I do know I was thrilled; maybe Mom was but she never let on. She was always the practical one. Can we afford it was her first concern. Dad buys first and asks the price afterwards. At any rate we, Dad and I, shared these interests together. And we had a lot of fun.
After high school I had two deferments from the army to work on my uncle's farm at the north end of our village. I worked there from June '43 to July '44, when I told my uncle I didn't want any more deferments. I wasn't really being patriotic, however, I just didn't want to be called a "4-F" by the others who had to go.
In July '44 I started my hitch with the army. I left from the Pennsylvania Train Station in Coatesville, PA, our first stop being New Cumberland, PA, where we were processed and introduced to army life. From there I traveled to Fort McClellan, Alabama, near Anniston where I took my basic infantry training.
After basic training, around December '44, the hardened (?) soldier came home for furlough. But for the grace of God this might have been my last furlough, or my last anything else for that matter. I had my furlough the same time a high school buddy had his. We went in the same time, but he went to the Paratroopers. His name was Fulton. We called him Goat; I don't remember why. One night during furlough Goat and I met in Oxford (the high school we had attended was here, it is about five miles south of Russellville, a fairly large town, but not a city), he was driving a '38 Mercury, I was driving Dad's '38 Chrysler.
Art's Dad's 1938 Pontiac probably purchased after Art wrecked his 1938 Chrysler
I pulled alongside Goat and yelled out the window, asking him if he wanted to race. I told him my Chrysler could beat his Mercury any day. He pulled out in front of me and we were on our way. I hugged his bumper till out of town, then the race was on. I wasn't about to let him stay in front so I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and was starting around when we came up behind another car. Goat pulled out and swung around the other car which forced me to drop behind a little, but then my turn came to pass the other car. Again I floored the accelerator and started around, even though we were going up an incline in the road. I was just beside the car when we crested the hill. Just then two headlights flashed in my eyes, directly in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and tried to squeeze between the oncoming car and the one I was passing. But no sooner had I hit the brakes when there came a dull thud and my car swerved crazily down the highway, on the wrong side, and came to rest (still rightside up) in the opposite gutter only a few feet from a telephone pole.
I sat for a brief moment, reached and turned the radio off, and then pushed open the creaking door and stepped out onto, what I thought was a running board, but it wasn't there. The driver of the oncoming car had swerved enough to the right when he saw me that a head-on collision had been avoided. The sides of both cars were badly damaged. When I think of how nearly I was the cause of possibly several deaths, it makes me shudder.
The police came, and Dad came, and we all sat in a car while the policeman wrote down the facts. Of course it was evident I was in the wrong, the drivers of the other two cars knew I was racing and as well passing on a grade. The policeman said, "You were racing, weren't you?" With a flippant air I answered, "Oh, I wouldn't say that." After writing some more, he turned to me and said solemnly, "You'll get a notice to appear in court soon, no doubt you'll have your license taken away." Still flippantly (but somewhat shaken and scared underneath) I answered, "Well, you'll have to come to Germany to get me." That was about all that was said.
I am sure only the grace and providence of God prevented a much more serious accident. Even though I was outwardly unmoved by this accident and openly rebellious at the proper processes of law, inwardly I was very much moved and even repentant. I had learned my lesson not to use an auto as a plaything. I finished my furlough and reported in at a center in Washington, D.C., where we were processed and made ready for our trip overseas. From there we traveled to New York where we were with very little ceremony herded aboard a troop transport, a "Liberty Ship."
Down in the hold of the ship we made ready, as best we could, for our trip to Europe. We were classed as "replacements." That meant we were to fill the ranks made vacant by the wounded and dead. My hammock was in a tier of four or five, I can't remember for sure, and somewhere in between. I think there was one above me and two below. I just had room to swing myself and my duffle bag in under the one above. We were too crowded to turn over. The hold, built originally to haul other commodities, was filled to capacity with American GIs. The whistle sounded, we felt the ship quiver as it pulled away from the dock. Up on deck we watched the New York skyline slowly disappear over the horizon. It gave me a lonely feeling. We settled down, sprawling on the deck wherever we could find a place. At dusk we made our way, one by one, below to our hammocks in the hold which would be "home" for the next 14 days.
I knew absolutely no one on the ship. I had plenty of time to think. The others found things to occupy their time, like shooting craps, playing cards, telling and hearing dirty stories, swearing, laughing, shouting humanity filled that hold. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. This was the backdrop and the atmosphere where the greatest transaction of my life was to take place.
One night, about four days out of New York, I ventured to another part of the ship to see a movie that was being shown for the GIs. This was January, 1945. The ship was lurching from side to side in the rough Atlantic Ocean. I was very sea sick, and was becoming more and more soul sick. The film was a typical American love story, with lustful, sexy, suggestive scenes. For the first time in my life I saw the disgraceful production before me for what it really was. I was thoroughly disgusted with such suggestive antics. I left the movie before it was finished and made my way back to my hammock. I felt miserable all over.
As I lay in my hammock, I realized I had at last come face to face with myself, and I didn't like what I saw. I was being forced to come to grips with reality. I knew that there was a strong possibility that I might not return from the war alive. I was afraid to die. I was afraid to meet God. I was afraid of Hell.
As I lay there alone with my thoughts (not really alone with hundreds of men all around, but as far as I was concerned, there were just two in the hold of that ship, God and me) I began to pray, as tears welled up in my eyes and rolled down my face. I prayed something like this: "Lord, I've played into the hands of Satan long enough; I've been his tool long enough; deliver me from Satan!"
I lay still and quiet for a moment, then reached for the New Testament Mom had given me when inducted. I opened it at random and read the first words my eyes fell upon. The words leaped out at me from the page. "AND THE GOD OF PEACE SHALL BRUISE SATAN UNDER YOUR FEET SHORTLY. THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST BE WITH YOU!" (Romans 16:20). All I could say was "Thank You, Lord." I knew God had heard my prayer and that this was His direct answer. Peace flooded my heart. I had found liberty on that Liberty Ship. From that moment my life took on new dimensions.
Prayer for the first time became meaningful. I thrilled at the promises I read in my New Testament, promises I had read and heard before, and some I had even memorized as a child in Daily Vacation Bible School and Sunday school, but now they were full of meaning for me. It was as though God was speaking these words to me for the very first time. My New Testament contained also the Psalms, these became especially precious. Mom was claiming the 91st Psalm for me at home. On the fly-leaf she had reminded me to claim this Psalm for myself. It became very precious.
Now when movies were being shown in the hold, I would find my way up on deck, where I could lean against one of the air vents and gaze up into the star-studded sky. I could now look to Heaven with the confidence that everything was right between God and myself. I would pray quietly while looking heavenward, with the realization that I was being heard by Him who had put those stars there. God was very real and near to me.
Almost immediately I had a burden for souls. I told God one night that I wanted to be a soul winner. I also covenanted with Him to go to some Bible school somewhere if and when I got out of the army. I don't remember having many conversations with other humans on that trip, but I had plenty of conversation with God. I guess I prayed more on that trip than I had prayed all the previous years of my life, and certainly with more purpose and pleasure. No longer did I pray the frightened prayer that characterized my previous praying, but now my praying was mostly in the form of thanksgiving and praise.
Finally our ship nosed into the harbor at LeHavre, France, about the middle of January, '45. We disembarked into very strange surroundings, were immediately loaded into cattle cars on a slow-moving train, and for the next few days almost froze as we chugged our way into Belgium. From Belgium we went to Holland where as reinforcements we joined the 2nd Armored Division.
The 2nd Armored had suffered many casualties in the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium some weeks before. The company I joined had only a handful of men left, and my squad had been wiped out but for one man. We were to fill the ranks and after a few days of rest would push on into Germany. The American and allied troops were already far into Germany. We spent the time in Holland doing only occasional duty and not much else but to eat and sleep and to more or less get acquainted with our new buddies.
Art in Germany
I spent most of my leisure reading my New Testament. It was my constant diet. I couldn't get enough of it. If I sat down for a few minutes, out came the little black Book. The other fellows found things to keep them occupied. They played poker or shot craps, went to the movies, or just "shot the breeze" with one another. Most of them pretended not to notice my Testament. But you could tell they thought it strange that I would rather read the Bible than join in their "fun."
I say most of them pretended not to notice, but one fellow made no such pretense. There's one in every crowd. He seemed to take special delight in ridiculing my devotion to the Word of God. He called me "Holy Joe." He wise-cracked me every chance he got. I can't remember his name. It might have been George. He was on the heavy side and got a nickname accordingly: "Lardy" or "Pork" or some such name, I can't remember for sure. He was lackadaisical. Cared for nothing, no one. Liked to eat and sleep. Was almost impossible to get awake for guard duty in the middle of the night.
For my benefit mainly, he claimed to be an athiest. One day he told me his opinion of the Bible. Said he defiantly, "I would just as leave use the pages of the Bible to wipe up a mess as I would a paper towel," or words to that affect. This burned me. Said I hotly, "Yes and I would just as leave punch you in the nose." He dared me to. But, not being much of a fighter, I didn't take his dare.
Soon we were riding our half-tracks toward the front lines in Germany. Our first encounter with the enemy happened as we traveled in convoy through the German countryside. Our convoy stretched for miles along the country road lined with trees. To our immediate right was a large grove of trees. We had stopped for a five minute break when suddenly a German plane came zooming at tree-top level over the grove and across our convoy. We hadn't heard it and didn't know it was there until right overhead. Visions of being strafed on the open highway flashed through my thoughts as most of us ran for the gutter. However, some of the men, mostly old-timers at war, jumped into the half-tracks and swung the 50mm machine gun mounted at the front of the conveyance toward the fast departing plane and began firing. You could see the tracer bullets streaking toward and around the plane, then suddenly there was a puff of smoke, the plane turned nose down leaving a streak of black smoke behind, and being only a few hundred feet up, crashed immediately in a brilliant display of fire and smoke. After the excitement subsided, I couldn't help think of the unfortunate pilot, no doubt just a young fellow like ourselves, with a mother and father waiting at home for him and maybe a wife and children. Soon we were on our way again.
The next encounter took place a short time later. We could hear our own artillery guns booming in the distance as we approached the front (still in convoy). The firing came closer and closer until we were actually beside the guns, and then past them. We were now somewhere between our own artillery and the enemy. We entered the outskirts of a town in the dead of night, no talking, no noise, no lights. We slipped quietly from our conveyances into an unlighted building and were told in a whisper to find a place on the floor to rest until further orders. It was actually so dark we couldn't see our hands in front of our face. I was wondering how we could fight under such conditions, when we couldn't see one another, let alone the enemy.
My thoughts were cut short by a terrific explosion and a brilliant light outside the window, and men scurrying about. We jumped to our feet and fell over one another getting to the door. Up the street a few feet an army truck loaded with gasoline had been hit with a hand grenade. Truck and all exploded. Men were running every direction, no one seemed to know where to go or what to do. This is how it seemed to me, a very "green" soldier at this war business. I guess someone had the situation in hand. At any rate we were soon ordered to spread out in a nearby orchard and to "dig in."
So we set about digging fox holes where we could wait for further orders. When my fox hole buddy and I got about two feet down we struck water. Now what to do? We moved to one side and began to dig again. Struck water again. An alert was passed to us that the enemy was planning an attack at dawn. We were to sit tight till then. Having no way of knowing the time, nor how close was dawn, we dug a few more inches and cautiously, reluctantly sat down in our "damp" fox hole. And there we sat, it seemed, for hours. Long enough for my weary buddy to doze off. He began to snore. I nudged him with my elbow. He woke up. Pretty soon he was snoring again. I nudged him again and said, "we're going to get killed if you don't wake up." He agreed and made a valiant attempt to keep alert. But soon he was at it again. This time I let him sleep, and worried alone.
Directly in front of us was a hedge fence. I could just make out its outline against the now lightening sky. In my mind's eye I could picture German soldiers leaping that hedge and coming at us for hand-to-hand, or bayonet-to-bayonet, combat. I didn't relish the idea. I supposed the German that would confront me would be a hardened, seasoned regular soldier of the German army, and I had never killed anyone in my life, and didn't want to. Well, I sweated out the night and dawn came at last, but no attack.
Just then, however, a shell hit in the wooded area behind us and fragments of hot steel fell all around us. One small fragment lit in the fox hole beside us and sizzled in the water. We crouched as low as we could, waiting for the next one. We thought they had us zeroed in. But it didn't come. Later we learned that it was one of our own artillery shells that had fallen short of its mark. The order was passed down the line to gather in the main street and prepare for our own attack, since the enemy failed to attack.
As we were doing this the enemy was continually lobbing mortar and artillery shells in among us. When we heard the shrill whistles overhead, we knew it was time to hit the ground, and try to find some kind of cover. Once I dived onto a pile of coal in a yard by a barn. As the shell hit a few feet away, I heard a ghastly scream. The medics worked over a figure for a few minutes, a stretcher was brought, and the poor fellow was carried to a waiting makeshift ambulance to be carried from the scene of battle. We learned later, his spine had been shattered by the flying shrapnel. This was my introduction to this awful and dreadful reality we call war. I wasn't happy with it. I was genuinely scared. I wasn't the hero type. Reluctantly I obeyed the order to "move out!" Unknown to us then we had about four more months of this.
As you might imagine, I could fill scores of pages with such incidents in the war. I had many close calls and narrow escapes, but I want to end this phase of my life with the following incident.
We had reached the Elbe River in the heart of Germany. We were in a town on one side of the river, the enemy on the other side. We were exchanging artillery fire. Our corps of Engineers was trying to build a pontoon bridge across the river to get our tanks and heavy equipment across. But the enemy artillery kept puncturing the rubber pontoons and killing the men working on it. The bridge was finally abandoned. It was decided to send across a landing force to establish a beachhead on the far shore which force could drive inland some distance, after which the bridge could be finished and the heavy equipment brought over.
So at 3 a.m. our outfit was loaded in landing crafts ("ducks," I think they were called, as they could go on land or water) and at a given signal we were off for the enemy side of the Elbe. All we had on us was our M1 rifles, ammunition, and our necessary clothing, we didn't even take along our K rations.
As we moved not too swiftly toward the other shore we could see the tracer bullets flying over our heads, and hear the rythmic chatter of the German "burp-guns." It was pitch dark. We had no idea of what awaited us on the other side. I imagined the worst.
But again the worst didn't happen. We landed successfully. Reorganized on the edge of the beach. Pushed inland a few feet. Found empty fox holes and trenches. Settled down in these and waited for dawn. At dawn came the order to proceed single file inland.
Before we had gone far (our squad of 12 men) a bazooka shell hit the ground nearby. We hit the ground too, No one was hurt. We cautiously moved forward. Just over a hill and hiding behind an embankment we spied some seemingly disorganized German soldiers. When they saw us they jumped to their feet with their hands in the air in an attitude of surrender. Apparently they had fired their last shell with the hope of getting all of us at once, and when they didn't, all they could do was surrender. They had no other weapons or ammunition as our search revealed. The sergeant turned to me and said, "Gordon, take these prisoners back across the river."
My squad proceeded inland as I escorted the prisoners back to our MPs. After turning them over to the Military Police on the American side of the Elbe, I was preparing to recross in another "duck" to join my squad when I was told there would be no more crossings for awhile. So I wandered down through town looking for my half-track, and something to eat.
Finally I found it parked along the street. The driver was no where to be seen. I hunted out a "K" ration, debated a moment whether I should sit in the half-track and eat it, and then catch a catnap among the blankets that were strewn all over the floor, or whether I should hunt up the driver. I decided upon the latter course.
After looking in several houses I found the driver asleep on a bed in one of the bedrooms of a brick house. After recounting to him my escapades and of the squad since we left him, I ate a bite and flopped on another bed in another room.
But before long my snooze was rudely interrupted by an explosion just outside the house, which shook the house, and sent me sprawling on the floor. After regaining my composure I crept to the window and peeked out. In the street sat our half-track, split almost in two. The shell had lit in the driver's seat and all but demolished the vehicle. As I examined it closer later on, I shuddered to think what I would have looked like if I had followed my first inclination to take my nap there. The steel armor plating on the sides of the machine was peppered with shrapnel holes, the blankets where I would have been lying were torn to shreds.
During the time I had left the squad to bring the prisoners back, the enemy had put on a pincer-drive and had cut off our men, who because of the enemy tanks were forced to surrender. The Germans were directly across the river again and were in fact coming across to our side at different points, as they counter-attacked. Our entire company was captured or killed. The few half-track drivers and the Service Company, and a few who didn't participate in the original crossing, and myself included, were obliged to pull back and leave the town to the enemy. Our track wouldn't run so my half-track driver and I hitched a ride on another one as we made our exodus.
Some few miles back from the front we bivouacked and set about reorganizing our companies. A month later, the war ended. A month after that my former squad made their reappearance, emaciated but happy to be free from the concentration camp. They said they had little to eat, but not much cruel treatment, as the Germans were running scared with the Americans and Russians so close to conquering them.
The amazing thing to me was that my old "friend" who called me "Holy Joe," was actually civil to me. He had evidently softened up some. The first thing he said when he saw me was: "Well, Holy Joe, I guess you have something after all that we all need." That was quite an admission coming from him. Of course he referred to the fact I wasn't captured. The men who were captured were sent home for furlough and to spend the remainder of their hitch in the States. The 2nd Armored was sent home. I was transferred to another division to finish out my hitch in the occupational forces.
New York harbor
A year later, in May and June of '46, I was once more making preparations for a boat trip across the Atlantic. It took eight days this time to travel from LeHavre to New York. In a few days we were deprocessed and on busses headed toward home.
At home most of the folks of my acquaintance had heard of my spiritual experience, my letters were full of it. Some no doubt regarded it skeptically, having heard of "fox hole experiences" before which didn't last. But the love of God had indeed been shed abroad in my heart by the Holy Spirit, and I was a new creature in Christ. The first Wednesday night at home I attended prayer meeting in our church, something unheard of before in my pre-army days. I prayed for the first time in public. Sue, who threw the lunch bucket at me when we were kids, was present. She told me afterward she couldn't hold the tears back. She had hoped my experience was genuine, but didn't dare count on it till she heard me pray, then she knew something drastic had happened to me.
That summer of '46 I searched for a school to study the Bible. When I walked into the Bible Institute of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia, I knew this was the right one The place attracted me. It had a two year course which pleased me. They taught only the Bible and a few related subjects which was what I wanted. Dr. Wm. A. Microp was president and Dr. Arthur B. Whiting was dean. Both were excellent teachers as well as wise and kindly counsellors.
It was at BIOPA that I learned to preach. Preaching was the farthest thing from my mind when I started my studies there. The first year was more or less uneventful, with studies and exams and some practical work. I did meet a girl that first year who caught my eye and captured my heart. We were engaged that summer of '47. The second year began and my goal was still to be "only" a Bible educated farmer, soul winner? yes; preacher? no! I remember our pastor, during my first year at BIOPA, Rev. Harry O. Cook, standing one day in our kitchen and asking me what I intended to do after graduation. I stammered a bit and answered that I intended to be a farmer. He looked puzzled and asked me why I was attending Bible school. I said, "To learn more of the Bible."
Somewhere in the midst of the second year things began to change. I didn't recognize it at the time. I can see now how God was leading. In one of our classes we were required to have some sort of regular practical work. I asked Grandad if he could fix me up with a Sunday school class in one of his chapels. He was glad to do so and the next Sunday afternoon I was teaching a class of Junior-age children. I think I learned more than they. I found the bashful country boy could talk before a group of people.
Then one day I was asked to speak to an older group of young people. The Young Peoples' group from our church was to visit another youth group in another church and to conduct the entire service. I was in Bible school so it was natural they should ask me to speak. I went with fear and trembling but got through it alright. I don't remember what I spoke on, something from the Bible of course, something on salvation I suppose. Some years later a young lady got up in our church to give a testimony and she dated her salvation back to a Young Peoples' meeting that had been conducted in this same neighboring church in which I had preached. There was no doubt, as she described the time and place, that this was the same meeting. She had been converted under my very first sermon. She said she couldn't remember who spoke nor what he said but that she became aware in that meeting for the first time in her life her urgent need of Christ as Saviour. When I heard this I quietly thanked the Lord. Sometimes it is best, I am sure, that the human instrument be unknown. This gives more glory to the One who "gives the increase." But I was glad the Lord let me know of His working through me in this way.
A short time later I was asked to speak in my home church at a Sunday evening service. We had a larger-than-usual turn-out to hear the local boy preach. Many complimented me and were very kind. One man exclaimed afterward, "Boy, you certainly can get loud!" I hadn't realized that I was especially loud. I guess I was. I have observed since that sometimes we shout the loudest when we have the least to say. The message I preached was entitled: "SONS OF GOD." My two main points dealt with the questions: What does it mean to be a child of God, and How do we become a child of God? Under "What does it mean," I pointed out it means: Absolute Security, The Supply of Every Need, Real and Lasting Joy, Real and Lasting Peace, and Infinite Glory and Bliss Hereafter. Under "How do we become," I pointed out we all are Offspring but not Sons, that the unsaved are children of Satan, and that we Become sons of God by Receiving Christ.
About this time I was asked to preach on a gospel team being organized by one of the students at school. Apprehensively I agreed. We traveled every weekend for many weeks after that, singing and preaching the Gospel, in many different churches in the area of and around Philadelphia This was the school year of 1947-48. This was good practical experience as well as an opportunity to serve the Lord. Some of our experiences on these weekend trips were humorous, some disappointing, but some very rewarding spiritually, for us and I am sure some of the folks ministered to also.
Marilynn Boggs entered BIOPA the same year I did ('46) and we graduated together in '48. As I said we got acquainted the first year, were engaged between terms during summer vacation, and we were married the same evening of our graduation exercises. This was June 4, 1948. We were married in my home in Russellville by my pastor Rev. Harry O. Cook. Marilynn was from Ohio, the town of Coolville, near Parkersburg, West Virginia. The Lord was good in giving me Marilynn, she has been a perfect helpmeet, a faithful and loving wife, and a devoted servant of God.
Art & Marilynn Gordon - Wedding Day - June 4, 1948
Before leaving BIOPA I had a counselling session with the dean, Dr. Whiting. I asked what seminary he would recommend. During the second year I felt the Lord was leading to further training for the ministry. Dr. Whiting gave as his first choice Dallas Theological Seminary and his second Grace Theological Seminary. He graduated from Dallas. We decided to go to Grace at Winona Lake, Indiana.
On our honeymoon my wife and I visited the campus of Grace and in September of '48 I was enrolled as a student in their two-year special college course. During the first year, our first son was born, Jack Eugene, March 29, 1949. I worked part time to support my family. Following college, where I received an Associate of Arts degree, came three years (actually seven semesters) of seminary work. Our second son, James Edwin, was born January 8, 1952 and our daughter, Joyce Elaine, August 29, 1953.
1953 Family Photo in Indiana
Art Ordained to Preach
the Gospel - 1953
While in seminary, in January of '53, we accepted a call to the Salem Community Church, northeast of Winona Lake about 15 miles. I served as pastor until May of '55. We lived in the parsonage and I commuted back and forth to school each day. I graduated from seminary in the spring of 1954 with a Bachelor of Theology (Th.B.). We terminated our pastorate the following year, as I said, and moved just east of Cincinnati, Ohio to a small town called Williamsburg.
There we intended, with the Lord's direction, and working under the auspices of the Lindale Baptist Church, to establish a Baptist church in Williamsburg. We had two weeks of special evangelistic meetings and established regular weekly services. Before long we had 25 people attending regularly. I procured a job with Strietmans Biscuit Company in Cincinnati to support the family until the church was big enough to become self-supporting. Everything was going forward at a steady pace and nicely. We were busy in the Lord's work, happy, looking forward to great things.
Then one day in August '55, Jack and Joyce became very ill. It appeared they had the flu, the doctor diagnosed it as such and gave them appropriate medication. But they didn't improve. Their fever continued. We were concerned. On the afternoon of the 15th I noticed Joyce couldn't raise her left arm but part way up. It struck me immediately, I told my wife, "These children have polio."
Jack vomited and strangled and then talked very peculiarly as though he hadn't control of his throat muscles. We consulted the doctor, he called the Children's Hospital in Cincinnati, we loaded Jack and Joyce in the car and were on our way to the hospital. Some very frightening and tense hours followed.
After examination, Joyce was declared to have upper spinal poliomelytis, affecting her left shoulder mainly, and Jack had the dreaded bulbar polio which paralyzes the throat muscles and prevents swallowing. Joyce was even then on the mend as her temperature was almost down to normal, and she had only slight paralysis. The examining doctor gave us only a glimmer of hope for Jack. He said, "IF he pulls through, he will be left with very little or no paralysis; that's how bulbar polio works," he said. But he warned us that the prospects of pulling him through were slim.
But Jack too, before long, began the long trip back to health. They were in time transferred to a convalescent home and after some months were home again. Our other son, Jim, had the flu-like first stages of the disease but developed no paralysis, so he remained at home with his grandmother, Marilynn's mother.
We took the children in to the hospital on the 15th, and on the 21st another member of the Gordon household was admitted to the then familiar contagious ward of the General Hospital in Cincinnati. A few days after the children were stricken, I began to feel ill. I became weaker as the days went by. I seemed to be feverish. I left work early one afternoon and when I arrived at the hospital to visit the children, I told one of the doctors how I felt, and that I suspicioned I was coming down with polio. He suggested I go home and stay in bed for a few days. I found out later, the doctors thought my condition was sympathetic hysteria because of my children's affliction, and that I would with a little rest get over it.
I went home and to bed, but grew gradually worse. A neighborhood doctor gave me medication for flu. My whole body ached. The muscles all over my body quivered with spasm. Saturday morning, the 20th, (of August), I tried to get up to go to the bathroom, but found my legs wouldn't bear my weight. Sunday morning I couldn't move my legs at all, except for a slight back and forth movement.
Marilynn called one of our men of the church to come help her get me into a car to take me to the hospital. My legs dangled and dragged behind as they carried me to the car. At the hospital two attendants and some nurses loaded me from the car onto a hospital four-wheel cart. Soon I was being examined via a spinal tap to see if I really had polio. The test showed I did. So on to the cart again, down an "L"-shaped hall, into an elevator, and up to the contagious ward on the second floor. I had made this same route many times as a visitor and anxious parent, but now as a patient. Down through the two long columns of respirators and beds they pushed me, and then gently deposited me on a freshly-sheeted hospital bed.
As the day wore on, my breathing became more and more belabored. Every few minutes an intern would appear with a strange looking machine to measure my vital capacity (breathing capacity). They never told me how it was. They didn't have to. Breathing was more difficult all the time. By evening I was panting for my breath and was perfectly willing when the suggestion was made that I should be put in an iron lung.
Example of an iron lung
I can't remember the actual transfer to the breathing "monster." I had a high fever and was out of my head off and on for the next two weeks. I had horrible dreams of being locked up in the lung, half submerged in water, at other times tumbling down a steep hill, and then out under the blistering sun without anyone to roll the lung and me into the shade. During a few rational moments I worried about how long my internment might be. I couldn't stand the thought of spending the rest of my life in such close confinement. I had said to my wife, the first time we visited our children, and saw those respirators with human heads protruding from a little hole in the end of them, "I could never stand to be cooped up in one of those things." Not two weeks later I WAS "cooped up in one of those things." And it was saving my life.
I had one sad experience with the iron lung. We never knew for sure what happened. One day I found the lung wasn't supplying me with enough air. I began to gasp for breath. I was trying to breathe twice to the lung's once. I broke into a sweat, called for my mother who was helping Marilynn with attending to their three patients, I told her my trouble and passed out. While unconscious I dreamed I was ascending a long flight of stairs which disappeared at the top in the clouds. I could see myself about one-third of the way up, climbing slowly but deliberately, a step at a time, toward the top. I will leave the interpretation to others better qualified for such things.
The next thing I knew I was peering up at a circle of faces belonging to white-clad doctors, nurses, and attendants. They had a positive pressure apparatus pressed to my nose and mouth. I could hear the rythmic staccato breathing of the machine nearby. With each revolution a burst of fresh cool air filled my lungs. It felt good to have my lungs filled with air, when just a few moments before I was frantically trying to get even a little but to no avail.
Soon they had me locked securely in the lung again, and it breathed me well, but I never really trusted it after that. The idea that I might have to spend the remainder of my life in it sometimes almost made me frantic with apprehension.
All movement in my legs disappeared. I moved my arms and hands continually just to see if they were losing their muscle tone. Gradually they became weaker. Soon one arm was limp. I would reach across my body with the other one to position it. Then the other arm and hand went. The paralysis crept up into my neck. It became very difficult to turn my head. I would try to turn my head to see if I could. One side of my jaw became stiff and it was difficult to open my mouth. I wondered what would be next, maybe the dreaded bulbar. But the disease stopped there. Then came the protracted waiting period. Wait for the temperature to go down to normal. Seemed like it never would. Wait for strength to experiment with breathing and breathing equipment.
I was in the iron lung about a month. During that time, after the fever subsided and I felt somewhat better, I made a decision that changed things for the better, at least from my standpoint and particularly for my attitude. I was in the iron lung -- that was the gruesome fact. I didn't know for how long. About that time a Bible reference came to mind which had a special message and significance for me at this juncture of my life. "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding; in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." ( Proverbs 3:5,6).
I did trust the Lord, I knew that, I had ever since my experience on the Liberty ship. I guess I had forgotten to do so fully in this present experience, however. But things would be different. Indeed I couldn't understand this present development in my life, but I was now determined, with God's help, not to lean "unto my own understanding," but to "trust in the Lord with all my heart." The sixth verse convicted me. "In all thy ways," it exhorted, "acknowledge him." I wasn't doing that in this situation. My head and heart were too occupied with forebodings for my future. His promise, if I would acknowledge Him in ALL my ways, even in this hard way, was that He would "direct my paths." What could be better than that? I determined to do so.
I had my wife bring in a little wall plaque which we hung above my head on the door of the iron lung, in plain view of passers-by.
That same day I looked up at my Physical Therapist, as she exercised my limbs, and asked her: "Miss B_______, did you know that God loves you and that Christ died for your sins?" She looked at me in surprise, then forced an embarrassed grin, and promptly changed the subject. She looked as though she thought I had had a relapse. I didn't get far with her but what was important to me then, and what thrilled my heart, was that I had stepped out on the wonderful highway of acknowledging my Lord in my present circumstances. I knew He would keep His part of the bargain. I wanted to make my iron lung my pulpit. This is what I told a young psychiatrist later as he questioned me to find out my reaction to my paralysis. I also quoted Romans 8:28. He just stood and stared at me as I talked, then he shook his head and quietly walked away. He never came back.
The Lord was very gracious to me at this time. He allowed me to see some definite fruit from my witnessing. As I look back I think one reason He let me see these conversions was to bolster my morale, to let me know that even in a supine position one might be useful to Him, and of course we know He wanted these ones to be saved. I'm glad He let me share in this wonderful work of His.
It all started shortly after my vow to acknowledge Him. One of the student nurses was making her final round of patients and saying her good-by for the day. She came beside my bed and started a conversation about something or other. I was out of the lung now and on an oscillating bed (rocking bed). I asked her if she went to church. She said yes. I asked her if she was saved. She said she didn't understand. I explained what it meant, telling her that church could not save, only Christ. She showed some interest so I had her get my New Testament out of the cabinet by the bed. I asked her to open it and read aloud John 3:16. She only got about half way through the verse when she burst into tears. I asked her what was wrong. She didn't know, but couldn't stop crying. So I quoted the verse and also John 1:12 and again explained the way of salvation. I then asked her if she wanted to be saved. She said she did. I asked her if she would bow in prayer and tell the Lord that. She said she couldn't pray. I said, "Then let me ask you this question: Do you here and now accept Christ as your Saviour?" She nodded assent and uttered a barely audible yes. I prayed for her and she departed for her room, still sobbing.
I never before had such a ready response to my witnessing. I was thrilled to say the least. While in my little church in Indiana I had spent many hours on my knees on the cement floor in the basement of the church pleading with God for a fruitful ministry. I told Him I wanted a fruitful ministry at ANY COST. I was never fully satisfied with my ministry to date. Maybe this affliction was the "any cost" the Lord required to give me fruit for my labor. I don't know why it had to be this particular affliction, but I do know I saw a response I had never seen before through my witness.
That same evening a roommate of this nurse came to see me. Her first words were, "What did you say to L_______ that made her cry so?" I explained the plan of salvation to her, and said that's what I told L_______ . I invited her to receive Christ. For awhile she said she couldn't. She recognized her need and that Christ was the answer, but she wouldn't yield to Him. But finally she too burst into tears and said an emphatic "Yes, I will!" I could hardly believe my ears and eyes. Was this actually happening to me? Two souls within just a few hours? I couldn't move a muscle below my neck, but my heart was doing spiritual gymnastics. I couldn't shout, in fact couldn't talk much above a whisper, but I had something to shout about. My wife and my mother and brother Doan, pastor of the Lindale Baptist Church under which we were working at Williamsburg, all shared my jubilation.
We hear much of physical and occupational and psychological therapy, but this was therapy of a different nature which God was giving His afflicted child, maybe we could call it spiritual therapy or therapy for the soul. At any rate it helped change my outlook on life, even a life imprisoned inside a paralyzed body. I realized as never before, God's power to save was not limited (but in fact increased and activated) by the weakness of the vessel being used. I just revelled in His very evident nearness and His working with a minimum of words or work on my part. His Word had so much power when just read or quoted. It would almost immediately and almost invariably strike a responsive cord in the hearts of those talked to. It was wonderful to just lie there and watch the Sword of the Spirit do its work. My mind was being turned from my own physical condition and limitations to the spiritual condition of others around me, and God's unlimited power. It did me a lot of good.
On the night shift of that same 24-hour period, another roommate of L______, a Hawaiian girl, was on duty. In the middle of the night I awoke and needed some attention. I called for S_______ and she came to my bedside. After my needs were attended to we got into a conversation. Then S______ asked me what I had said to L______ to make her cry. I explained the gospel of Christ and salvation to her as I did the others. She listened attentively. When I finished I asked her if she had ever received Christ as her Saviour. She said no. I asked her if she now understood what Christ had done for her and what she must do to be saved. She said yes. I said, "Would you bow your head and tell God you believe and receive His Son right now?" "Yes," she said in a matter-of-fact way. I must confess I was getting somewhat skeptical by this time. It all seemed too easy, maybe I wasn't making the claims of Christ stiff enough, maybe they don't understand. Here was the third positive response within ten hours. But we had come this far and I couldn't turn back now. I assured myself too that Christ had done the hard part of our salvation, by dying for our sins on the cross, and after all, all the Bible requires of us is to "believe." And certainly these three girls seemed to be doing just that.
So I told S______ to bow her head, and I would close my eyes, and to tell God what was on her heart, and tell Him she was here and now receiving Christ as her Saviour. I waited but didn't hear anything. I peeped a look and saw her lips moving in silent prayer. When she finished I asked her if she prayed as I had suggested. She said she did. I asked if she were satisfied God had heard and answered. She answered in the affirmative. After we reviewed the verses in John again, I prayed for her and she went on about her duties. It had been done so matter-of-factly by this girl I wondered if she really understood. She showed no emotion whatsoever, as did the other two. But it became evident in subsequent days and even years that she did indeed understand, and that God had wrought wonderfully in her heart.
Miss L______, at the time of her conversion, said she couldn't pray. I was somewhat concerned about this, not that it was necessary to be saved, but I wanted her to know how to pray. A few evenings later she and her two roommates paid me a visit on their off-duty hours. When it was about time for them to leave, I asked L______ if she would lead us in prayer. I really expected her to decline. But she readily agreed. She prayed wonderfully, very sincerely, and as though she was on intimate speaking terms with the One whom she was addressing. What thrilled me most was that she also prayed for me. It was an evidence to me that God had wrought the miracle of the new birth in her heart.
During the next few weeks at General Hospital, I talked with many concerning their relationship to Christ and several more made decisions beside my bed. They came back often to visit and to tell me of their progress or regress in their new-found faith. They had many questions.
Art with chest respirator which was used during the day
This is a rocking bed which was used at night to sleep. This is a time lapse picture to show how the bed rocks. It rocks 18 times a minute but can be adjusted as required.
I was transferred from General in January, 1956, to the Children's Hospital in Columbus, Ohio, the Rehabilitation Center for post-polios with respiratory involvement. There was only one other polio patient, a young lady, at the General who stayed as long as I. We were the last to leave the contagious ward, not that we were in isolation all that time or still in the contagious stage of the disease but we were too weak to travel. But finally the day came for my departure. It was a wintry January day. I was loaded onto an ambulance cot, whisked up through the ward into the elevator, down the long "L"-shaped hall, and out through the doorway I had entered some four months before.
It was rather a frightening experience to be going out into the big, cold world again, especially without the power to breath normally. My thoughts were: "Will the brisk air take my breath? Will the batteries which power the portable respirator last the trip? Will the driver go too fast?" The driver asked if he could smoke. We gave our consent. But the smoke almost strangled me, after breathing smoke-free air for four months. Riding backwards, lying on my back, was a new experience. And it seemed we were going much too fast. The battery I was on ran out of energy as we entered Columbus. Our nurse quickly switched to the spare battery. I was glad when we sighted my new "home," the Children's Hospital. The Rehab Center was occupying the east wing of the hospital, called Seller's East.
It was in this hospital and during the next 13 months that I was equipped and made ready (as ready as possible) to face the world outside in a paralyzed condition. It was here I learned to use a "mouth-stick" to turn pages and type on an electric typewriter. It was here I perfected an artificial style of breathing called "frog breathing" or technically "glossophyrngeal breathing," which allowed me some freedom from respirators, and more confidence in case of power failure. It was here I learned that I could still do some of the things humans like to do to feel, at least to some degree, independent. It was here, through the suggestion of a psychologist, that I got started in a writing ministry. It was here I gained the strength and know-how to sit in a wheel chair the biggest part of the day. All kinds of tests and experiments transpired at this Rehab Center as the efficient staff tried to suit the proper equipment to each individual case so as to make them as mobile and active and useful as possible. By the time we were ready to leave, most of us had found some niche we could fill in life and to make a contribution in some direction or capacity.
My desire for a ministry in God's vineyard was taking new forms now. When in seminary, my desire was to preach in some capacity, either as pastor, evangelist, or missionary. I thought I was well on the way when in my first and second pastorates. Then polio suddenly put an end to my pulpit aspirations. Personal witnessing became my main concern then. Then one day, as I stood strapped to a "tilt table," in the recreational room at Children's, the staff psychologist came to me and began questioning me on several subjects. She was good at asking questions. On this particular day, the lady psychologist dropped a seed-thought which, unbeknownst to her, and to me at the time, was to eventually sprout and grow into a definite and fruitful and soul-satisfying ministry for God. She asked, "Have you ever considered writing for publication?" I confessed, "I've never written anything, maybe a sermon of two, but they were disappointing, and anyway, I couldn't write if I wanted to. How could I write without hands?" I was feeling a bit low that day and was kind of sarcastic. This was before I had tried the "mouth-stick" with the typewriter. She assured me they could find a way if I wanted to try. The day came when they pushed my wheelchair under a table which supported an antiquated electric typewriter. They handed me a "magic wand" (the nickname for the mouth-stick) and I found I actually could put my thoughts down on paper. It was laborious but rewarding and encouraging. But I COULD write. and I DID write. And have been doing so ever since, with improvements along the way.
I had an interesting experience with the lady psychologist one day. She was plying me with questions as usual. I stopped her and said, "You know, ever since I have come here, you have been asking me questions. I would like to ask you some questions sometime." To my surprise she made an appointment for the following day, to do just what I said. I guess she thought this would be an excellent opportunity to examine me further and to find out the workings of my mind. I'm sure she didn't know what I had in mind.
The next day at the time appointed she came sauntering up to my bedside with a pleasant smile. She pulled up a chair, made herself comfortable, then said, "Well, where do we begin?" I began much as I did with the Physical Therapist in Cincinnati. I said, "Did you know that God loves you and that Christ died for your sins?" She looked like I had slapped her in the face. She hesitated and then said, "Why, Reverend Gordon, I have my own religious faith, and anyway, I don't think I have ever sinned." Then it was my turn to be taken a-back. I knew she was a divorcee. I said, "Do you mean to set there and tell me that you have never sinned?" "Well," she replied with a sheepish grin, "maybe I have a little." I assured her that God's Word declares us all sinners. I explained that just one offense was as condemning in God's sight as many offenses. I told her we are all guilty and condemned to an eternal hell. But I reminded her we need not perish in our sins because Christ died for our sins. This conversation wasn't to her liking, it was evident from the forced, embarrassed smile on her face, and she soon found reason to excuse herself, had pressing business elsewhere.
After I found I could write I got the idea, maybe I could take a correspondence course in writing. In the meantime I wrote a short manuscript entitled, "CHRISTIAN, MAKE YOUR HANDICAP A PULPIT." It was accepted by the American Tract Society. This was all I needed to get me going on a writing career. Later I took two courses in writing from the Christian Writer's Institute.
Art and family at home in Williamsburg in 1957 with a smaller belt-like respirator around his upper body under his shirt. It inflates and deflates to make him breathe.
Family photo in Pennsylvania in 1959
When my 13-month "course" at the Rehab Center was completed we moved from Williamsburg, where my wife and children stayed while I was hospitalized, to my childhood home in Russellville, PA. We arrived June 8, 1957. In August my "brain-child" was born. The first issue of "TRIUMPH" was mailed that month to 800 addresses we had taken from cards received in the hospital. We stepped out by faith, using that first month some money we had in the bank, not knowing where the money would come for the September issue. We didn't know how long we might be able to continue. But the response was immediate, letters came pouring in, some contained gifts. We had enough to publish a second issue, and the next, and the next, until this present date (March, '63).
Maybe I shouldn't claim it as MY brain-child, for it was of God from start to finish. He gave me the idea, and the title from Second Corinthians 2:14. He gave us the money to begin and to continue. He has directed me in the selecting of material to put in it. He has given us our readers, one by one, usually through other readers. He has shown us that it should be written especially to the sick and shut-in. He has comforted and encouraged us on this end that we might be used of Him to comfort and encourage others on the receiving end. He has blessed in numerous ways. Hundreds upon hundreds of letters have come in during nearly six years of publishing "TRIUMPH," telling of blessings received.
The mailing list has grown from 800 to over 4600. The cost has grown too, but always miraculously met, in large part by sacrificial giving on the part of shut-ins, elderly and afflicted persons. Our first publication and for two years was mimeographed. In August '59 we began having it printed, as it is today. It contains six pages of devotional material, geared especially to the afflicted.
"TRIUMPH" is sent to every state in the Union and to several foreign countries. We marvel daily at God's goodness to us in giving us this ministry. He has proven faithful time and again. To God be the glory!
I have written four tracts since my first one. I write a column weekly for our local newspaper. In it I always present Christ as the answer to every need. I wrote for several years a religious article for a secular quarterly magazine, but this is now discontinued. I write for a weekly church paper in Ohio. This is about the extent of my labors, but manage to keep pretty busy. I do all the typing of the material for my paper and other publications with my "magic wand" on an electric typewriter. I have gotten rather proficient in the art of typing with a stick in my mouth, if I do say so myself. Kind of hard on my jaws though. In the hospital I could type 20 words a minute. I can go about twice as fast now. At any rate we get the job done, my stick and I, (even this rather lengthy article), and of course with the help of my good wife.
Needless to say Marilynn is my legs and arms. We promised with our wedding vows, "through sickness and in health . . . " We have shared both together. She has been faithful wife, mother, nurse, mechanic, secretary, business manager, treasurer, cook, proof-reader, errand "boy," chauffeur, counsellor and consoler, and even surgeon at times (toe nails, you know -- ingrown!), and a whole lot more to our little family.
Mom and Dad live upstairs. Mom helps around the house, and frequently "baby"-sits. Dad is the general handy man. He usually ends up bringing my ideas into actuality. He kiddingly says, "No! not again, not another one of your ideas." But with my brain-storms and Dad's practical ability we have things pretty convenient for a quadraplegic.
I have a motor-powered (electric) wheelchair. We have a "switchboard" where I can turn off and on with my mouth-stick such things as the typewriter, radio, light, etc. My portable respirator sits behind me on the chair, and the cord is held suspended so I can move freely from room to room. We have the telephone at a height and angle that I can reach and operate with mouth-stick. After six years we have everything pretty handy, and I am about as independent as one in my condition can be. The Lord has been good. The National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis has footed most of the bills for my equipment pertaining to my ailment, respirators, etc. Everyone has been exceptionally kind. Our Christian brethren have shown much love and compassion. Our relatives, friends, and neighbors have pitched in to help where necessary. Many folks help with the folding, stapling, addressing, sorting of "TRIUMPH" each month. Many service companies and persons contribute their services without charge or a minimal charge. We are deeply thankful to one and all and especially to God who sees to every need.
