Airplanes and boats—those were my “things”! In junior high I enjoyed the shop class the most. It was during WWII, and model planes were needed for purposes of identification. I built eight of them. I also built a rude kayak for the Slippery Rock Creek, and it floated! Later when my dad was called to Orlando, Fla., to pastor the RP Church there, I built an eleven-foot boat and secured a cheap secondhand Waterwitch motor for it.

My dad was willing and eager to help me build that boat, and he kept asking me for my plans. But they were all in my brain, not on paper. The airplane flying models that I had built had top view and side view perspectives for the fuselage. I could visualize my boat that way, and I finally drew on the concrete floor of our garage a top view and a side view. That was my vision of my boat. I’m not sure my dad ever “saw” the same thing I saw when looking at it.

During those days Florida Aircraft was hiring high schoolers for summer work. They rebuilt Stearman PT-17s, the primary trainer for the Army Air Corps. I really enjoyed working there, first in the fabric department, then the next summer on the “teardown” crew. I realized that when they tore off the fabric from the top of the upper wing, it had no holes in it. It was perfect for covering my boat! When I told the boss what I wanted and why, he gladly supplied the fabric. And by the way, I still like boats and airplanes.

Why am I telling you all of this? It had been my dream to be able to join the Air Corps and earn my wings. My older brother was a navigator on a B-17 bomber with the 15th Air Force, and I dreamed about cruising through the air in a fighter like a P-51 Mustang or a P-38 Lightning. When I turned 17, with my parents’ permission I joined the Army Air Corps. However, one had to be 18 to go on active duty. Like most of the guys my age, I was eager to get into the military. There was an aura in the country during WWII that made us all eager to win that war.

I didn’t get to go to the Army Air Corps. In the spring of 1945 President Roosevelt died in office and shortly after Germany surrendered. I was released from the Air Corps, but immediately the Navy pilot training program began looking for recruits and I was accepted. I could exchange silver wings for gold! They stationed me at Emory University in Atlanta and I resumed a rugged regimen of college classes.

When I had enlisted in the Air Corps and learned I could not go on active duty until the following summer, I responded very warmly to a program under the military called Army Specialized Training Reserve Program (ASTRP), which was available for high school graduates. I finished my high school studies at the end of the first semester and entered ASTRP at North Georgia College, a two-year military school. This meant I did not have occasion to finish my high school math, physics, and chemistry courses. This program made me stretch; and, being a military school, it required disciplined study from us. I passed all my courses. I was there when the European conflict with Germany ended. I was given the option to get discharged. And so I did.

What I’m leading up to is that it was during my studies at Emory in Atlanta that I lost my motivation to study. The war would soon be over, and I confess I was disappointed. And there were girls. The consequence? I flunked out of the program and was sent to bootcamp at Great Lakes, Ill. Let me say without embarrassment that when I learned I had washed out, I stood behind the Emory dormitory and bawled. I had resigned from the Air Corps and had washed out of Navy pilot training. And it was all my doing. It would be much later that I would realize that this turn of events would be the first step in God’s making His call clear to me. And how I thank Him for not washing me out. He had a plan for me; but, before I would be open to that plan, my own agenda had to be scrapped. My own laziness and shallowness had taken care of that!

A relatively short experience at sea brought me to my time for discharge.

My dad was always strong on youth conferences; and, even though living in Orlando, he and Mom brought my younger siblings all the way to the youth conference being held at Geneva College in Pennsylvania. I was discharged at Bainbridge, Md., and joined them. While there I renewed my friendship with Norman Carson. We first met at the Winona Lake, Ind., conference in 1938. I also met Bob Tweed and many others. I must say I was impressed by these contemporaries, but I was not impressed with college. I’d just flunked out of college; and my hopes of becoming an aeronautical engineer had gone down in flames. Frankly, I had no reason to go to college.

As it turned out, the pressure of the friendships, the provision of the GI Bill covering my college costs, and the quiet influence of my parents’ prayers finally moved me to enroll. Actually, I didn’t have anything else to do, so why not? In that vacuous mentality I was guided by Dr. David Carson to take a conglomerate of courses. At least I knew from my experiences at North Georgia College and Emory University that math and science held no intrigue for me. But the courses I did pass in those previous semesters brought me to Geneva as a sophomore. That fact was to confront me with a crisis.

My folks had been reared in what I would call stable, Christian households. When my father had returned from a three-year assignment with the RPCNA Foreign Mission Board on the Island of Cyprus, he and my mother, a flu-epidemic widow, were married. Mom had a child from her first marriage, and he would be the oldest of five other siblings. It was normal in our home to participate in family worship each morning and evening. Dad was a biblical preacher so we grew up with the knowledge of the truth of the gospel. And since we could sing, it wasn’t long until we were singing four-part harmony. That’s where we learned in general how to read music. Sabbath afternoons we picked favorites and “sang around,” as we called it. We had the best of backgrounds, though we were a Depression family.

When I had left for the military, then, I had gone with much biblical knowledge. When my mother died, I located among her things all the letters I had written to her while in the service. What startled me when I discovered them was how often in one way or another I referred to God. Yes, I considered myself a Christian and always took the historical Christian position in discussions or debates. But I confess that even though this was true of me, I did not read my Bible. I used my Bible to store the money of my drinking friends who knew I did not drink. One night I went to a ship’s prayer meeting a couple of guys were leading. A Marine began to ask questions about the gospel. He was afraid if he confessed Christ, his buddies would give him a bad time. After a good bit of discussion, one of the leaders called on me to share my experience as a Christian, and I was flabbergasted. If he’d asked me some objective question about Christianity, no problem. But he asked about my experience. I stumbled through a response and then excused myself. Later that night I stood on deck looking over the rail at the sea, realizing what a hypocrite I was. I believed the Bible, but my life seemed to have no spiritual purpose. I was convicted, but not enough to seek God’s help, though I’m sure I uttered some words in His direction.

When I came to Geneva, I began to worship with the College Hill RPC. Bob McMillan served as pastor at that time, and his preaching was poignant. Students packed in around the members, filling the choir loft just to find a place to sit. Pastor McMillan knew we veterans were there along with the other students, and we felt the conviction of the Spirit as he opened God’s Word. He didn’t preach long because the dining hall would be serving lunch on campus, and the students couldn’t be late. His preaching was quite personal, driving into the conscience; and I often went back to campus under deep conviction of sin. I would never miss the evening message; my soul was being fed and I knew it.

Now what about this crisis I mentioned when I was a sophomore? In those days one was required to declare a major at the end of his second or sophomore year. I felt the pressure mounting as we moved into second semester, so I began to pray, asking God to show me what He wanted me to do. But I had an addendum: “Don’t make it the ministry.” While all this time I had no clue what I was going to do, I was clear that the seminary and the pastorate were not it. Nothing happened. I just became more frustrated and agitated. It got worse. Thirty-six majors from which to choose. None of them held interest.

As God increased His Spirit’s crunching of my soul, I finally was given the grace to yield. And there on my knees in Patterson Lodge I surrendered to Him: “Lord, whatever you want me to do, I will do it…even going to seminary.”

As I’ve thought about that, I can remember many debates on board ship as to whether Jesus is God or not. I always took the biblical position. He was/is God in the flesh. And yet I have no recollection of ever having treated Him as God until that day He brought me to surrender. If He is God—and I believed that He is—then He has full rights to my life. Finishing that prayer, I got up from my knees with an unburdened—even light—spirit. I had surrendered my life to His will for me! I quickly chose an English major—it was easy for me and I liked it—and went on my way.

Six weeks later four of us who were working at Midland Steel that summer packed into Roy Blackwood’s aunt May’s Ford club coupe and went to our denominational conference at Grinnell, Iowa. During that week a “consecration service” was conducted when Pastor Cloyd Caskey preached. In the course of his sermon he said, “We believe God is calling some of you to become pastors or missionaries and we want to talk with you. The congregation will sing the last Psalm and leave while singing. You who believe God is calling you to the ministry or mission field, remain.” I began to shake. That call came right to my soul, and I was afraid and reluctant. Should I say I was stubborn? I went to the exit, terrified to leave, scared to remain. But by the grace of God I was persuaded I must stay. This was the answer to my prayer. This was His call on my life! I must obey.

I stayed. Now I knew this was His call, not to airplanes or boats, but to people; and I was called to bring them His Word. I have never doubted His call. That day I set my course to follow His call. That was in 1947. I have never looked back.

—Ken G. Smith is a retired RPCNA pastor living in Beaver Falls, Pa. He is the author of several books including Learning to Be a Man.