Three  years  and  three months later,  on  May  6, 1911, my 
        parents  were  married.   Dad was  twenty-one,  Mother  going  on 
        twenty.  They loved each other so much that there was no question 
        in their minds that God had chosen them for one another.
        
             So strong was their desire for a family that they hoped  for 
        a  child  within  one year.  But the first  year  passed  into  a 
        second,  and  then into a third, and they were  still  without  a 
        little  one.   They  began to pray earnestly  for  a  child,  and 
        continued  to  pray into the fourth year of  marriage.   Most  of 
        their  family  gave up hoping, but Mother and  Dad  continued  to 
        trust  and  pray.  In May, 1915, God was pleased to  grant  their 
        heart's cry:  their first child was conceived.
        
               "From  the  time we began to look for Loran," Mother  once 
             told  friends, "it seemed as if we just dreamed and  thought 
             of him all the time.  When Dad left the factory he  couldn't 
             get  home  quickly  enough to see if I was  alright,  for  I 
             suffered  a great deal.  He would say, `Mary as much as  you 
             are suffering, surely this will be a good child.'
        
               "We  began  to anticipate his coming.  I  prayed  for  man 
             child,  a  man  of God.  I didn't pray for  a  preacher:   I 
             prayed  for a man of God.  I gave him back to God before  he 
             was born.  I told God that I would raise my son for the Lord 
             the best I knew."
        
             I  was  born at home on February 3, 1916, with  the  doctor, 
        Grandmother Dickson, and a friend, Aunt Mandy, assisting.  Mother 
        said, "We all sensed something unusual in the room.
        

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Aunt  Mandy said that she had never before been in a  place  like 
        that,  and my own mother sensed something out of the ordinary  as 
        well.   I never told anyone about the Holy Spirit falling  on  me 
        when Loran was born, until many years later."
        
             Not  long before his death, Dad told me, "Son, I don't  know 
        whether there was any child more welcome in this world than  you.  
        We so looked forward to your coming."  How can I thank Jesus  for 
        the privilege of being placed into the care of parents who  loved 
        God  and wanted to do His will?  I am truly grateful to  God  and 
        much indebted to Jesus.
        
             In this Christian heritage I was taught to love God, to love 
        Jesus,  and to put the church first.  As soon as they were  able, 
        my  parents  began to teach me to pray.  My mother  said  that  I 
        could  speak  plainly  at the age of nine months.   While  I  was 
        strapped  in my little high chair, she began to teach me  how  to 
        fold  my hands and pray.  I suppose I was praying at the  age  of 
        one  year, bowing my head and trying to say a few words  to  God.  
        My  mother and dad had me praying before I knew what prayer  was.  
        Prayer seemed so natural and normal.
        
             There  was such a deep love of the right, the pure, and  the 
        upright  in  our  home.  Because of this,  I  have  been  shocked 
        whenever   I  have  seen  anyone  drinking  liquor   or   dressed 
        immodestly.   I  cannot become accustomed to  it.   When  someone 
        curses,  I  am shocked; when somebody in a restaurant  swears  or 
        takes  the Lord's name in vain, I find myself turning  around  to 
        look.  I love everyone just alike, but when I see or hear  things 
        impure and unholy, I seem to suffer.  It hurts my heart.  I  know 
        that  I  have  so little of Jesus, but  when  I  observe  certain 
        iniquitous things, my heart is grieved. 
        
             I recall once stepping onto an elevator while with a  fellow 
        pastor.   As  the  elevator  started up, a  man  began  to  swear 
        terribly, using vulgar oaths and taking the precious name of  our 
        Lord  in  vain.  It had never happened before and  probably  will 
        never  happen again, but, all of a sudden, I began to praise  God 
        almost as loudly as this man was cursing. I began
        

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praising  Jesus  for His wonderful Self and magnifying  the  holy 
        Name of God.
        
             I tell you, things began to happen in that little  elevator.  
        My minister friend wasn't sure what that man was going to do.  He 
        looked  at  me with such animosity.  But, you see, my  heart  had 
        been  taught  to  love and honor God.  When  such  awful  cursing 
        began, God simply started praising Himself through me.
        
             My mother carried me to church when I was very small.  I was 
        in  service almost ever time the church doors were open,  whether 
        Sunday  morning or evening, prayer meeting, or revivals.  I  grew 
        up not knowing you couldn't go to church.  The only time I missed 
        church  was when I was quite sick.  Even when I became  an  adult 
        and  was in the ministry I missed church only when I would be  on 
        special  call,  when  I was waiting on God  in  prayer,  or  when 
        waiting for Him to guide me.  (And right now, as I tell you this, 
        the  Holy Spirit speaks within me, saying: "I will guide  you;  I 
        will direct you; I will tell you what to do.")

             My parents taught me that the Bible is the Word of  God, the
        Supreme Voice, the  revelation  of  God's love to us,  the Volume
        of  Life, and outside it was desolation.  I believed it when they
        first  taught  me,  and  I  believe  it  today. I knew nothing of 
        modernism  and  liberalism,  of  doubting  God or Jesus, until my
        second  college experience.   From my childhood until then, I had
        known  nothing about these dark and sinister liberal views  which
        questioned God's  Word and hurled doubts into  the minds of young
        Christians.  When  I  first  heard  a  professor  bring  his  own
        thoughts, analyzations, and opinions to class, I was deeply hurt.
        
             My  Mother tells me (only because of Jesus and all to  God's 
        glory) that she recognized early that God's hand was upon me.  As 
        she  was  working one day, the lady who lived  right  across  the 
        street  came to the door and said, "I wish you could see  what  I 
        see.  It is wonderful."
        
             Mother said, "What is it?"
        

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The woman replied, "You couldn't hear what I am hearing  and 
        not know they have been in church."
        
             Mother  still didn't quite understand:  "What do you  mean?"  
        she asked.
        
             "Why," she answered, "your oldest boy is out back on top  of 
        the rabbit pen preaching to the other children."  She was quite a 
        woman  of  the world but she said, "If I ever  heard  a  preacher 
        preach,  he is a preaching one.  No one could tell me he  doesn't 
        know  how to go to church."  And when Mother went to  look,  sure 
        enough--there I was on top of the rabbit pen as the neighbor  had 
        described.   I was trying to preach exactly like I had  seen  and 
        heard Rev. Gilmore every Sunday.
        
             I was but a small lad when God first spoke to me.  It was  a 
        very  serious and sacred event in my life.  (And when I tell  you 
        that, God whispers within me in the operation of His gifts, "I am 
        with  thee.")  I do not share this lightly, but with  a  profound 
        sense of my unworthiness before almighty God, for I do not belong 
        to  myself:  I am His and I am on this earth to do only His will.
        
             It  was  while I was making a little journey for  my  mother 
        that  I suddenly had this marvelous experience at the  fringe  of 
        the  Kingdom of God.  I wish that I were able to tell the  wonder 
        of it, but my words are too inadequate.  Though men were to speak 
        like angels, they cannot tell about the wonder of the Kingdom  of 
        God.
        
             From  time to time my mother would send me to the  farmhouse 
        of Ollie Gilbert to get a quart of milk.  The Gilbert home was  a 
        little outside the limits of Windsor Village to the north.  While 
        on  this errand for my mother that beautiful Saturday  morning  I 
        had  a quart Ball jar in the curl of my left arm.  Since we  were 
        quite poor, I tried to be careful not to drop it.
        
             As  I  was on my way, some 250 feet past the old  church,  I 
        noticed  that the wind was rushing through the leafy branches  of 
        the  trees, and it looked like they were waving, giving  greeting 
        to each other, saying "How do you do?" at morning time.
        

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I looked at the brilliance of the sun, the brightness of the 
        blue sky, and it all blended into a symphony--all trying to talk, 
        all endeavoring to say something of thanksgiving and gratitude to 
        God.   A song sparrow was singing this melody, also, when, to  my 
        sudden  astonishment, God spoke in my heart and said,    "YOU 
        BELONG TO ME: I WILL USE YOU IN MY KINGDOM SOMEDAY." 
        
        

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