Chapter 2 the harvey family

CHAPTER 28 - FURLOUGHS

CULTURE SHOCK

When we arrived in Austria in 1964, we were expecting culture shock, and there really were many big adjustments to make. We had to adjust to a new climate, learn another language and adapt to different ways of doing things, but we expected that. There were times, however, when we must have shocked the Austrians! When I preached my first sermon in German, I claimed (by using the wrong prefix) that Jesus "devoured" 5000 persons. I didn't even notice the shocked faces in the congregation, but went on to say that the women and children were not included in this number. It was only after a coal miner asked if Jesus had the women and children for dessert that I was shocked!

After living so many years in Austria, one might think that we would no longer be affected by culture shock. Yet we got a mild case each time we returned to the United States for furlough. Like a deep-sea diver who surfaces too rapidly, our "reentry" into North America usually caused culture shock that is more difficult to overcome than the "jet lag" one hears so much about.

In April, 1980, I flew for three weeks to America in order to attend the GMU Field Directors Conference. Weather in New Jersey and Kansas City was a striking contrast to snowy Austria, but that didn't surprise me. The first shock came while waiting for the airport bus. I had not heard such vile profanity in years! Swearing is not uncommon in Austria, but flagrant, vulgar profanity like I was hearing-- in America -- was absolutely shocking!

The second shock came at the sight of all those big powerful cars rolling by. There was a time in my life when I lived for powerful cars. By the time I turned nineteen, I had owned 38 vehicles! That was back when gasoline was 15 cents a gallon and I was earning the equivalent of 14 gallons per hour. When my father handed me the keys to his Pontiac Bonneville, he warned: " Don't get shocked when you buy gas; this car has a big tank!" Tanking up proved to be a pleasant surprise, however. The last tank of gasoline in Austria had cost three times what I paid!

It was while attending a morning worship service in Kansas City, that I received my next shock. During the singing, it suddenly occurred to me that there were quite likely more people in that one service than in all evangelical churches of Austria combined. My thoughts drifted back to the churches we had grown to love through our years of missionary service. Only a few of them enjoyed the luxury of a comfortable church building. One of the larger churches met in a wooden barracks. Others rented halls, met in private homes or in storefronts like our church in Ampflwang. I was reminded of the thousands of towns and even larger cities in Austria that have no Gospel witness whatsoever. There was the city of Braunau for example, a city of 17, 000 that brought forth Hitler in 1889 -- and it's still without an evangelical church! The closest gospel- preaching church was our small group in Ampflwang, which was an hour's drive through numerous other towns that were without the Gospel.

After two weeks in America, I should have become invulnerable to culture shock, but I was unprepared for the next attack. I got up early Sunday morning (Early means 7:30 - you see how well adjusted I had become! Our worship service in Austria started at 8:30) to travel to where I was to speak that day. Interstate 295 was deserted at that hour and I switched on the radio for company. For the next hour and a half, I heard one religious broadcast after another. If one program didn't please me, I simply turned the dial to find another Christian broadcast. In 38 years of missionary work, we never heard a Gospel broadcast on Austrian Radio.
As I listened, one pastor after another praised his church as the biggest, the best, the fastest growing, the most biblical, the most separated, the most evangelistic or the friendliest church in town. These were not the kind of churches that had stood with us in our ministry. Our supporting churches were just plain loving churches. They loved the Lord, each other and anyone who faithfully shared their concern for the lost. The buildings were usually neat and clean, but not elaborate. They normally had only one and perhaps two paid staff, but many dedicated lay workers. There was a healthy mixture of classes and age groups. These churches had a generous heart for missions as well as a concern for the lost on their doorstep. I wondered why they were not bursting at the seams.

I shared my thoughts with the pastor of the church where I was speaking. When I asked why his church was not growing more, he said, "It's the migration." He went on to explain how many of his flock had moved away from the city for various reasons; a new job, a home in the suburbs or retirement in Florida. Many of those who had been saved for a while or who grew up in the church preferred larger churches with lots of programs and entertainment. Of course there were others who had moved into the area, but his older downtown church could not compete with those modern, comfortable churches on the edge of town. Inner city people, however, had found a home here. They were not affluent, but had their fill of calloused anonymity all week and longed for warm fellowship. Without a trace of resentment in his voice, the pastor concluded, "God has placed us in a needy place and unless He leads otherwise, we intend to stay and serve!"

In the service that followed, I began to understand the situation even better. After preaching and showing slides of our work, there was a baptismal service for several recent converts. The church was half full of what some people might call "lower class" people; not exactly the kind that "respectable" people enjoy socializing with, or the Kind that puts twenty dollar bills in the collection plate. At the conclusion of the service I was surrounded by them. No one asked how many attended our church and Sunday School in Austria. I soon found myself counseling with individuals who had big problems. I was a missionary again and all thought of culture shock had disappeared until I inadvertently used a German word. A big black girl slapped me on the back and said, " Hey, man, youse not in Austria now, youse gotta talk English!"

The long ride home in heavy Sunday evening traffic was exhausting, but at 1:00 AM I found myself wide awake pondering the events of the day. I began to pray: "Thank you Lord, for such wonderful supporters. Thank you for churches that are more concerned about ministering than numbers; more involved in giving than with getting; busier propagating the gospel than promulgating their own glory. Thank you Lord for churches that 'talk English' -- and for culture shock!"

BEGGARS OR BENEFACTORS? (This article was published 1984 in the Gospel Message)

Missionaries are not beggars, nor are their supporters simply "benefactors." Missionaries are ambassadors of the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. They do not need to go begging. Is there a difference between begging and making an appeal for financial help? Let's turn to the Bible for an answer to that question.

Jesus told of a rich man and a beggar named Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31). The Greek word translated "beggar" appears over thirty times in the New Testament, yet only in this instance is it translated "beggar." The word is otherwise rendered as "poor." From the text, it is clear that Lazarus is poor, for he "desired the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table," but it does not say that he begged.

In Psalm 37:25 we read: "I have been young and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." God never intended for His children to beg. He has instructed believers to care for the needs of the poor (not just poor believers). Old Testament laws on giving of alms and gleaning were given for that purpose. The Lord's own teachings in the Sermon on the Mount reaffirm this and also stress that God provides for His own, i.e. those who serve God and not mammon (Matt. 6:24-34).

In Luke 16 is the parable of the unjust steward, who was not only greedy and dishonest, but also too lazy to dig and too proud to beg. That is not what you would call a flattering description, yet the Lord commended the unjust steward. He commended him because he acted according to his faith. He did not serve God, but mammon. He believed that money could buy friends and secure his future. He knew that as a steward, the money was not his to keep. His interests were purely temporal and his faith was in the power of money and his own cleverness. He acted accordingly and Christ commended him for this. We too are stewards, entrusted with that which does not belong to us and which we cannot keep. As "children of Light," we are instructed to invest our time, talents and money to establish eternal friendships and eternal habitations. Are we wise stewards?

The aforementioned problem exists because some missionaries view themselves as poor beggars and some supporters of missions give out of sympathy. Both attitudes are wrong. No child of God is poor. We are immeasurably wealthy in "true riches." (vs. 11) The Apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians: "Therefore let no man glory in men. For all things are yours... ye are Christ's; and Christ is God's. Ye are ministers of Christ, and stewards of the mysteries of God. Moreover, it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful" (1 Cor. 3:21 4:2). Men of this world can only give as they receive. Christians, however, are like canals, or pipelines. If our lives are unobstructed, we receive as we give.

I recall seeing a magazine photo which depicted two boats. In the foreground was a fragile looking craft with a lone oarsman, rowing for all he was worth. In the background was a sleek white yacht with a well dressed gentleman at the helm. At first glance, the photo seemed to contrast the rich and the poor. Upon reading the caption, however, I discovered that the men in the photo were brothers. They were also business partners and co-owners of both pictured vessels. In the photo they were sharing final details in preparation for a kayak race.

The picture described above aptly depicts the relationship between missionary and supporter. We are brothers and team members. We are co workers and partners in the most important job in the world. Jesus spoke of us as being both "unprofitable servants" and "good and faithful servants." We have done only that which was our duty to do (Luke 17:10). The reference may apply to missionaries as well as to supporters of missions. The same holds true for Matthew 6:33, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you."

The example of our Lord Jesus Christ Himself best illustrates the cooperative spirit that should prevail between missionaries and their supporters: " . . . ye shall find a colt tied ... Loose him and bring him thither. And if any man ask you, why do ye loose him? thus shall ye say unto him, Because the Lord hath need of him" (Luke 19:3031). “...Go and prepare us the Passover... when ye enter into the city, there shall a man meet you, bearing a pitcher of water; follow him into the house where he entereth in. And ye shall say unto the good man of the house, The Master saith unto thee, Where is the guest chamber, where I shall eat the Passover with my disciples? And he shall show you a large upper room furnished" (Luke 22:8 12).

If the owner of the colt and the good man of the house have both committed their lives and possessions to Christ, then they will not hold back that which is entrusted into their care when the Lord has needs. Christ instructs one disciple to give and another to receive. That which is Christ's doesn't change ownership -- there is simply a shift in the stewardship responsibility.

In missions, there is admittedly a need for good communications, but certainly no need for begging.

We are neither beggars nor benefactors. There should be no reason for apologetic or emotional appeals. The work of the Lord is not dependent upon alms giving, sympathy or gifts from Christians looking for tax exemptions. We are servants and stewards of the Most High God. "Moreover, it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful."

FURLOUGH CARS

Furlough cars have been both a source of joy and pain, but in every case they provide memories! In our almost forty years of missionary work, we have had many experiences with furlough cars. I already told some stories about our cars and there may be some repetition in the following paragraphs, but I hope you understand.

We once met a missionary from Spain who was complaining about her furlough car. She lamented, "I just can't understand it! I bought the car from a pastor for whom I have much respect. He told me that he had never, ever had any problems with the car. The only reason he was selling it was because the Lord had miraculously provided him an almost new vehicle. But I have had nothing but problems with this car!"

Without thinking, I commented that the Lord may have had good reasons for providing the pastor another car! It was the wrong thing to say, but I recognized it too late. The poor woman told me later that she could not sleep that night!

MERCURY COMET

Soon before our departure for Austria in July of 1964, Verna's brother got married. We had already sold our shiny black 1950 Rocket 88 Oldsmobile in order to purchase tickets for passage and were wondering how we could get to the wedding. A member of the church had just purchased a new Mercury Comet and offered us his car for the 800-mile round trip.
Verna said, "Wouldn't it be neat to have a car like this for our furlough some day?" I could not have been more in agreement. We both fell in love with that car! In 1977, thirteen years later, We arrived in America for a six-month furlough. We needed a car, so went to the Ford dealership in my home town to look around. There on the back row of the used car lot stood a nice '64 Mercury Comet identical to the one our friend had loaned us except for the color. The price was right and it was in great condition, so we bought it. Our Comet served us well and we hated to sell it after only six months. But a church member bought it and we got the purchase price back.
On June 19, 2009, I wrote a blog about a 91-year-old Florida woman named Rachel Veicht and her 1964 Mercury Comet. It doesn't surprise me at all that Rachel would be in love with her 44-year-old Comet. She bought the car new and drove it 576,000 miles with the original engine! Back in the sixties, America built cars to last! Rachel, 93, put her 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente up for sale in July, 2012, after becoming legally blind. It was purchased by a museum.

One of my brothers had two Comets and loved them both. His favorite was a 1965 Comet Cyclone.

Now we are retired and living in Malaga, NJ. Every day we walk our dog past a house with a 1964 Comet sitting in the yard. It has very little rust and the chrome still shines. If only I had some extra cash....!

SUPER BUICK

Verna's father bought a new car in 1967, but because his '56 Buick Super was such a good-running car, he decided to keep it just in case. He parked it behind the house where it spent the next year. When we came home for our first furlough in early 1968, he offered us the car. It was an unusual three-color 4-door hardtop with every conceivable extra. The Buick Super shared the same body as the Cadillac El Dorado, boasted a Dynaflow transmission, radio with automatic station search activated by a foot pedal, air conditioning, electric windows and much more. Everything worked on the car, but it was frozen in the mud and we ruined a tire trying to get it out. The powerful nailhead V8 ran like a charm and it even got good mileage if we avoided jack-rabbit starts. The body was badly rusted, however, and the trunk floor was completely gone! We had to carry our belongings in the back seat with the boys, but there was plenty of room in that car!

In May, we farmed out the boys to my sister and brother-in-law and headed for South Carolina to attend the Annual Bible Conference of our Alma Mater, Bob Jones University. When the German and Missions teachers heard we were coming, they asked us to come a day or two early and speak to their classes. We agreed.

On our way south, I heard a loud noise and looked in the rear view mirror just in time to see a large piece of fender bouncing along on the pavement. I stopped, removed the metal from the highway and also ripped another loose piece of rusted metal from the car.

When we arrived in South Carolina, the teachers said that they were very sorry, but it would not be possible to speak to their classes. The administration said that we didn't belong to an approved mission. This was Dr. Marvin Lewis's department, so we went to see him in his office. He greeted us warmly and asked how we were doing. We had always been good friends of the Lewis family. Dorothy Lewis was the one who suggested that I ask Verna for a date and Dr. Marvin Lewis's sister was the wife of Verna's Pastor, who married us. I eventually got around to the purpose of our visit, asking why our mission was not approved. He went to a large file and pulled out some papers. Many years earlier, GMU missionaries had participated in a Billy Graham Evangelistic Campaign in Latin America. A college official wrote a letter to the President of GMU, Don Shidler, asking for an explanation of this "unscriptural compromise." Dr. Shidler answered that the decision had been left to the missionaries and he felt that it was okay. Dr. Lewis said that he would allow us to speak to the classes provided we didn't reveal the name of our mission to the students.

After a good conference, we arrived back in New Jersey after 1200 miles of travel. I decided to change the oil in the Buick before our next trip. I drove the car over the grease pit in my parent's garage (I dug it myself a dozen years earlier), but when I applied the brakes, the brake pedal went to the floor and the car kept rolling until it hit a work bench. I was relieved to see that no major damage had been done, but when I discovered the cause of the problem, I turned pale, thinking of what could have happened on our trip. The brake line had rusted completely through and didn't break until I was driving into the garage!

While visiting my brother John and his wife a few weeks earlier, I had seen a pink and white '56 Buick with no tags sitting in his neighbor's yard. I called my brother and asked if it was for sale. He checked and called back. "Yes, it was the wife's car, but she has gotten very sick and can no longer drive." He said that they would sell it for $50. It was a smaller Century model with a Hydramatic transmission instead of the Dynaflow, but it was a four-door hardtop with many of the same options as the one we had been driving. The car had been driven mainly in the south and had no rust.

As a youth, I painted two of my convertibles pink, but pink didn't seem the right color for a missionary car. After de-chroming the trunk and hood, I put dual exhausts on it and painted it red and white. I am sure our supporting churches were impressed!

When we were ready to return to Austria, I put a "for sale" sign in the window. That evening we attended a funeral and the Funeral Director's son saw the car. He had just wrecked his Corvette and needed another car until his was fixed. He handed me $350 and even drove us home from the funeral.

OUR FIRST CHEVROLET

Although the Lord has always provided exactly the right car for each furlough, we once mentioned the need for a furlough vehicle in a newsletter. We wrote, "Perhaps someone reading this knows of a car for us." And, believe it or not, someone did!

When we arrived in America in August, 1982, my older sister offered us a free car! It was a one-owner Chevrolet Impala with low mileage, owned by a little old lady who never drove it over 50 mph.

There was only one other time that I had heard that claim made of an automobile. It was a coral pink and white 1955 Ford Convertible with dynaflow mufflers, three carburetors and a continental tire kit. The "little old lady" was the legal owner, but her nephew was the principle driver! That Ford was just what I had been dreaming of, but I couldn't afford the price they were asking.

I was a Ford fan, but as the old expression goes, "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I felt that this was one deal I couldn't afford to pass up. I was familiar with the car because "the little old lady" who had owned it was my aunt. When she died, she left it to my sister.

When I picked up the car, it had not been tagged for about a year and was covered with fresh mud. My sister explained, "Our son was driving it in the field." That should have warned me, but the engine started right up and purred like a kitten. All four tires were well-worn, so I bought new white-wall tires from a friend and supporter, Fritz Harz, who had a tire business. In order to get the car through inspection, I spent two days working on the wiring, which included removal of the entire dashboard. I noticed that the carpets were damp up front and in the trunk. I bought a tube of sealer and fixed leaks around the windshield and rear window. I removed the carpets and discovered that the floors were badly rusted. I found a large piece of heavy sheet aluminum and pop-riveted a new floor into the trunk. Our problems had only just begun, but I won't bore readers with all the details. I will just share the Chevy's final hours with our family.

We spent Thanksgiving with Verna's parents in Meadville, Pennsylvania. After an enjoyable visit, we set out Sunday morning on the eight-hour return trip to New Jersey. Before we got to Oil City, it started to rain. I turned on the wipers, but they quit working within five minutes. I stopped to see what was wrong and discovered that they had become disconnected from the shaft of the wiper motor. A nut had been loose so long that the threads of the shaft were worn smooth. I pushed the arm back on and tightened the nut as best I could. The wipers worked great - for three or four wipes. I repeated this task several times but it soon become obvious that we could not continue our 400-mile journey that way.

I stopped in three service stations, looking for a mechanic on duty, but in those days, few people worked on Sundays. A friendly pump attendant offered me the use of his tools to fix the car myself. His garage was well-equipped and I was able to re-thread the shaft and use a smaller nut. Just to make certain that the nut didn't loosen, I gave it an extra turn and snapped off the shaft! No dealerships or junk yards were open on Sundays in that part of Pennsylvania. If it had not been for the fact that we had tickets for a Monday morning flight to Kansas City, I would have looked for a motel.

We decided to continue our journey without windshield wipers. I drove slowly, wiping off as much rain as possible with my left arm. The heater fan didn't work and with temperatures near freezing, we were all praying that the rain would stop. It did stop -- and began to sleet! Now I had to stop every mile or two to scrape ice. It seemed that the more I prayed, the worse it got, and the worse it got, the harder Verna prayed.

With three hundred miles to go, we found ourselves in a traffic jam. The roads had turned to sheet ice and nothing was moving. Not even the salt trucks were able to get through! With a defective heater fan, and a stationary vehicle, there was very little heat and none of us was in a good mood. After sitting idle for hours, several cars began to drive on the icy grass median, so we followed suit. Soon, hundreds of cars were driving down the grassy portion of the divided highway. I still kick myself for not taking a picture!

By the time we reached Harrisburg, we had been ten hours on the road. The ice was gone, but darkness had set in and it was raining hard. My eyes were hurting from all the strain, trying to see without wipers. As we approached the Delaware Memorial Twin Bridges three hours later, I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief and it turned red! My eyes were bleeding from the strain! Somehow, I managed to get home near midnight, 15 hours later. I dropped into bed totally exhausted.

Early the next morning, on November 29, 1982, we left the kids with my parents and flew from Philadelphia to Kansas City. People stared at me and obviously wondered why my eyes were so red, but I didn't care. I slept the entire flight to Kansas City.

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