January 7, 1958

Dear Folks;

And after the storm, "the still small voice." Or, a voice coming from the wilderness. Can't remember when I last wrote; the most recent I have record of was written December 12th (hope I haven't been that delinquent). Anyhow, there is reason for my silence I've bee as busy as the sparrow caught in a badmitten game. What with the Christmas rush, church work, and girls (you know, these females are so much like an old time evangelist, always pressing for a decision).

Christmas was hellish and beleive me no one gave me time to sorrow and feel homesickk. Heck I turned down 30 dinner invitations and then played musical chair all afternoon from one house to another; by the time I finished I was water-logged with tea. I sure miss our old Yankee coffee. Got for Christmas a couple of books, shirt and tie, a dozen of hankies (maybe, because of my nasal drawl, they think I need to blow my nose). Also very welcome were around 100 Christmas cards and letters from America (wish I had the money put into stamps on them). One disappintment, I never received a card or letter from the Neil Olsons or Dale Scheers - guess they must feel since I'm so far out here that they might as well write my obituary and have done with me. We had Holy Communion on Christmas day and the church was jammed, it was the most moving service of my ministry. On Dec. 21st in the morning we had a service of "Nine Carols and Readings" and in the evening I directed our church choir in singing Handel's "Messiah." It took a bit to whip them into shape as during practice I always heard "but this is the way we have always done it". Their attitude could be summed up in the words "Come weal or come wee, my status is quo." I even overheard one choir member say, "He's wee young, he will learn our ways." To make a long story short, I was young, had some ideas of my own, and they learned my ways.

Sunday night we had a reception for our new organist from London; what a combination, a Yankee preacher, an Africaans session clerk, and now a Limey organist in a Scotch Presbyterian Church. It sort of reminds me of something I see on the breakfast menu every morning, "savory hash," and I hope this church hash is much more savory than what I have for breakfast.

Last night at session meeting they asked me to stay on as their regular pastor -  to become a South African. And if I insisted on going home, to turn around and come back. Also some of the ministers in Presbytery are tyring to persuade me to hang on here. They all admire the American way, organization, and vital life given to the church. But I told all that I must go home, and where God leads then , I will follow. Then, to cinch the argument I asked them how they would feel to up and bury all their family, all their loved ones, all their friends on one day; that is what it would mean for me to ex-patriate. Only because of some great catastophe would I consider staying here, earthquake, lightning, or marriage.

Last week I took a flying trip down into Zulu land. Left on Tuesday and was back on Friday. Put in 1,000 miles, 400 of them on dirt roads. It was interesting to get back into the native Reserves, where the only white men around were traders and missionaries. Here in Jhb crime is running rampant, and you always lock your car and room; but down on the reserve there was no theft and a man is much safer there with 60,0000 blacks living around him, that in the heart of the city. These South Africans get a "boot" out of my Yankee ways. I backed up to a service station and said to the native waiting, "filler 'er up with gas." Puzzled he replied, "What say?" and started jabbering in Zulu. The two guys in the car just roared with laughter - and finally clued me in that I should ask for "petrol."

Then we stopped to visit an American Lutheran Mission. I said to the fellows, "Now, for once, we'll have a "coffee break" and you'll see some real American Coffee." So the first thing the lady said at the house, "Won't you come in and have some tea?" SHOT DOWN!!! To top it off I still wanted some Am. coffee, so said, "I'll take coffee instead of tea." But all I got was de-cafe. What a blow to my pride.

Now for some of the names of places we visited (wish I were there so be the pronunciation): Hluhluwe (pronounced shu-schluie), Mtuga tuba (mmmm- tuba) Umfolozi, ....(edit unreadable by tcc). The best way to tacle all these words is with a plug of tobacco in your mouth, then spit everytime you pronounce.

Talking about language: this Africaans is impossible. The first thing they taught me was a phrase and then they would tell me what it meant. It took me three weeks to find out it meant "give me kiss." And by that time my face as so red from being slapped that it didn't matter much. Just the hazards of being a foreigner.

Its time I started grinding out a sermon so will close for now.

Love