He was a simple man and drove a ten year old faded green 1949 Dodge sedan. I suppose it could be said that we were simple people four, brothers, no sisters, and a Dad and Mom that worked too hard and had too little.

The rented farm home faced a dusty road that often saw the shadow of a car but once a day Mr. Chance faithfully brought the mail and roared off in a cloud of dust, unless it was raining, in which case he saved the mail until the next day because the dust metamorphosed to mud and ceased to be a road other than in name.

The barn sat about 250 yards northeast of the house and was host to the twice daily ritual of emptying the swollen udders of three dozen Holsteins and a few mixed breed milk cows. These provided the currency to buy what a family of six needed to make it to the next day. The north side of the barn was home to a herd of hogs that, unlike their bovine neighbors, never had names to mark their identity. They waded through the naked corncobs that lay everywhere as reminders of meals past and awaited their destiny with selfish dignity.

It was to this old red barn, amid the activity of afternoon chores, that the simple man came. Somehow he had parked the old green Dodge and had gotten past the brown dog that guarded the entrance to the lives of these six people. His face bore lines that betrayed the accumulation of years and his hands were gnarled and marked with the labor of those same years. His left hand grasped a scuffed brown leather satchel that promised to reveal the reason of his visit. His right hand greeted each of us.

A professional salesman he was not. He wasn't dressed as such and didn't act like one, which was to his advantage, since those in the barn didn't trust professional salesmen much and usually didn't have the wherewithal to secure their wares anyway. John, as his introduction revealed, was too unassuming to be a real salesman. He actually looked more like a farmer and not terribly out of place standing next to the bales of straw that leaned against the rough oak divider.

With the satchel resting on a bale of straw he reached into its cavity and drew out a book. The exposed edges were printed in a marbled pattern popular in those days. It's thickness set it apart as unique. Other than the occasional Zane Grey or Edgar Rice Boroughs novel checked out of the county bookmobile that made it's monthly rounds, no other book had ever graced this setting and definitely none so thick. The proverbial "Family Bible" might have been thicker but this family possessed none. The thick book with the marbled edges didn't seem to stand a chance of changing hands.

Try as he gently might, the simple man could not make the sale. He explained that it was a Christian book: Bible Readings for the Home Circle. He turned the marble edged pages and revealed its contents of questions and references to the four brothers who had already lost interest and a Dad that was anxious to finish with the equally impatient cows.

His visit ended with a concession. He lay the book on the bale of straw. As he turned to go he concluded by saying, "I'll be back in a week. If you want the book you may pay me then, if not, I'll pick it up." With that he made his way past the feed wagon and out the door and up the hill to his old Dodge unaware that he had changed forever the lives of these six people and many scores of others.

Dad rolled a cigarette of Prince Albert tobacco and carried the books into the house and lay them on the wide arm of the chair we knew as his. Supper came and went with little notice given as he followed his usual routine and sat down in his chair. Actually, a break in routine went mostly unnoticed as he pulled the chain on the pedestal lamp over his shoulder and opened the book with the marble print edges. Few were aware of Dad's difficulty with reading. He never read aloud and had spent little time reading silently. Most of his time was spent working and most of the rest was spent sleeping so he could get up and work again.

The change in routine became noticeable as he spent more and more time with the book. Odd that a book of questions could prove so fascinating. The four brothers didn't understand the fascination and Mom didn't seem to have a clue either, except that Dad seemed to spend a little less time working and gave up some of his sleep.

The days passed and once again the 1949 Dodge rumbled ahead of a cloud of dust and came to a stop at the house. Old John mounted the steps of the porch and was met at the door by Dad with the book in his extended hand. "I'd be interested in this book (the thick one with the marbled edges) but it seems I'd need a Bible for it to make much sense and I don't own one."

With that comment the scuffed leather satchel once again came open. Not to replace the book held out by Dad but rather to reveal a box containing a leather bound copy of the Bible which had gold embossed edges and indented cutouts that revealed the abbreviation of the sixty six parts. "I sell Bibles," said John. And the deal was done. A simple man who wasn't much of a salesman had sold a Christian book and a Bible to a man who wasn't a Christian.

Dad's new routine became predictable. Work, eat, study the marble edged book with the Bible at his side, and then sleep. He wasn't much for talk before he bought the book and became less so afterwards. Weeks passed into months and he became a Christian without a church. Uncle John, as he preferred to be called, went to a church about fifty miles distant. Dad began attending the local Southern Baptist church that gladly welcomed him and Mom and the four brothers. Not only did the Bible become a part of daily life but now Sundays and weekday revival meetings became the pattern of life.

A baptism marked the high part of this family in spiritual transition. Dad, Mom and two of the brothers were baptized in the clear cool waters of a tank built into the floor of the platform. The congregation accompanied this celebration by singing "I Surrender All" and "Just As I Am." Dad who would never have read aloud only a few months before was now asked to teach a Sunday school class. There were no prepared materials.

The thick book with the marble printed edges became the foundation for lesson plans that were taught each Sunday morning. Having never been a Christian or even exposed to Christianity as a child, Dad suffered from a serious dose of naivete that was soon to cause a problem.

Sectarian attitudes among Christians were not part of his frame of reference and thus he approached his class and the Bible lessons he taught with the innocence of the uninitiated. What he found in his new Bible is what he taught. For all of its goodness and for all of its love that little Southern Baptist Church wasn't ready to discuss the seventh day Sabbath.

The preacher, short and fiery as he was, came to the house only to find Dad plowing corn in some far field. Mom spoke to him through the screen door and the brothers stood in the shadows of the room listening as he counseled her. In conclusion he pointed at the boys and passionately exclaimed, "If your husband persists with this idea of the Sabbath it could cause those boys to burn in the fires of hell!" Much to the discomfort of the eavesdroppers he sounded as if he meant it.

Dad lacked a lot of things but courage wasn't one of them. Something within was driving him to stay with the Bible as he read it. He and Mom left the little Baptist church and once again became Christians without a church home. Uncle John stopped by occasionally and on one visit suggested that Dad consider taking advantage of the radio as a partial replacement for the church he had lost. Old John introduced Dad to a program that not only had preaching and music but also would send him Bible lessons that he could follow by mail. It wasn't long until "Lift Up the Trumpet" became as familiar as "Just as I Am." A man with a strange name of H.M.S. was the preacher and the Kings Herald Quartet became the choir. Dad bought an old real to real tape player and began ordering tapes of sermons and music that he played for hours on end.

Thinking back, it's amazing how patient Old Uncle John was. He was a simple man who had accepted the call to become a fisher of men. He'd cast out the bait, got my Dad to nibble, waited patiently for him to take it for real and was now ready to set the hook he offered to pick him up and take him to church. Dad was the second point in a triangular route that Uncle John had to travel in order to get to church. Thirty miles to pick up Dad, fifty miles to church and then a repeat of that route to get home. John was now reeling him in.

On Tuesday night prior to Dad's first trip to this church God gave him a dream. It wasn't earthshaking as dreams go but it seemed odd to dream of a woman standing in the pulpit teaching from the Bible. Women weren't allowed to teach from the pulpit in the church he had joined before. Little thought was given the dream before leaving with Uncle John on Saturday morning to go to church that, by the way, was the Sabbath Dad had discovered in the Bible and the book with the marble printed edges. It was startling, however, to walk into the church a few minutes before 10:00 a.m. and come face to face with the woman he'd seen in his dream as she taught the Sabbath School lesson.

Dad made the decision to become a Seventh-day Adventist in 1959. Mom struggled with the idea of such radical change. "Wasn't it enough to be the only people in Scotland County to go to church on Saturday? Do we have to sell the hogs? Do I have to look like an Amish housewife?"

Mom's love for Dad and undeniably clear counsel from the Bible led to both being re-baptized as Seventh-day Adventist Christians. Later the fifth and last brother was born into a Seventh-day Adventist home followed six years later by a sister. Today three of the six serve in various denominational leadership positions. Dad and Mom remain faithful to the Spirit that called them out of a routine of work and sleep and continue to serve the church they joined nearly 40 years ago.

A family changed forever by the faithfulness of a simple man in a faded green 1949 Dodge sedan. One day Jesus will call from the grave those who have been awaiting the command, "Arise and sing ye who dwell in the dust!" and that simple man we knew as Uncle John will come forth singing. If it's true that the stars in our crowns of glory will represent the souls we've helped deliver from the prison of death then I fear that old John's will be heavy indeed.

I know you can't hear me but thanks, Uncle John.