4. My Year in Arabia
CHAPTER FOUR
MY YEAR IN ARABIA
ON GRADUATING in May, 1922, at twenty years of age, I needed only five months of Normal School to qualify for a teacher’s certificate. My ambition was to be a dean of women and teach English in some university, but I was so young and inexperienced in teaching that I first had to accept an elementary grade school assignment. I could have taken an up-country high school appointment, but Mother would not hear of it. She insisted that I teach in a city school, so because of my inexperience I had to accept a position as teacher of the third grade at the Cecil Rhodes School, Vancouver.
In the meantime my family had moved. My father was roentgenologist to Dr. Ernest Hall of Victoria, B.C., and Mother sold our Vancouver home and purchased a chicken ranch just outside Victoria. This ranch was to be for my brother who had been a soldier in World War I and for whom employment must be found. He thought he would like ranch life.
So in February 1923 I found myself a “schoolmarm” in Vancouver and needing to find a boardinghouse. For the first time in my life I would not live at home, but would be on my own, receiving a monthly salary for which I need account to no one. The idea was distinctly pleasing. But where would I board?
Somehow I ran into the mother of a girl with whom I had gone to elementary school eight years before. They were a Scottish family, and the mother especially was a very superior person. Mrs. McMillan was a thinker, but, inbred with theosophy, had fallen in with the idea that it was wrong to spank a child. I have wondered if this was not the reason her children did more as they liked than as she liked. The two youngest would not continue school, so had to take employment below their family cultural level. By the time I had graduated, Mrs. McMillan was so reduced in circumstances that she was trying to run a boardinghouse and asked if I would come to her. She was apologetic, for she had lost her best furniture and could not provide anything as comfortable as I had been accustomed to, but she was very clean, an excellent cook, and her house was within walking distance of my school. Mother knew her and felt at ease that I should be with Mrs. McMillan, who was as loving and kind to me as if I were her own child.
So I found myself in this house—the only Christian. The two daughters were both engaged to sailors. The youngest child, a son, was a policeman with a wife and small baby. The policeman’s brother-in-law, whom we called Laurie, was attending Normal School, hoping to become a schoolteacher. As he was not yet earning, he paid but a minimum rate of board, if anything. This was the household among whom I became the ninth.
After graduation my particular clique scattered. Many went to other universities for further degrees. Some taught school, but went upcountry where they could get high school positions. In no time at all I seemed to be alone and living in a different world. The young people of my boardinghouse were very nice to me, but were all for the gay life. I did not care to join them. We had little in common but our boardinghouse. Surrounded with young laughter and noise, I was as alone as if I had been in the deserts of Arabia. For a year and a half, God shut me up to that aloneness, so that I have always called it my year in Arabia.
A young fellow we will call Mac had begun to ask me out. He was still studying and invited me to the various big dances of the university from time to time, but as he did not live in Vancouver our dates were not frequent.
I had begun to attend evening lectures at the Vancouver Bible School, but it was just beginning and I do not remember meeting other Christian young people. I was lonely.
F. B. Meyer points out that this is one of the planned training schools of God. “One symptom of being on that path is loneliness.” He continues:
Nothing strengthens us so much as isolation and transplantation … under the wholesome demand his soul will put forth all her native vigor … it may not be necessary for us to withdraw from home and friends; but we shall have to withdraw our heart’s deepest dependence from all earthly props and supports, if ever we are to learn what it is to trust simply and absolutely on the eternal God.1
For one thing I found it hard to keep my prayer times. The others in the house played cards and danced or had what they called a good time until long past midnight. I could not pray with those noises in my ears. To get up early to pray was not the answer, for once I was up, my mind went rushing on to my schoolteaching, which, by the way, I was finding difficult. At last I hit on the plan of asking the Lord to wake me up at two o’clock in the morning, after the house had settled to quiet, when I would arise for an hour’s prayer and Bible study. This worked wonders. Always a sleepyhead, it was wonderful to me to be awakened each morning, as I was, and in the quiet of that still hour Christ became so real to me that often I felt I could have touched Him, if I but put out my hand. I was learning what Dr. A. W. Tozer calls “the awareness of His presence.”2 It satisfied me as nothing on earth had ever done, and filled me with a joy of communion that is inexpressible. It was in this Arabia that I learned fellowship with Christ, a living Person-to-person fellowship which henceforth became dearer than anything else in life to me.
The acute sense of His presence was not given during the first few months I was at the McMillan boardinghouse. My head was still in The Misty Flats and my feet were too entangled with the world. How I got lifted out into a clear spiritual atmosphere is a story in itself, so I give it here.
It began with an angry disappointment.
But I must first explain that I was not happy teaching third grade eight-year-olds. The children in my class fascinated me. It was my first real connection with children, for I was the baby of our family and we had early moved away from where small cousins lived. I was totally inexperienced with children and thought them “the cutest things.” Even their little buttons of noses fascinated me. Needless to say, I had discipline problems! The little cherubs soon found out that their teacher was a softy and she was given daily samples of what unexpectedly naughty things a cherub can think up—even without ever losing his angelic smile!
Then the subjects I taught were so elementary—spelling, arithmetic tables, simple nature studies and physical drill. Eight hours each day one’s delightful mental life must be tied down to such boredom. I have often thought that if I had been allowed to teach high school English I might never have become a missionary—I would have loved it.
But now I hated teaching. I found the discipline so perplexing that I was afraid I was going to be a failure and became thoroughly alarmed. This was to be my life-work! I decided I must study teaching and so signed up for a Teachers’ Convention in Seattle during—was it Easter holidays? I’ve forgotten.
Now, in Seattle there was a boy-friend who had corresponded with me since grade school, which we had attended together—the General Wolfe School in South Vancouver. I had not seen Donald for years, but when I wrote that I was coming to the Convention I got a letter right back saying I must stay at his house and he would be at the boat to meet me. So it was arranged.
I was just about to leave for the Seattle boat when a telegram was handed me. It read: HAVE ARRANGED FOR YOU TO STAY AT WHIPPLES SEATTLE LOVE DADDY.
Was I annoyed! “Daddy, how perfectly mean of you,” I muttered to myself. “Oh, when will you and Mother stop interfering with my plans and realize that I am grown up?” The Whipples—who are they? Dim memory finally produced vague outlines. “Oh, religious friends of Dad’s. Yes, I remember now. So that’s Dad’s idea. Wants to have them talk to me about my soul, eh? Well, they won’t find a porcupine more receptive. I’m just not going to be bossed like this. I’ll wire them that I’ve made other plans.” But a glance at the clock showed me I had no time to send a telegram if I were to catch the ship. Thoroughly provoked I went aboard to my cabin. By morning we would be in Seattle.
Don was there all right and I explained my predicament. He was not put out. “Well, just sleep there,” he suggested. “I can take you around from there.” And so it was decided.
I don’t remember anything of the Convention. I remember a nice supper with Don afterward, and an evening of fun—a dance perhaps. Anyway, I did not realize how late the hour was until we approached the Whipple house and found it in darkness. No—there was a dim light at the back. The door-bell ring produced other lights, then the door was opened by Mrs. Otis Whipple herself. Don was introduced and invited in, but he declined and said good-by—and I found myself in the sitting room alone with my hostess.
I do not know the kind of person I was looking for, but it certainly was not the kind I met. Motherly plumpness, a cheery voice, Southern warmth of hospitality, geniality and culture were what greeted me. Culture is a form of beauty, the beauty of a trained mind and heart trained to think of the other person’s feelings. Beauty of any kind has always had power over me and I was drawn to her immediately. Instinctively I knew she was not one to barge into my inner sanctum without an invitation. As yet I did not know that there are other ways of soul-winning!
God and my soul were never mentioned—just a charming talk about my home, their old friendship with my father, of a girl, Tony Black, to whom I was supposed to bear striking likeness. She spoke of a summer conference at a place called The Firs, and of her husband’s sister, a missionary in China recently widowed who was to be at The Firs this summer of 1923. More and more I relaxed; better and better I liked her. So finally when I was shown to my room my porcupine quills were all safely laid flat.
The next day was Sunday. I had resolved to bend to decorum enough to go to church in the morning, then I meant to claim the rest of the day to do what I liked. I had a friend named Mamie in the city, and had an appointment to spend the afternoon with her. Idly I wondered that Mrs. Whipple had not as yet made any effort to get me alone and talk religiously. Little did I dream the truth, which she told me only years later. That first night, after we had all gone to bed, she could not sleep for the burden of me. At last she got up and fell to her knees, asking God the cause. For more than an hour she battled in prayer that whatever was the reason He had sent me to them, it might be fulfilled before I left. Not before she felt she had prayed through did she go back to bed. Having committed the matter to the Lord, she did not get anxious as to how He would accomplish it. She did not try to rush matters, which in my case would have been the end of her possibly influencing me. One of her favorite sayings was, “Flexible in the hands of the Spirit,” and she truly lived it.
The afternoon visit to Mamie was very pleasant (I had always loved her) until she asked me an unsettling question: “Isobel, do you like schoolteaching? Are you enjoying your work?”
“Oh, Mamie,” I groaned in reply, “I’m not happy at all. All my life I’ve planned to teach, and now that I’ve graduated and am at it, I feel like a misfit. And yes, I just hate it. If only I had a high school position, I’m sure it would be different. I’m still sure I would enjoy teaching literature. But I’m only twenty-one, you know, and so could not expect to get right into a city high school without any teaching experience. It’s so inane teaching spelling and arithmetic. I just don’t——”
“Isobel, I know what you need,” struck in Mamie earnestly. “You need to see a phrenologist, and have your head read! He’d tell you what you are fitted for. And it just so happens that a very excellent phrenologist is in town, Dr. X——. He is a friend of ours and coming to supper with us tonight. His charges are very high, but as a friend of ours I’m sure he would do you for nothing. But you would have to come tonight, because he is leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh, Mamie,” I cried, “how perfectly wonderful! There is only one snag. I’m staying with religious people, and they might be offended at a guest in their house going to see a phrenologist on Sunday. You know how particular some people are about keeping the Sabbath. Oh, if they will only consent! My hostess is really a dear and I just couldn’t offend her. But I tell you—I’ll go right back and ask her. If she says yes, I’ll phone you and you make the appointment for me. Oh, it would be grand to be happy in one’s work! It would be wonderful to know what one was fitted for in life.”
“Well, Dr. X—— will know, I’m sure of that. All right. Good-by. I’ll be looking for that phone call!” And we parted, I to return to the Whipples’ home with beating heart. Was I about to lose the opportunity of my life because of old-fashioned religious scruples?
Arriving back earlier than expected, I met Mrs. Whipple in the hall, and went straight to the point: “Mrs. Whipple, I would like to ask you a question. Would you object to my going to a phrenologist tonight to have my head read? I’ve not been very happy in my work and——”
“Well now, dear,” she said in her cheery, comfortable way, “let us go upstairs and discuss it. I’m not quite sure I understand all that is involved. Here is Miss McCausland”—waylaying another guest who was crossing the hall at that moment. “Miss McCausland is a schoolteacher herself, and maybe she can help us. Take her to the little front bedroom, Margaret. I’ll be there in a moment.”
I did not learn until many years later why she delayed in coming. But she ran for prayer help. Her young high school daughter, Lois, was in the back of the house with two friends, all of them in their teens. It is interesting now to look back at those three little maidens who were urged on to their knees downstairs to intercede for the right direction of phrenologist-seeker me upstairs. Lois later became Mrs. Nathan Walton of the China Inland Mission.* Evelyn Watson became her sister-in-law, Mrs. Elden Whipple, while the third young girl, Doris Coffin, became Mrs. Willard Aldrich, author of the well-known column in Moody Monthly, “Out of the Mixing Bowl.” But at this moment the three teenagers were only told, “Isobel has come to a crisis in her life! Pray her through while I go upstairs and deal with her.” So down on their knees they went in prayer.
Upstairs Mrs. Whipple was saying to me, “Now, dear, tell us everything from the beginning so we will understand.”
So the flood-gates were unlocked and out poured the story of my schoolteaching troubles and disappointments. I spoke freely because I felt an atmosphere of loving sympathy, and sensed a poise about those two women which seemed to say that their lives were satisfying. So I unfolded this wonderful opportunity of having my head read by a skilled phrenologist, and the supposed snag—it was Sunday. With beating heart, I looked up into that kind, wise, and lovely face, and said, “Would you object to my going on Sunday?” No tremor of horror or shock crossed her face at all, but she had a look of deep thoughtfulness as if she were weighing the matter carefully.
Then came her answer: “Isobel dear, I don’t think the matter of its being Sunday is the important thing. It’s like this: God has a plan for your life. The Bible says that He has created us unto good works and foreordained that we should walk in them (Eph. 2:10). That means He has foreordained a useful life for you, and He does so for each of His creatures. The point as I see it, is to find out God’s plan for your life and then follow it. If it is His will to reveal that plan through a phrenologist, going on Sunday would do no harm. But if it were not His will to reveal His plan through a phrenologist, going any day of the week would be wrong.”
I was struck with the common sense and logic of her words and thrilled through and through to hear that God had a plan for my life. Daughter of an elder in the church and granddaughter of a Presbyterian minister, I do not remember anyone ever telling me that before. I had always thought that God was a kindly, fatherly Being. Away off in the heavens somewhere we could call upon Him in trouble, but for the rest of the time it was up to us to map out our own lives in good, honest work. Then we could ask His blessing and help from time to time. But that God was so minutely interested in me, that He would take the trouble to plan a career for me—plan it without my asking—the tender intimacy of a Love which could do that touched me to the breaking point. Hardly able to control my voice, I asked, “Well, how are we to find out His plan for us?”
By this time I was kneeling at the bed on which Miss McCausland sat, Mrs. Whipple in a chair beside me. She reached for her Bible and opened it in front of me saying, “Isobel, I’ve always found His will through His Word, this Book. His plan for us will always be in accordance with the Scriptures. And with me, it is usually from the Bible itself that I get my leading.” At that moment the telephone rang and Mrs. Whipple was called.
“Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back,” she said. “Miss McCausland, will you tell Isobel what you think?” I do not remember what dear Miss McCausland said for I was thinking, God’s plan for my life is in that Book. Impulsively, I pulled it toward me. It fell shut and I reopened it at random with my eyes on Miss McCausland. Inwardly I was wondering what the Bible had to say about phrenology, when my eye happened to fall on the open page and there, unconsciously, my left hand lay with the forefinger pointing at a verse. I read: “KEEP THEE FAR FROM A FALSE MATTER” (Ex. 23:7).
It was as if a Voice had spoken to me and I was so startled at the directness of the answer to my inward question which no one had heard that my distressed heart collapsed with relief. I was weeping when Mrs. Whipple reentered the room—weeping terribly, simply rent with sobs.
“It is all right, Isobel,” she tried to say. “He’ll lead you.”
“Oh, He has,” I cried. “Look at this verse!” and I pointed to Keep thee far from a false matter. She too marveled at such a quick, thoroughly complete answer. But the piled-up heartaches of a whole year and a half of SEARCHING after God had reached a climax, and I could only sob until exhausted. Very tenderly and lovingly the two ladies ministered to me. Dear Mrs. Whipple never tried to pry: the privacy of the human soul was respected by her, and that was another reason we all loved and trusted her so.
I do not remember anything more of that visit, except that Mrs. Whipple told me again of The Firs Bible Conference and urged me to attend that July as her guest. I was not interested. I still shrank from evangelistic meetings with their worked-up emotion and high pressure methods. I did not intend to be high pressured into anything.
“Thank you, Mrs. Whipple,” I said, “but I have already signed up to attend Teachers’ Summer School in Victoria. Until God leads differently, I must earn my living and can only do it by teaching.” And so we parted.
The Lord now wished to direct my thoughts into a channel where they would never have run of themselves. My life was about to turn a new corner, and strange to say, it all hinged, at first, upon a pair of shoes. But that is the subject of the next chapter.
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1 Abraham, by F.B. Meyer.
2 The Pursuit of God, by A. W. Tozer.
* Since 1963, Overseas Missionary Fellowship has been the official name.