Confessions of an Erring Bible College Student

After 41 years, it’s time to confess that my wife and I blatantly broke the rules at Piedmont Bible College, by single dating before she became my wife. But in my defense, it would have been difficult to have a chaperone in my 1960 MGA and I wanted to drive in the snow so much and show off for my girlfriend.

Driving in snow was not new to me, having come to North Carolina in January of 1969 from that snow capitol of Buffalo, New York. It really wasn’t that much snow, maybe 6 inches, but Winston-Salem had been essentially shut down and slipping and sliding on nearly deserted streets was just too appealing for a Yankee boy.

I don’t actually remember how we rendezvoused but soon we were driving all around town performing controlled slides and spinouts. Unfortunately, in my mischief, we found ourselves outside the city limits, which was also an infraction of the rules. But we didn’t expect to be caught because no one would be out on those snow covered roads. We became stuck in the snow several times, but with my knowledge of rocking the car, we became “unstuck” every time.

Finally, however, I was confronted with a major problem, not caused by the snow, but by the melting snow. Hitting a large puddle, my car began to sputter and stalled. This had happened before and I immediately knew that the remedy was not a major one, but would require some time to repair. We didn’t have much time before the sun would set and we would be guilty of a third misdemeanor.

Three strikes and you are out, I had heard. “Be sure your sins will find you out”, the Bible says. For the first time, I began to panic and came to a place of prayer and true repentance. God is merciful, I can assure you. I was able to dry the distributor, restart the car, and get back to school, and to this day, I have avoided prosecution. I hope the “statute of limitations” has expired and I will not disbarred from the pastorate after 40 years.

But it was so much fun!!

Tribute to a Godly Father

I used my Dad as an illustration in my Father’s Day sermon today.  I hadn’t planned it, or even thought about it, but he was the perfect illustration of a man of God.  So often we use that term as an appellation for a gospel minister, and thereby falsely teach that being a man of God is something that is beyond the reach of the ordinary working man.

Of course, I would not say that Dad was an ordinary man, but he was not called to be a preacher.  I remember him saying once that if he ever preached a sermon, it would be on Hebrews 11, and would be about the first king of Israel, Saul, who should have been a part of that great Honor Roll of faith.  He even gave it the title, “The Man who Missed God’s Honor Roll.”.  I rarely preach from that passage that I don’t remember him sharing that with me.

And so today, as I came to this passage, speaking about Noah, a wonderful example of a godly father, I remembered a fresh experience that illustrated that God uses ordinary men to impact the lives of generations.

Just recently, we were able to fellowship with some dear friends from our college days, Lindsay and Barbara Poteat.  Lindsay shared with us that he had come to faith in Christ and had been mentored by a man who had ended his ministry on earth in Knoxville, Tennessee.  I only knew one pastor from Knoxville, and was surprised to hear that the man who had had such an impact on his life was the man I knew.  I was aware of this man’s location of service because my older brother, Reginald, had lived in Knoxville for a time.  But we had met Terry Taylor many years before in Bluefield, West Virginia.  He was in college and was in my Dad’s Sunday School class.

My first thoughts were - I would like to tell Dad - and then, I would like to tell Reg.  But then I realized, they already knew.  All three are now enjoying the thrill of heaven together.  I don’t know how much of an influence my Dad had on Terry’s life, but he had been one faithful godly man who had touched one, who had touched others, who was still touching others through his ministry.

And so my Dad was a perfect illustration of a godly Christian father and I used his testimony to challenge us to be Godly Fathers.

Thank you, Dad, for your faithful walk with God.

My Mother on her knees and other memories from Matheny

I wonder why some events are imprinted so strongly on our memories and others seem to fade into the mists of forgetfulness.  It isn’t always that we remember the most exciting or important things, and tend to forget the insignificant ones.  As a matter of fact, many times it is the unimportant and simple that have a hallowed place in our memories.

My recollections of Matheny, West Virginia, the place of my birth are few.  Of course, I don’t remember my birth, but I was told that it was in our home there and not in a hospital.  We moved to Bluefield shortly before my 6^th birthday, so these few memories are from my preschool years.

There was a lady whose name I don’t know, that often called out to me as she walked past our home to the general store just down the dirt road.  It was one of those little playful taunts that children like to echo so this happened very often, nearly every day.   I would be playing at my favorite tree.  It was a small sapling with smooth bark and several branches about five feet above the ground.  I couldn’t actually grasp the tree, but it was small enough to allow my little preschool hand to hook on to it as it became my merry go round.   I loved my tree.  I would run round and round as fast as I could go without falling and then repeat it again.  I did this so often that I nearly wore the bark off that tree.  Then I would hear that friendly voice from across the fence say, “Sammy, you’re a slowpoke.”  It didn’t hurt my feelings because I knew it was in jest.  It didn’t happen very many times, though, until I would look for her coming down the road and I would stop and repeat it back, “No, you’re a slow poke.  You’re a slowpoke.”

Other memories are just quick snippets of time, whose chronology is unknown.  Dad firing a German luger into the creek;  Bobby Lee, my oldest brother, with his friends, placing empty potted meat cans on fence posts and firing them high into the air with firecrackers;  a discovery of an  open pack of cigarettes in an old cash register in a shed behind the house (they had been my Dad’s last when he decided to stop smoking); and a radio/phonograph console being taken from the back seat of our car and placed in the living room in the house.

But I guess my very first remembrance of life was of my Mother kneeling on the cold, hard, linoleum floor in the kitchen, undoubtedly asking God for a closer relationship to me.  Anyone who knew Margaret knew she did love the Lord and this picture might not be out of place in their minds.  Going to church and praising God was just as natural as breathing, and her commitment remained true until she saw Jesus face to face a few years ago.  But if you thought she was praying, you need to hear what I was hearing.  You see, I was under the table and she was saying, “Sammy, come out of there.  You’re not supposed to eat a whole stick of butter like that.”  Yes, that is really my first moment of self-realization, me, a partially eaten stick of butter, and my Mother trying to coax me out from under the table.  What great hopes for the future!

I don’t think I was spanked for my mischief, but I learned very early that I was supposed to get my butter from pound cake and not directly from the wrapper. 

My Memories of Papaw Jewell

Because we moved away to the big city of Bluefield when I was nearly 6 years old, and later moved to the really big city of Buffalo, New York, when I was becoming a teenager, I don’t have a lot of memories of Papaw Jewell. The ones I have are perhaps more precious because they are few.


I remember his hugs when we visited and can even hear the sound of his voice as he called me Sammy. Smoking seemed prevalent among my uncles and older cousins, but I don’t remember ever seeing Papaw smoke. Do I remember that correctly?

Papaw loved the Lord, and I can remember him saying grace in a rhythmic pattern that almost seemed like singing. Perhaps that is why my Dad on occasions sounded just like him. One of my brothers shared that he met Papaw early one morning coming down from the mountain and asked where he had been. He said he had been spending some time with the Lord. That walk with God was evident in his life and ultimately in the lives of his descendants.  I am so grateful.

He went to bed early and rose early. His day seemed to be governed more by the sun than by the clock. When we spent the night, he would try to sit up to entertain us "city folks", but he would invariably begin to fall asleep sitting in his chair.

For some reason, I recall him telling my Dad about what was going on at the courthouse in Pineville. Someone in some county department was complaining that he had money left over in his budget and was trying to decide what to spend it on. Papaw had told the man to give it back, whereupon the politician said, “If I give it back, they will cut back my budget for next year.” I didn’t fully understand the meaning of the story until much later. Papaw was not happy with the answer.

And of course, I remember Papaw’s big breakfasts, filled with foods that would plug the arteries of any modern day American – fried pork chops, fried bacon, fried sausage, and fried eggs. It did get to him finally, in his early nineties.

My middle name is Harrison. For the longest time, I didn’t appreciate what seemed to me to be an odd name until it came in vogue with celebrity Harrison Ford. I knew I was named for Papaw, but somehow I forgot. Mamaw had her own pronunciation of his name, and "Harson" wasn't exactly Harrison in my ears.  Now, to me it is an honor to carry his middle name as my middle name because of the man he was.

After growing up, getting married and becoming a pastor, I had the chance to preach in front of Papaw once. My delivery certainly must have seemed bland compared to what he had experienced and he was perfectly candid when he asked me with all sincerity, “Sammy, are you God-called or did you go to college.” I knew what he was thinking and was not offended by his question. I simply said, “Papaw, God called me to preach, but I did go to college for some training.”

I took my family to visit him at the hospital not long before his “home going”. We gathered around his bed and sang for him. I don’t remember the song, and he probably didn’t hear a sound because of his deafness. Others in the hospital came to the door to listen, and Papaw just smiled. He knew we were singing about his Savior and that’s what counted.

Who can accurately assess the greatness of a simple man who walks with God? Surely only God, who knows all, and I'm certain he said to William Harrison Jewell, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord.”

Spending the Night on Jesse Mountain

Even today, going from Bluefield, West Virginia to Jesse, West Virginia through Montcalm, Matoaka and across Herndon Mountain takes an hour and a half, covering the 60 miles or so with an average speed of 40 miles per hour. It’s not safe to go any faster except on a few straightaways. That’s one of the ways I remember traveling to Mamaw and Papaw Jewell’s house. It could be a hot ride in the summer. Of course air conditioning was unheard of and even with the windows down, the slow ride made it seem like a much longer trip. It wasn’t too bad in the colder months, though, but you didn’t want to make that trip if snow might be in the forecast.


I remember being on Jesse Mountain one cold fall day when my breath hung in the air like smoke from a cigarette. I was even pretending to be smoking when we were called in for supper. Although Mamaw was a great cook, I don’t remember many ordinary meals at her house. My two memories are Sunday dinners, when everyone came and the table was like a church homecoming meal, and breakfast, which was a story by itself.

Not long after supper, we sat in the front room which had a coal fire in a potbelly stove that made that room almost too warm. It was the only room with heat, except for the kitchen which was warmed by Mamaw’s precious wood cook stove.

There wasn’t much to do after dark and we sat there in the living room watching Papaw’s head bobbing as he fought to stay awake. Eventually, Dad and Mother would insist that it was late enough for us all to go to bed. None of us were sleepy, but we had to pretend so they would be willing to go to bed.

I remember going to the back bedroom and being tucked in to the most unusually comforting bed I ever slept in. The mattress was a feather tick and after sinking into place, I was covered with several quilts. It became warm and snuggly in a short time and I was very comfortable, except for my cold nose. I remember the weight of those quilts that seemed so heavy that I was trapped in place. But I didn’t feel confined. Instead, I just felt secure.

I was always enthralled by the gun rack that was behind that bedroom door and dreamed on many occasions about having Papaw’s 30-30 Winchester saddle gun. He used it for deer hunting, but my dream was to put it on the back of a horse and become a cowboy. It was beautiful and was kept that way with his loving care. On one occasion, Papaw was telling about the great tragedy that had happened on a recent deer hunt when a discarded cigarette had landed in the bed of the truck on his gun case and a fire had messed up the stock on his beloved gun. I ran to the bedroom, expecting the worst. I looked on the rack to see what kind of damage had come to “my” saddle gun, only to find a black burned spot not any larger than a dime. And that was only a surface wound.

I couldn’t see the gun in the darkness of the room, but not being sleepy allowed me to dream of my “home on the range”. And by the way, I don’t think I ever touched that gun for real.

My other memory of that bedroom was a wind up alarm clock that sounded like Big Ben. At least it sounded that loud to me because I was used to sleeping in a quiet room, except for the breathing and occasional snoring of my three older brothers who shared it with me.

So even after the sandman showed up and I became drowsy, I would stay awake longer because of that clock. Eventually though, I did fall asleep.

Then came the knock on the door and the loud call for breakfast that included, “Are you going to sleep all day?” It was still dark, long before my waking time, but the wonderful smell of pork chops, bacon, sausage, gravy and eggs wakened every taste bud and made me able to brave getting out of the warm bed, stepping on to a cold wooden floor and trying to get on my cold blue jeans and shirt. It was warm in the kitchen since Mamaw had been cooking for a long time. Cracker Barrel, lower your head in shame, because as good as you are, you can’t hold a candle to this mountain woman’s breakfast. This was Papaw’s biggest meal of the day, I think, and oh, how I loved it when we were able to spend the night, and then eat breakfast, on Jesse Mountain.

The Lesson of the Sandspur

I am told that young ladies often dream about their wedding day and this first day of June, 2008, was indeed a storybook day. It was warm, as early summer usually is in Florida, but the ocean breeze made the weather delightful for a planned beach wedding.


Tom and Kristin planned this day beautifully, even ordering fresh flowers from Hawaii to make it special. Music would be provided by musicians from Orlando’s Holy Land Experience where Tom and Kristin had met as performers, and the best man was Jesus.

It was such a beautiful day that there were some fears that the public beach at Marineland might become crowded with people and this might interfere with the pristine beauty of the ceremony. But just as God often does, a short early afternoon thunderstorm cleared the beach just prior to the wedding. The storm was gone, but clouds remained to shield the wedding from direct sunlight. This even made picture taking easier for the photographers, Kristin’s friends who traveled from Pensacola to participate in and record the special event.

I picked Kristin up at a beautiful condominium a short distance away that had been graciously provided by friends of the family. Her Prince Charming was waiting beneath the arbor near the beautiful Atlantic as we arrived just over the sand dunes out of sight.

Crossing a quaint little weather beaten bridge over the dunes, we stepped into the sand and removed our shoes. Taking my arm, we only advanced a few steps when Kristin abruptly stopped with a small cry of pain. She had stepped on a sandspur. For a brief moment, as she pulled it from her foot, she was shocked to reality from her dream wedding day. We often say, “Pinch me. I think I am dreaming.” As I thought later on this little incident, I came to the conclusion that an awesome God who had brought this day together for two of his children, placed that sandspur in that exact spot to say for a brief moment, “This is not a dream. It is very real. This is what I planned all along for you as you waited for my perfect will.”

Mr and Mrs. Tom Cartwright