Echoes from the Hill Top

By Ray Wiseman

Eight published writers, all from St. Andrew's Presbyterian church in Fergus, Ontario, just couldn't resist combining their expertise to produce this exceptional book. They have agreed to assign their royalties to the church's mission program in Haiti. We know you will enjoy reading it as much as they enjoyed writing it.

Don't expect to find Echoes from the Hill Top full of preaching or Christian teaching. Rather, in it, you will discover that 'church' people, like everyone else, lead lives of adventure, filled with pleasure and humour, but sometimes touched by fear or pain. Yes, most of these stories relate true incidents; those classified as fiction nevertheless contain truth because they grow out of a Christian world view.

In this book you will fly in a Liberator bomber, spend Christmas with 2,000 Africans, jump from an airplane with a company of elite commandos, and visit with street people of an earlier century.

One reviewer has said" This anthology whispers life into small moments in time that profoundly affected its eight writers. The reader is granted a glimpse at some historical details that intrigue along with spiritual insight that inspires. An old church in Wellington County is the tie that binds them together in Echoes from the Hilltop.
-Marie Male, arts reviewer, Wellington Advertiser

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Wiseman
• Release date: Jan 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9780968891742

Ray Wiseman

Ray Wiseman's early memory--being pushed up a rope ladder and over the side of a tramp steamer at age two--set the tone for his life. He has spent much time travelling, and most of his life looking from the hilltop of one adventure to the beginning of the next. Born in England, Ray has lived in British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Ontario, and South Africa. He has traveled in Africa and Asia. Ray counts writing as his fourth career. He began his working life as an electronics technician, then returned to school to study for the Christian ministry. He spent time in the pastorate and overseas with a missionary society. He returned to electronics, working as a video systems engineer. In 1993, he took early retirement to pursue a career as a writer and speaker. Ray graduated from Radio College of Canada (now RCC Schools) in 1952. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Waterloo and a Bachelor of General and Biblical Studies from Briercrest College. He has also studied at the Toronto Institute of Linguistics and The International Institute of Christian Communications (Daystar University College) in Nairobi. Ray is a member of The Word Guild, an association of Canadian authors and writers who are Christian.

Book preview

Echoes from the Hilltop

by

Ray Wiseman

& seven other St. Andrew's writer

Smashwords Edition

Echoes from the Hilltop Copyright 2011 by by Ray Wiseman and Mary Lou Cornish

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

Introduction

Don’t expect to find this book full of preaching or Christian teaching. Rather, in it, you will discover that ‘church’ people, like everyone else, lead lives of adventure, filled with pleasure and humour, but sometimes touched by fear or pain. Yes, most of these stories relate true incidents--those classified as fiction nevertheless contain truth because they grow out of a Christian worldview.

Read on--in this book you will fly in a Liberator bomber, spend Christmas with 2,000 Africans, jump from an airplane with a company of elite commandos, and visit with street people of an earlier century.

Acknowledgments

No book comes together without the contribution of many people, all of them experts in their fields. Amazingly enough, each one makes St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Fergus his or her spiritual home. We could not have done it without the enthusiastic involvement of our eight writers. They range from award-winning authors to neophyte writers just finding their literary voice - you will find them listed on the Contents page. Thanks also to Ted Arnott for writing the Foreword.

A special thanks to our editor, Mary Lou Cornish, who worked with me throughout each step of publication and to proofreader, Anna Wiseman. Our thanks also go to Myron Lasko who designed the cover.

Chapter One

Foreword

At St. Andrew’s Church in Fergus, it seems everyone has a story to tell.

Contained in this volume are the stories of our lives. They will stir your heart, kindle your mind and nourish your faith. And even though we Scotch Presbyterians are sometimes (unjustly!) considered to be a pretty dour bunch, many of the stories are enlivened with laughter.

My family and I are very proud to be a part of the church family at St. Andrew’s. Our church is known for our good works at home and abroad, our spirited discipleship, and our musical talent which are all inspired by the love and message of Christ.

With the publication of Echoes from the Hilltop, the literary talent of our folk will become just as well-known. I know that you’ll enjoy and find memorable these touching stories.

Ted Arnott, MPP

Wellington-Halton Hills

Echoes from a Pastor’s Life

by David Ketchen

DAVID KETCHEN graduated from Fergus High School in 1957 and secured a position with Trull Funeral Homes in Toronto as an apprentice funeral director and embalmer. In 1961, sensing a strong calling to Christian ministry, he enrolled at Waterloo Lutheran University (now Wilfred Laurier) and graduated with a B.A. He further pursued his theological studies at Westminster Seminary in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. During his final year, he married Evelyn Root. They have three sons: Jonathan, Michael and Stephen.

David and Evelyn have ministered to five congregations: Cranberry Portage in northern Manitoba; Innerkip, Ontario; Sydney, Nova Scotia; Duanesburg, New York; and Valparaiso, Indiana. Now retired, he and his wife reside in Guelph, but attend St. Andrew’s in Fergus, the church of his boyhood.

Third Opinion

Some seventy-plus years ago, in the little village of Drayton, Ontario, long before there was a summer festival and the Festival Theatre was still the Town Hall, a young woman, recently married, got up early, fixed breakfast for her husband and saw him off to work. She hurried through her household chores, put on her winter coat, and trudged through the snow to visit the family doctor. She was pretty sure she knew what he would tell her, so she was not surprised when, after a lengthy examination, he sat her down and said, You’re pregnant.

However, she was surprised at the worried look on his face as he said, sadly, "Because of the peculiar anomalies of your pelvic structure, you can never bear children, and if you try to have this baby, both you and the baby will die. The only option for us is to operate and take the baby now. (This was long before the days of easy abortions).

I’d like a second opinion, she said.

Who would you like to see? he asked.

Who would you recommend?

I think you should go to K-W Hospital (now Grand River Hospital in Kitchener).

So, later that week, her husband borrowed a car, and they drove the thirty miles to Kitchener where she was examined by a team of specialists who unanimously concurred with the first doctor’s opinion.

It was a quiet drive home. What was there to say?

The next morning, she walked across the park by the cenotaph to visit her husband’s mother who was a cheery and chubby woman.

Well Jeanie, she asked, What did they tell you in Kitchener?

When the young woman told her the sad news, her mother-in-law said, Nonsense! Go on up to Moorfield and see Dr. Jim McQuibban.

Well-known and loved throughout the area, Dr. McQuibban had established his medical practice years before, in Alma, Ontario, with his brother George. After George left medicine to become the Liberal MPP (Member of Provincial Parliament), Dr. Jim soldiered on alone. Patients came from as far away as Elmira. Dr. George died suddenly of a massive heart attack in his Toronto hotel room at the age of 50. Both were active elders in the Presbyterian Church. George was widely-known as a lover of birds, and he had an extensive collection of rare birds. (Presumably, they were all Presbyterians, too).

Jeanie got a friend to drive her to Moorfield. Dr. McQuibban examined her at length. She told him what the other doctors had said and he smiled gently.

Don’t worry, dear. I’ll get your baby for you.

And he did. Mind you, it was touch and go, and Jeanie almost died. Afterwards, Dr. Jim said, Don’t ever try to have any more!

There are a lot of people I want to meet when I get to Heaven. One of the first has to be Dr. Jim McQuibban, because I owe him--big time, I owe him! You see, that woman was my mother, and I was that baby, and I almost didn’t get to be here.

Criminal Confession

I don’t remember very much about those early years in Drayton. My Dad worked at Potter’s Creamery and I remember visiting him there and surreptitiously dipping my finger into a vast pile of butter. Hmmm! It tasted so good! We lived just off the main street in a big double house just behind what was then the telephone office. We shared the house with Dave and Vera Upper, a pleasant couple with an adorable grey Persian kitten.

I remember one warm summer day Vera was out painting the veranda and when she went inside to make a sandwich for lunch I painted the kitten a dark forest green. It was never the same after that. The kitten I mean. I’m sure that wasn’t what precipitated our leaving Drayton although I expect Mrs. Upper wasn’t too sorry to see us go

The next few months are a complete blank to me. I know we moved to Selkirk, Ontario, where my Dad worked on a chicken farm. I suspect it was not a happy time for them because they never mentioned it. Next thing I knew we were settled in Teeswater, a quiet village in Bruce County. My Dad worked at Thompson’s Creamery candling eggs. Do they still do that? Sitting before a slim blue light in a totally dark room he would hold eggs up to the light and if they contained a blood spot or other imperfection they would go into a separate container for sale at a much-reduced price.

We lived in a large white house in what I think was the old Methodist parsonage. Two elderly ladies, sisters named Reid, lived next to us. There was Jen, the oldest and the boss, and Min who did whatever Jen told her. They loved me and it’s no wonder because I was a beautiful child--I was so!!! My mom and I would visit them every day and I could do no wrong.

Across the street and down a bit lived Vince Pettiplace. He was the Chief of Police. He had to be because he was the only one, and I don’t think he had very much to do because nothing ever happened in that idyllic community, until one fateful day when the peace was suddenly shattered. Some wicked person threw an empty beer bottle through Vince Pettiplace’s living room window which was closed at the time.

Well, that town came to life. Not many had telephones but those who did kept the wires humming. Who in the world would do such a thing? An editorial in the local newspaper expounded about the ‘crime wave’ that had besmirched the peace of our little town. Some people thought it might be someone whom Vince had put in jail, but Vince Pettiplace hadn’t put anyone in jail for twenty years or more.

Old Jen was particularly incensed. After all, it had happened right across the street from her house and in broad daylight, too. My Mom and I were over at Reid’s the next morning. Min was standing quietly by the stove and Jen was rocking in her rocking chair, faster and faster. The madder she got the faster she rocked and the faster she rocked the madder she got.

Why, she said, I just said this morning to Mr. Robert Clifton Ireland (a music teacher with a car that he kept in Jen’s shed.) ’It’s high time the men in this town got together and did something to find out who did this despicable thing.’

We still had capital punishment in those days and believe me old Jen would have held the rope. Then all of a sudden my Mom turned to me. I wasn’t paying any attention to all this adult talk. I was sitting on the floor playing with the cat. She said David, do you know who threw the beer bottle through Mr. Pettiplace’s window?

Yes, I said. I did.

Old Jen sprang out of her rocking chair (as much as an old lady can spring out of anything) and stamped her foot on the floor.

Well now Min, didn’t I always say that Vince Pettiplace is an idiot? Why, what was he doing leaving an empty beer bottle on his front lawn? What did he expect the child to do with it?

And she reached over and picked me up and gave me a big hug and patted me on the back like I’d done something really special. It’s so good to have a friend like Jen (or Jesus) who will never stop loving you, not because of what you have done, but in spite of what you have done.

How to Deal with Your Problems

Periodically, during the summer when the weather was fine, Old Jen would come knocking on our back door. Can I borrow David and his wee red wagon?

I was always ready for an adventure with Jen. So off we’d go down the street and turn right along the river on the path to the town dump. Jen would spend an hour or so sifting through whatever others had thrown out. She was into recycling long before it became the thing to do. Once she found a perfectly good cup and saucer with no chips or cracks. Of course they didn’t match, but Jen saw it as another treasure.

On the way back one day, the wagon piled high with memorabilia, Jen paused and went down to the river and peered over the bank.

Oh David, come and see this.

I climbed down beside her and looked at what floated among the reeds. I had no idea what it was. It looked like clear Jello full of little black dots.

David, those are frogs’ eggs,Jen said. Get me that big pot off the wagon.

She proceeded to scoop up the mass and said, Now you take these home and put them in water and they’ll turn into frogs.

Somehow I was a bit skeptical.

When we got home. my Mom was busy upstairs, so I rummaged around the kitchen looking for something big enough to hold the treasure. I couldn’t find anything that would suffice. Then an idea came to me. Out in the back of the house under the downspout from the eaves trough was a big barrel full of rain water. Perfect! I dumped the whole mess in and it floated nicely. I watched and watched for the miracle of the frogs appearing but nothing happened. I lost interest and took Jen’s pot back to her and totally forgot about the rain barrel.

About three weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, my Mom did what she always did after the chores were done, the house was cleaned and preparations for Sunday were finished. She took a big kettle and went out to get some nice fresh rain water to wash her hair. All of a sudden there was a shrill shriek and that kettle went flying across the lawn. She stormed into the house.

The rain barrel’s full of polliwogs. How would polliwogs get in our rain barrel? You don’t think--No! Do they come down in the rain?

I never said a word. My Dad said quietly, Why don’t you go over to Jen’s and get some water from her barrel?

So she did. After about three weeks the problem disappeared. The polliwogs all turned into frogs and hopped away.

Good lesson. When life stacks up against you, just wait patiently. Soon the polliwogs will go away on their own. It’s the way life works.

School Daze

A terrible thing happened to me when I turned seven. I had to go to school. All that summer, my Mom prepared me for it. She taught me to read and do simple mathematics and assured me that she would walk with me to school so I didn’t have to worry about it.

I worried anyway.

Sure enough, that first day my Mom was sick and could hardly get out of bed. She dragged herself across the road to the neighbour’s to ask Margaret, the oldest of the Blake girls, if she would please accompany me on my first day of school. Margaret wasn’t enthused to have this little boy tagging along, but eventually we got to the school.

In those days all schools had two entrances, one on each side; the one on the right for boys and the other for girls, and woe betide you if you got caught going in the wrong door. It meant the strap for sure. I have no idea why.

Margaret pointed me to the boys door and told me to stand there until the bell rang. I peered around the corner at the playground. I could not believe my eyes. Six million kids, all shapes and sizes, hooted and hollered all over that playground. I had no idea there were that many kids in the whole world. Well, I’m probably exaggerating a little bit. There might only have been about two million. Anyway, all of a sudden right over my head this big bell started ringing very loudly and all those six million kids started running straight toward me. I was petrified. I was swept into the building on the tide and miraculously wound up in the first grade classroom.

It was all so boring. I knew my letters and how to put them together and could count to a hundred or more. Before long I began to feel a familiar feeling in my belly. I had no idea where the bathroom was or how to get there so I crossed my legs and prayed but, sure enough, I had to go. You know how it is when you have to go, I mean you really have to go, how it sort of backs up and starts running out of your eyes. The little girl across the aisle looked concerned and whispered What’s the matter?

I have to pee, I whispered back.

She, bold as brass, put up her hand and said, Teacher, David Ketchen has to go to the bathroom.

I couldn’t have