Stories tell us a lot. In this account of one Reformed Presbyterian family, we are offered glimpses into the struggles and joys of Christians in decades past.

These stories are taken from a new autobiography of Dr. William Joseph McFarland, member of Topeka, Kan., RPC and past president of Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pa.

While the autobiography, entitled My Time on the Clock, covers his family heritage and his life thus far, we chose to focus on the “early days” of his family. The other stories are just as engaging, but we didn’t have the room to print them. The book is available from the author and from OutskirtsPress.com.

The Wild West story of the Cherokee Strip was so unusual that we printed a more detailed story on pages 8-9, taken from a yet-to-be-released book written by A. J. McFarland and published by his son Robert (Joseph’s brother). —Editor

The Clan

During the clan era the McFarland (MacFarlane) Clan members were nearly all engaged in raising sheep or cattle on the rough hills of Scotland, bordering the west edge of Loch Lomond. It was during this period that neighboring clans began to refer to a full moon as “McFarland’s Lantern.” This was because the McFarland Clan had a reputation for conducting their roundups at night, under a full moon, and was not particular about whose cattle were rounded up!

Neighboring clans soon learned to take special precautions to protect their cattle whenever a full moon was shining. Though I can’t fully verify the accuracy of this account, I have occasionally wondered how my grandfather got into the cattle business in Kansas and Oklahoma!

In truth, the McFarland Clan appears to have been a small clan located on the western shore of Loch Lomond in Scotland. The tradition and background of the McFarland family with which I have been associated has always been that of the Protestant Scotch Covenanters of Scotland and Ireland. However, Moncreiffe, in The Highland Clans, records that during the early 1600s in Scotland, a Walter Macfarlane fought on the Catholic side and “was fined by the victorious Covenanters for having fought for Charles I.” When Oliver Cromwell invaded the still independent kingdom of Scotland, Walter held out against him until his castle of “Inveruglas” located on an island in Loch Lomond, near Arrochar, was burned to the ground by the “Roundheads.” Another McFarland stronghold was on the island of Eilean-a-Vow near Tarbet on the western edge of Loch Lomond. In visiting that area several years ago, I found that some of the stones and footings of the “McFarland Castle” still remain on the island. Loch Sloy, which was the McFarland battle cry at the time, is now the name of a small lake located near there.

Parents

My parents, Armour James McFarland (A.J.) and Sylvia Jane Louise Hutcheson, were both members of large farm families, characteristic of the turn of the century. Dad was the third of nine children—six boys and three girls, though only seven survived to maturity. Mother was the fourth of nine children—three boys (one of whom died at birth) and six girls.

Father’s Family

The only one of my four grandparents that I remember well was my grandfather James Calvin (J. C.) McFarland (1862-1948). I was a freshman in college at the time of his death. His wife, Nancy Belle (Young) (1872-1934), my grandmother, passed away when I was only 5 years old. A man of humble background, Grandpa lived until the age of 86 during a period in history that has always fascinated me. Never a large man, only about 5’8” tall, I can imagine he sat pretty comfortably in a saddle. Smaller men generally made the best cowboys. By all accounts he was a good judge of horseflesh. Some who knew him as a young family man in Billings, Okla., told me, “He dressed like a beggar but he always rode prime horses with an expensive saddle. We knew he had means.”

He was involved in raising, trading, breaking and selling horses for most of his life, and was a participant in at least two unique historic events: One was an encounter with the Dalton Gang, and the other was running in the opening of the “Cherokee Strip” in Oklahoma. Both incidents mirror a period in history when the cowboy lifestyle was the norm in the Midwest. Though often romanticized by fiction writers and movies, the true stories associated with life at that time have always fascinated me.

With only a sixth grade education, Grandpa McFarland migrated from Crown Point, Ind., where his father had been a shoemaker, in order to relieve part of the family’s financial burden. As a teenager, he came west with some of his uncles and, after several years in Billings, Okla., and Orlando, Fla., where he became a charter member of both Reformed Presbyterian congregations, he settled in Sterling, Kan., where he lived for the major portion of his later life.

The Dalton Gang

At the time of his encounter with the Daltons, Grandpa was living in a sod house near Edmond, Okla., where he and several relatives were involved in raising cattle. In September 1891, six of the group decided to search for new land as their range herd of cattle was in need of more feed for the winter. On the trail to Lawton, they encountered two men on horseback who identified themselves as the county marshal and a homesteader on their way to locate the homesteader’s claim. As was customary in those days, Grandpa’s group, in turn, shared with them the purpose of their trip. This apparently caused their new companions to assume that they must be carrying a sizeable sum of money.

As the day wore on, Grandpa’s group gradually became suspicious of their companions, primarily as a result of several strange conversations between the two. Periodically the marshal and homesteader would speed up their horses and talk privately together, then drop back to the group. After the first of these visits they informed the group that there had been a shooting in the county earlier that week and consequently no one in the county was permitted to wear firearms. Since one of the two was the marshal, Grandpa’s group felt obliged to comply and placed their weapons in the wagon. Following another similar visit, the marshal then asked if the group would mind if the homesteader camped overnight with them. This seemed a little strange when the two purportedly wanted to check the homesteader’s claim. Having grown more suspicious by this time, but with no solid reason to refuse, they agreed to let the homesteader stay. Because of their suspicions, however, they decided to keep a fire burning in camp and took turns posting an armed guard at the edge of their camp. In the middle of the night, their guest made some excuse to leave, and rode off.

Though they remained suspicious, they had no knowledge of who their companions actually were. They were to find out a year later when, on Oct. 5, 1892, a group of outlaws known as the Dalton Gang were killed while attempting to simultaneously rob two banks in Coffeyville, Kan. By the end of the gunfight nine men lay dead or wounded. A picture of four of the dead gang members was widely distributed at the time and Grandpa and others in his group immediately recognized the “marshal” as Grat Dalton and the “homesteader” as Bob Dalton—confirming their earlier suspicions that they had been in the hands of outlaws on that trip to Lawton, Okla.

The Cherokee Strip

The most dramatic land rush in the history of the American West began with the firing of the starting gun at noon on Sept. 16, 1893. It had hardly rained that summer and the earth had been parched by the heat, so the lush grass that usually waved in the wind was withered by drought. In addition, the grass had just been burned by the soldiers so the surveyors’ corner stones could be found more easily. It was also thought that the grass was burned to flush out “Sooners” who were hiding illegally in the territory in order to be first to stake claims on the choice lands. All of that left black ashes and swirling dust in the air that clung to thousands of sweaty faces. Still, more than 50,000 settlers claimed land that day.

A. J.

Dad, (1899–1962) was born in Billings, Okla., and raised on land that Grandpa obtained at the age of 27 by running in the “opening of the strip.” To my knowledge, Dad always went by the initials “A.J.” I never heard him called anything else. His full name, Armour James, was a family name associated with the McFarlands for many generations, dating all the way back to Scotland and Ireland. My brother, Armour, inherited the name in our generation.

Dad attended public schools in Billings and apparently possessed some recognized prowess as a baseball player. I say that because years later, while visiting Billings with my Dad, we encountered a former classmate of his who opined that he could have played semi-pro baseball, or beyond, if he had chosen to go in that direction. However, that was not the direction he had chosen. In fact, at the time of his birth, his parents dedicated him to Christian service. He was told of this at an early age and, to my knowledge, never resisted that pledge and grew up with the intent and purpose of preparing himself for the ministry.

Dad attended the Reformed Presbyterian Seminary in Pittsburgh, Pa., after college, then took a year of study at White’s Bible College. He and Mother were married in June 1927, and began their first pastorate at Superior, Neb. He pastored both the Superior and Beulah Reformed Presbyterian Churches for seven years. In 1935, he accepted a call to Quinter, Kan., where he again served for seven years. In 1942, he was asked by the Reformed Presbyterian Church to devote full time to the promotion of a Christian Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, a work that he continued until his death in 1962.

The amendment sought to add the words “devoutly recognizing the authority and law of the Lord Jesus Christ” to the preamble of the Constitution. Though never achieved, some view the addition of the words “under God” to our flag salute as a byproduct of the groundwork laid by those working for the Christian Amendment years before. I don’t believe Dad would claim any connection. Certainly he was shooting for more than that. But I think he would be pleased to know there are some who associate his efforts with the addition of those words to today’s flag salute.

A Time to Be Born

My entry into this world came on a hot Thursday, July 25, 1929, just three months before the stock market crashed. Oct. 24, 1929, has the dubious honor of being known as “Black Thursday” because it was on that day that the bottom began falling out of the stock market. Prices at the New York Stock Exchange plummeted, heralding the end of the “Roaring Twenties” and the beginning of the Great Depression. It was the same year that Herbert Hoover was sworn in as president; Babe Ruth hit his 500th Major League home run; Mary Pickford was named best actress at the Academy Awards; and “Star Dust” was the new hit song. The average income was only $2,062; the Dow Jones average was 311; a new car cost $450; a loaf of bread, nine cents; a gallon of gas, twelve cents; and the average life expectancy was 54.1 years. It was an ominous time.

Superior, Nebraska

When I was born, my parents lived in Superior, Neb. I was named William Joseph McFarland, after no one in particular as far as I know. I was called “Billy Joe,” a name that I assume Mother liked and to which I answered until my school years. I was the oldest of three boys, followed by brothers Armour James and Robert Hutcheson, approximately two years apart. In fact, my youngest brother, Bob, and I were born on the same date, four years apart. We were all Depression-era babies, and I have no doubt that many of the formative years of our lives were shaped by those economic circumstances.

Early Achievements

Intellectual stimulation started early in our family and continued throughout most of my school years. Memorization of Bible verses, psalms, the Catechism and poems were part of the normal fare at our house. Mother’s records indicate that by the age of 2 years and 5 months, I knew the first verse of Psalm 23 and eight Mother Goose rhymes. At 2-1/2 years I knew the first page of the Children’s Catechism and could recite five Bible verses.

Music and athletics came later, but at the age of three I had the unique experience of winning first prize in the “Better Babies Contest” at the Kansas State Fair. Apparently, youngsters competed in various age groups and were scored on the basis of their height, weight, length of arms, etc., in comparison to a set of “perfect” criteria specified for children of each age. Just think, I was that close to being perfect! And I suppose that $3 prize made me a professional model! As I recall, from having heard the story repeated over the years, my arms were a fraction too short and my legs a fraction too long to be deemed perfect.

Pastoring Two Churches

Dad served as pastor of two churches while we lived in Superior. One was in Superior and the other, a country church called Beulah, was located about 14 miles northwest of Superior. On Sabbath mornings, Dad would drive to Beulah where he would preach at 9 a.m. Then, while both groups held Sabbath school classes at 10 a.m., he would drive back to Superior in time to preach at the 11 a.m. service. Occasionally they reversed the order of service.

It would seem a heavy load for a young man serving in his first pastorate. During those times I’m sure it was a necessity, and it seemed to work. With both Dad and Mother heavily involved in church and social activities at both places, it made for a busy calendar. I vaguely remember a few of their activities. Dad organized a quartet of young men from the congregations and they rehearsed at our house on numerous occasions. Later, when the three of us boys were grown, Dad and the three of us sang several of those same songs together.

By the early 1930s dust was blowing throughout most of the Midwest. Nebraska was no exception. My first exposure to the direct consequences of a dust storm was one evening when we were at Beulah for a young people’s party. Each person had brought food for refreshments, and it had been placed in a separate room until time to eat. While games were underway, the wind continued to blow and the dust started settling in. There was some discussion about whether or not to continue the party, but most preferred to wait at the church and so continued with their games. When it came time to eat, however, it was discovered that the dust had filtered into the room where the food had been kept, and all the food was covered with a fine layer of dust. Most ate it anyway, but some went home hungrier than when they had arrived.

Remembering the Sabbath

As a youngster growing up as a Reformed Presbyterian minister’s son in a family of three boys, I was schooled at an early age on Sabbath observance. “Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy,” was a familiar quotation in our house. On weekdays, we remembered to remember, and on the Sabbath we remembered!

Many activities normally encouraged on other days were forbidden on the Sabbath. Generally, a significant portion of the Sabbath was spent in memorizing Bible verses, psalms and catechism questions. We were raised on the biblical principle that only acts of necessity and mercy should be undertaken on the Sabbath—all in all, not a bad guide. We understood it was the Lord’s Day, but as youngsters we were still grasping for its full meaning and how it should be observed. Our mixed understanding was subconsciously expressed by an incident that happened while we lived in Superior. I would have no memory of the incident if our host had not told me about it many years later when I was president of Geneva College.

I was about four or five years old when our family was invited to the farm home of one of the Beulah parishioners for dinner after church. After the meal some of us were apparently permitted to “escape” outside while the adults carried on with their visit. After exploring the barnyard in the company of their children for most of an hour, it came time to leave. As we were getting into our car our host asked me, “Did you have a good time?” to which I immediately responded with an enthusiastic yes. Then after a moment’s hesitation, I continued, “Oh, no! This is the Sabbath.”

A Time to Plant

When we arrived in Quinter, Kan., in Nov. 1935, western Kansas was in the midst of the Dust Bowl, and the whole country was in the midst of the Great Depression. Though I grew up in the Dust Bowl during the Depression era, I did not experience it in the same way my folks did. I was not seeking employment, nor was I responsible for supporting a family. Friends my age were all in similar circumstances and, like me, didn’t know any better. But for seven years, some preceding our arrival at Quinter, farmers were unable to raise a crop. The movie The Grapes of Wrath all too accurately depicted the difficulties that many around us were facing during those years. That year the average income dropped to $1,632, and the Dow Jones average dropped to 120, less than half of what it was when I was born. Only at the end of our seven years in Quinter did economic conditions begin showing signs of improvement.

Quinter, Kansas

I have so many memories of Quinter it is difficult to know where to start. Underlying all of them, however, was one constant over which we had no control—the weather. Summers were hot and dry the whole time we lived there. In 1936 we recorded 19 consecutive 100-degree days and a total of 59 days over 100 degrees, with no air conditioning. By contrast, in the past 25 years, the most 100-degree days recorded in any single year were 24 in 1980. Yet today we are constantly being bombarded with global warming warnings.

At the time we moved to Quinter, its population was listed as 495 in the Kansas road map. Since there were five of us in our family we figured when we arrived we made it an even 500. We lived in the parsonage located about 15 yards north of the Reformed Presbyterian Church on the south edge of town. Our phone number was No. 1—a number that had long been reserved for residents of the parsonage. It was, perhaps, the only time when I could truthfully proclaim that I was number one! About a block to the north of our house was the Quinter Grade School. The only thing between our house and the grade school was the school playground. It was an ideal setting for three boys looking for a place to grow and stretch their legs.

Dust Storms

I experienced many dust storms while in Quinter but they all seemed to fall into one of two categories. The most frequent was the type that started with strong winds. The sky would begin to take on a yellowish tint as dust was carried higher into the air. Gradually it would become darker and darker until, eventually, it would get so black that you could see only a few feet in front of you. It might last an hour or two.

The other type, less frequent but more spectacular, resembled a great black cloud rolling along the ground. It could be seen approaching from a distance of several miles. It had the appearance of a cumulus cloud, but it was black instead of white and hung low to the ground. It appeared to be rolling on itself from the crest downward as it approached. As it moved toward you, the landscape was progressively blotted out and when it arrived there was no period of gradual darkness. It was an immediate blackout. Birds and jackrabbits trying to escape in advance of the storm would often perish in them from exhaustion and suffocation. I recall comparatively few storms of this type, but they were ominous in appearance and dangerous if caught out in one, especially during the winter.

That happened to a schoolmate of mine. When I was in the 2nd grade, one of the girls in the 4th grade stopped after school to play with a friend of hers that lived about a half mile from her home. Her stay had been prearranged so her parents knew where she was. Toward evening one of those rolling dust storms appeared on the horizon, so they decided she should go home before it arrived. Apparently it was traveling faster than they anticipated, because she never made it home. Her parents assumed she was still at their neighbors’ home and so were not immediately concerned. Later that evening they called to inquire about whether she should stay overnight or whether they should try to pick her up. Both sets of parents were distraught to discover that she was at neither place. As soon as it was discovered that she was unaccounted for and out in the storm, the “central” at the telephone office started a “line ring” to inform folks of the problem and to solicit help.

Dad was one of those who answered the call and found his way to the house where she had last been seen. It was presumed she was lost somewhere between the two houses, so it was agreed that the men would walk, hand in hand, back and forth between the two homes combing the area. After several hours they found her huddled in a corner at an intersection of four fences. She was partially buried in the powdery topsoil that had drifted in around her. She had balls of mud hanging from her eyelids from crying. Her throat was so full of dirt that she could barely breathe. According to the doctor that treated her, her remaining air passage was only the thickness of a knife blade. Caught in the storm in the dark, she had followed what she thought was a familiar fence; but when she reached the unfamiliar intersection of four fences she realized she was lost and did not know which way to turn. She sat down in the corner hoping someone would eventually find her. The girl survived to adulthood, no doubt having told that story to her grandchildren many times.

Even adults in familiar surroundings could become disoriented in one of these storms. One evening Ella McElroy, a lifelong friend and a member of my parents’ generation, found herself driving home through a dust storm in the country. The storm began to significantly worsen about the time she stopped at her Uncle Elmer’s house, about a mile from home. Her daughter, Marjorie, had been playing there after school. Mr. Graham was actually Ella’s uncle, though everyone of my generation in the Quinter congregation also called him Uncle Elmer. Ella left her car in the barnyard and walked into the house to get Marjorie. But, because of the worsening conditions, she was persuaded not to try to go home and instead to stay overnight.

Today, we associate dust storms with the summer months, but winter storms were not unusual and were all the more deadly because of the extreme cold. This was a cold night, and antifreeze was not in common use, so they decided they would need to drain the water out of the radiator of her car before allowing it to sit overnight. Ella and Elmer made their way through the storm, drained the radiator, and started back to the house. But instead of stumbling onto the gate they were expecting, they ran into a grindstone sitting in the farmyard. Knowing they were disoriented but knowing that the grindstone sat near the chicken house, they groped their way several feet in each direction until they found the chicken fence.

They knew the house and barn were in opposite directions from the chicken house but neither was sure in which direction. After choosing a direction they set out for the house again, only to discover they were walking in the wrong direction when they bumped into the barn. Finding their way back to the chicken house was problematic. It was getting colder, however, so they had no recourse but to start out again, groping their way and clutching to each other as they went. As they wandered somewhat aimlessly in the dark, Ella glanced up to see what appeared to be a ball of fire glowing in the sky. It was a phenomenon neither had witnessed before and one that they could not explain. After reflection, they concluded it must be the windmill that was casting an eerie glow from the friction of the dust particles against the spinning fan blades. Fortunately it had been left on. Groping their way in that direction they were able to find the windmill and eventually make their way the last 10 yards from the windmill to the house.

W e learned to sing in harmony even before our voices changed. Singing psalms a cappella in church no doubt sped up that process. Dad and Mother had good voices and enjoyed singing. They occasionally sang duets together and performed comic opera skits for entertainment. It was generally assumed that if you were a McFarland you sang. So the three of us spent some time learning songs appropriate to our ages and sang together as a trio. “Bill Grogan’s Goat,” “There’s Someone in the Kitchen with Dinah,” and “Opossum Sittin’ on a Hickory Limb” were easy songs to harmonize to and we spent some time perfecting them.

We thought we were pretty good until, while traveling back east, we recorded some of our songs on an early-day home recording device. Though it was largely the fault of the recorder, I’m sure, we sounded like “The Chipmunks.” But all of us continued our interest in singing through high school and college and participated in choirs and quartets at both levels. Armour and Bob spent a couple of summers traveling as part of the “Covichord” quartet during their college years. A good men’s barbershop quartet is still my favorite form of music.

Athletics

Athletic opportunities were as readily available as walking outdoors. The grade school playground, with its softball backstop and high jump pits, was just next door. Dad was interested in sports. He had played baseball in high school in Oklahoma and could still hit the ball a country mile. For many years he was one of the stalwarts on the Synod baseball teams and always took his baseball glove with him to Synod meetings. At that time the Reformed Presbyterian Church Synod routinely dismissed for an afternoon and formed teams to play ball.

Church and Faith

From the time we arrived in Quinter, the central focus of our life was the church. That was the reason we were there. The congregation was comprised mostly of farm families that were severely struggling. They lived close to God but a long way from the church! Their homes were widely scattered and often remotely located on land 15 miles north and south of town. Whatever they had they willingly shared. But the Depression and weather-related circumstances were having a crippling impact on church members, which in turn impacted us and everyone else I knew.

When we moved to Quinter, Dad was promised a salary of $50 per month, if they could raise it. Most of the time, they could not. Once a month the treasurer of the congregation would come to the parsonage with the offerings received that month in a small cloth bag. He would hand Dad whatever was there, and that was what we lived on that month.

Years later, Mother recalled a month when the offerings exceeded the salary by $5 and the treasurer told my folks to “just keep it.” They were making plans for the expenditure of their windfall when, a short time later, the treasurer reappeared and informed them that an unexpected church bill had surfaced and he was forced to ask for the money back. She still remembered the feeling of disappointment years later. Dad usually put all the money in a special drawer of the “hi-boy” dresser so both he and Mother could see exactly what was left as the month wore on. Of course, credit cards were nonexistent.

Like most preachers’ kids, we had our own agenda at times. But I can truthfully say that I never knew a time when I did not know and believe that Jesus Christ was my Savior and single hope of salvation. Family worship was where I learned to read and to sing. Wednesday prayer meetings and morning and evening services on Sabbath were standard.

There was a time as a teenager when I felt I did not have a very strong testimony and questioned my conversion experience because I had not had an “Apostle Paul” experience. I heard kids at church camps tell stories about how they had been on the broad road that leads to destruction; how they had then seen the light; and how their life had been suddenly changed. I had not had such an experience and, in fact, couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t known I was saved or hadn’t accepted the Christian faith as my way of life.

That faith, instilled by my parents at an early age, has remained solidly with me throughout my life. My experience has been more that of Timothy’s than Paul’s. I recognize now that the Timothy experience, not the Paul experience, should be the norm for those raised in a Christian family. There were the occasional childhood cases of “Sabbath Day sickness,” but those were usually quickly diagnosed. Each Sabbath at 11 a.m., after Sabbath school, we would be seated in our pew facing Dad in the pulpit. Mother would strategically locate herself between two of us. Later in life, after having had opportunity to hear a number of other ministers, I came to rate Dad as one of the more interesting preachers I had heard. As youngsters, however, our attention span was short and we had to be frequently reminded of where our focus ought to be.

On one occasion, at an evening service, I had been allowed to sit in another pew with a classmate of mine. We apparently had some rubber bands in our pockets for diversionary purposes. While one of them was being tested for tensile strength, it slipped off my finger and landed on the pulpit. That brought the sermon to a sudden halt while I was directed back to my usual seat!

Dad used frequent illustrations, and I still remember many. When he was preaching a series on Pilgrim’s Progress, several of us got to act out many of the scenes in the aisles of the church with improvised props and costumes.

I vividly remember the way in which Dad demonstrated the hazards of smoking. He placed a goldfish in a gallon milk jar filled with water, then rigged up an apparatus whereby the smoke from a lit cigarette was ingested through the water. By the time a single cigarette had been “smoked” by this apparatus the fish was dead. I found it convincing. Despite growing up when smoking was the “in” thing to do and despite many invitations, I never smoked. At a recent physical, my doctor listened to my lungs and said, “You were never a smoker, were you?” Thank you, Dad!

Theology in Practice

While we were at Quinter, the congregation had a rigorous memory work program. Dad was instrumental in most of it. I memorized copious amounts of Scripture, the Westminster Shorter Catechism, and countless psalms during that time.

Each summer the presbytery held a state conference for youth and families. Programs were planned for all ages. We attended each year, and that became our family vacation. But in many respects it was a working vacation for both my parents and me. Dad and Mother were always involved with some leadership role at the youth conferences. Mother frequently had charge of the juniors, and Dad invariably had a speaking part in the program. In my own case, I had to be prepared to compete in the memory contests each year.

The conference was annually held at Forest Park on the east edge of Topeka. Each year a psalm memory contest was held for all elementary-school-age youngsters in the presbytery. There were usually a dozen contestants or more. As the minister’s son I, of course, was expected to enter.

Each year 10-12 new psalms were selected. Contestants would be given either the first line of a psalm or the psalm number. We were then expected to give the missing portion of the psalm reference and recite it. Points were scored both for memory and delivery. Mother worked with me on the memorization and Dad worked with me on the delivery. After I had memorized a psalm, Dad would take me over to the church and stand me up on the platform while he stood at the back of the sanctuary. From there he would drill me on pronunciation, projection, timing and delivery.

It apparently worked. A traveling trophy went to the winner’s congregation each year. In the unlikely event someone should win it three years in a row their congregation would get to keep the trophy. I did it! I won it first at the age of 10, and again each of the following two years to successfully retire the trophy—the only time it was ever done! Several years later I was visiting with one of the other contestants about our mutual experience. I chuckled when she remarked, “I remember when you won. I recited mine but you preached yours!”

I joined the church and took my first communion at Quinter. Communion was different then. It was held only twice a year and was a special occasion preceded by three evenings of preparatory services. Today it has become much more casual. Services tend to be held more frequently; guest assistant ministers are used sparingly; moving to a table to be served has almost disappeared; and the single cup has been replaced by individual cups.

When I joined the church, a visiting minister was always in attendance to assist with communion and to deliver the preparatory sermons. While singing Psalm 24, communicant members would move to long narrow tables covered with white tablecloths set up at the front of the church. Words of invitation as well as stern warnings, “lest any of you partake unworthily and thereby eat and drink damnation unto himself,” always preceded the communion. That was a haunting warning to a 12-year-old, and it was with no small degree of trepidation that I made my way to that first table. The tables were filled two or three times to accommodate all the members of the congregation, so it made for a long service. Children too young to participate remained in their pew while their parents or grandparents took turns attending the table and providing supervision. A single cup served the entire congregation.

Single cups now play only a symbolic role. They are often displayed in front of the congregation at communion time but are otherwise enshrined in glass cases. I don’t regret the change from the single cup. It was an issue of debate within our denomination when we lived at Quinter—though proposing the use of fermented wine at communion, which is [permissible] today, would have been laughed out of Synod. Assisting ministers always stayed with us, though they might be invited to other homes for some of their meals.

I was probably a 6th grader and at an age when I would sometimes find adult conversations of interest when Dad and the assistant minister became engaged in conversation about whether or not the use of the single cup should be required. Dad was undecided. The guest minister had just come from the Indian Mission operated by our church in Oklahoma at the time. After some discussion he said, “Well A.J., I think I have made up my mind. I had an experience last week in Oklahoma that resolved it for me.” He continued, “The cup was being passed in my direction during communion and was nearly empty when it reached the Indian on my left. He took a mouthful, then realized there was nothing left so decided to put some back.” The argument seemed persuasive to me….

I can truthfully say that in retrospect I do not know of another environment where I could have been better prepared than by the instruction and experiences I received within the denomination of my youth. Leadership responsibilities, spiritual insight, public speaking and memorization skills taught to me then have aided me immeasurably throughout my professional career. My knowledge of the Bible, which I assumed to be only natural at the time, has provided me with invaluable assurance of my purpose in life and has served as a compass to guide me in numerous crossroad decisions throughout my life. Public speaking has played a major role in my profession. Leadership roles, though often burdensome at the time, have proved to be beneficial in a host of administrative duties that I have since assumed in the course of my career. The ability to postpone gratification, a fundamental component of moral and financial stability, my work ethic and the recognition that hard work has its rewards were among the lessons learned from my parents and my church.

Pearl Harbor

Anyone who was of age remembers where he was when Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Japanese on Dec. 7, 1941. I was in the 7th grade at the time. We had just returned from church and were about to eat lunch when the phone rang. Someone was calling to say that Pearl Harbor was being bombed and that we might want to turn on the radio to hear the news. Dad briefly reported what he had been told and walked to the radio. We recognized the gravity of the event immediately, partially from what Dad had said, but mostly by his action in turning on the radio on the Sabbath! I’m not sure which made the bigger impression on me, but I knew from Dad’s demeanor that he considered this to be an act of necessity.

The event was discussed in hushed tones at church that evening. Shortly thereafter several young men of the congregation were drafted or volunteered and left for the military. Some died in the war before we left Quinter.

Moving from Quinter

None of our family was of draft age, but about this time other life-changing events were being put in motion that would eventually result in our moving from Quinter. For several months Dad, with the support of the Reformed Presbyterian Synod, had been developing materials and speaking to school, church and civic groups about Christ’s claims upon the nation. His presentation noted that though Christ had been specifically acknowledged in many of the original colonial charters, He was not acknowledged anywhere in our Constitution. As a remedy, our church was proposing an amendment to the Preamble of our Constitution that would specifically recognize and acknowledge the authority of Jesus Christ over the nation. In 1942, the women of the New York Presbytery of the Reformed Presbyterian Church, with the support of 33 congregations, petitioned Synod to send out qualified speakers to “carry this doctrine of the Lord Jesus Christ in relation to civil government to the people of this nation.” Synod chose Dad and asked him to give full time to this work for the next three years.

He was asked to begin Sept. 1, 1942. An Aug. 13, 1942, copy of The Gove County Advocate carried a picture of our family and an article about Synod’s action, stating that “Rev. McFarland would be spending his full time in lecturing for the church at large, at a salary of $2,000 and traveling expenses.” I was surprised to see the salary figure quoted. No doubt, it represented a significant increase, but it would require us to move to Topeka, Kan., where access to transportation, the media and governmental affairs would be more convenient.

The Christian Amendment Movement

While we lived in Topeka, Dad was busily engaged in promoting the Christian Amendment. He spoke wherever folks would give him a hearing: in churches, schools, or service clubs. He started using a flannelgraph and later a slide projector. His lecture was titled, “America Under Two Flags,” which referenced the Christian and the United States flags and symbolized the dual allegiance owed by citizens of the United States. Individual endorsement cards were distributed and solicited at each lecture.

I often accompanied Dad on these lectures in the Topeka area and ran the projector. I did it so many times I found I had soon memorized most of his message. My primary responsibility on such trips was to get the screen and projector set up, to change the slides on signal from Dad, and to take the screen and projector down after the meeting. This freed Dad to talk with folks who wanted to visit with him afterwards. I must have done this 50 times or more.

In due course, Dad’s strategy changed to that of seeking endorsements of the Christian Amendment concept from prominent people. He recorded a 30-minute radio broadcast in which he and three college presidents discussed the Christian Amendment. He then used the endorsements to help book the broadcasts on radio stations throughout the country. He was successful in engaging the services of Eugenia Price of Chicago, at that time a noted author and radio producer of the popular program Unshackled. She agreed to produce a half-hour radio drama setting forth the purposes and need for the Christian Amendment Movement. This half-hour dramatic broadcast was titled, “The Way Out,” which also became the title of a column she began writing for The Christian Patriot, the official publication of the Christian Amendment Movement.

During the 20 years he served as executive director of the Christian Amendment Movement, Dad traveled to every state in the contiguous United States and succeeded in booking the Christian Amendment message on upwards of 500 radio stations. Simultaneously he began editing and producing The Christian Patriot, a magazine designed to solicit support and to keep supporters informed of activities associated with the movement. Finally, he began soliciting legislative support from senators and congressmen in Washington, D.C. Eventually a Christian Amendment bill was introduced in both the Senate and the House of Representatives by several congressmen. During the three weeks before his death in July 1962, he had either visited personally or had contacted the office of every member of both Houses of Congress, leaving literature and telling of the need for the Christian Amendment to our nation’s Constitution. All of this meant a lot of time on the road. I have no idea how many thousands of miles he traveled, but he wore out seven cars in the work.

“My” Girl

The mutual attraction between Roberta Dill and I that I had hoped might develop when we moved to Sterling, Kan., soon began to flourish. I aimed high and picked well. Our first date was to the junior-senior banquet in Hutchinson during our junior year. Roberta was an attractive girl by any standard, not only in my eyes but also in the eyes of her classmates. She had been selected by her peers as a cheerleader in junior high and as “queen” on a later occasion at Sterling High School. Her personality was “tops” as evidenced by her repeated selection in that category, such as when a “perfect girl” composite was compiled by the school paper. Her intelligence was apparent from her academic record and her selection to the National Honor Society in her junior year, which was an uncommon achievement at that time. Her leadership ability was recognized by her peers, faculty and staff. She was selected to be the recipient of the Joan Burkhead Award as the “outstanding girl in the senior class.” She could play “boogie-woogie” on the piano, and could even play the trombone a little.

She was an accomplished cook and seamstress and won numerous state and national 4-H titles and out-of-state trips. In addition, she was also a solid Christian of the Reformed Presbyterian persuasion. She taught Sabbath school classes from the time she was 14 and led the singing since she was 12. She was not only virtuous but was also exciting, and was great with kids. Kids have always flocked to her from the first time I saw her, and still do. She possessed a keen sense of humor.

All of these were attributes that I had internally prioritized. We went together throughout the rest of our high school and college years before being married. Now, 60 years later, I remain convinced that God could not have provided me with a better mate. Without doubt, she is the best thing that ever happened to me.

My Time on the Clock

(From the book’s last chapter)

Time has a way of moving quickly and catching us unaware of the passing years. It seems just yesterday that I was young, just married and embarking on a new life together with Roberta. And yet, in a way, it seems like eons ago, and I wonder where all the years went. I know that I lived them all, and I have glimpses of how it was back then and of all my hopes and dreams. I remember seeing older people through the years and thinking that those times were light years away from me and that winter was so far off that I could not fathom it. But here it is, the winter of my life, and it catches me by surprise.

I’ve always believed that life is a mystery, and still do. But as we pass through this world, one of the glorious things is to know that our times are in God’s hands; to know that He is ordering the events of this universe; and to know that God has said that nothing can come to a child of His without His permission. Though winter has come, and I’m not sure how long it will last, I do know that my faith is no accident. It took root when I was young. It was cultivated by wonderful parents through years of teaching, and learning that life is living in the circumstances surrounding us, and that faith is a way of being. Sometimes the things we desperately want most don’t always come our way. But there is a reason and purpose for everything.

Through good times and bad, Roberta and I have always put our trust in God. Being suddenly diagnosed with an incurable disease and “celebrating” my 75th birthday hooked to a drip-line in a hospital has caused me once again to recognize that we all hang on this planet by a very slender thread. It has certainly made me more appreciative of my many years of excellent health and the love of a family I have always shared, but, like most cowboys, do not easily demonstrate. My awareness of the many prayer warriors scattered throughout this community, the church, the United States, Australia, Cyprus, Ireland and Taiwan who have made it known they were praying for me has been a humbling experience.

Like most of us, I have found life a ladder we climb from the bottom. Though surrounded by ministers—my father and both brothers—I chose the path of a Christian layman. My experience has been that it requires a unique balance of performance, competence and self-esteem to gain the respect of associates and carry the Christian banner in surroundings where Christian faith may be tolerated but rarely appreciated, much less understood. But I think God expects us to be tools in His hand and to be transparent.

In retrospect, my life appears to have been directed, in large measure, by a series of open and closed doors God placed before me. Some talk about God’s will as if they’d just seen a vision from Him. In my experience, God has not put up a green light for me at every corner, nor has He spoken as a voice out of heaven. Like Dr. Harry Ironside, noted biblical scholar and pastor of the famous Moody Church in Chicago, I too would say that 85 percent of the decisions I had to make in my life were made without knowing at the time that they were God’s will. Only later did I recognize God’s providence. Though we can’t always be sure of God’s will at the moment of our decision, we can commit our ways to Him, and be in the center of His will as best we know. From this vantage point, I can say I’m glad He didn’t give me a detailed blueprint of all that lay ahead of me.

With an incurable disease churning inside of me, I recognize more acutely than ever that my time is in God’s hands. As I enter into this season of my life, unprepared for all the aches and pains and loss of the strength that I have so long enjoyed, I can truly say like the psalmist, “Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.” Facing death has caused me to be reminded of the higher purpose for living, which is, I believe, to know God and to be a tool in His hand. These are not deep theological statements, just simple truths as I have experienced them. While there are many temporal things we live for—education, a career, raising a family, owning property, etc.—when we breathe our last breath, if we don’t know the Lord, nothing else really matters.

Placing my memories on paper has enabled me to relive the many incidents recorded here. I have few regrets. There are things I wish I hadn’t done and some things I should have done, but most of the things I’m happy to have done. This narration is a child of my mature life; a pleasure of my declining years. I anticipate the chief value of this work, apart from some of the historical matter, will be to entertain future generations of the family. I make no claim to literary merit, but have recorded the stories and events as they were told to me and as I have experienced them. The lack of interest on the part of many has been my only source of annoyance! Seriously, the time and work involved in this compilation has been a labor of love, in which I have taken secret delight.

Thank you Roberta, Bill, Kathy and Tim, Matt, and our three grandchildren, Sarah, Rachel and Hannah, for being a part of my life.

“All things work together for good to those who love God” (Rom. 8:28).