Stranger than Fiction: A Partial Record of Answered Prayer in the Life of Dr. Florence N. Gribble

By Florence N. Gribble

Dr. Florence Gribble's record is an inspiring story of the detailed and individual way in which God provides for those who put Him first. When God gets men and women to obey Him without flinching, and to follow His Son Jesus Christ without swerving, it seems as if He takes especial delight in showing that for them literally nothing shall be impossible. All nature is under His sway, and all history is under His control; so them that honor Him, He honors, and often in signal and striking ways, as this book records. It is a story of missionary heroism. "Undaunted" is a word that Dr. Gribble uses as a description of her deceased husband. How true it is of her own attitude, and of her fellow-workers, this book amply illustrates. May the story of God's great faithfulness, and of the fragile but radiant lady doctor whose unswerving loyalty to Christ's call so unmistakably (though unintentionally) shines through, be used by the Holy Spirit to challenge and stimulate our faith and daring, and to summon forth not only more prayer, but more volunteers for the work of the Cross in Central Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BMH Books
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780884690665

Book preview

Preface

It is with the earnest prayer that the Lord Jesus may be glorified, and that His name may be magnified, that this book is sent forth. Since it has come into being through the request of South African Christians, it seems fitting to me that it should be dedicated to them as well.

Thanks are due to those who have helped so kindly and generously in the compiling of this book.

To Miss Marion J. Wright, of Port Elizabeth, who so kindly typed the manuscripts; to the Rev. Andrew G. W. MacBeath, MA., B.D., of the Belgian Congo, who has written the Foreword, and who, with the collaboration of Miss Wright, has done the proofreading, I express my hearty thanks.

To those who have read the manuscripts previous to publication, and who have made helpful suggestions concerning them, I also express my thanks. Among these are several friends in the Andrew Murray Missionary Home.

That, in these perilous times, the answers to prayer herein recorded may be a testimony to the faithfulness of the Lord Jesus, and thus a source of strength and help to those who read, is the prayer of the author.

Cape Town, South Africa

January 1941.

Mrs. Florence N. Gribble.

Answered Prayer in the Life of

DR. FLORENCE N. GRIBBLE

CHAPTER I

LIFE IN NEBRASKA

Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them (Psa. 139:16).

He is not willing that any should perish;

Jesus, enthroned in Glory above,

Came to our fallen world, carried our sorrows,

Poured out His life for us, wonderful love!

Perishing, perishing thronging our pathway,

Hearts break with burdens too heavy to bear;

Jesus would save, but there’s no one to tell them,

No one to lift them from sin and despair.

—Anonymous.

A little girl was born one wintry day at a tiny village in Nebraska. That dignified little town of Louisville was all excitement over the advent of every new wee-comer into its midst. Neighbors came to offer congratulations and names. Each dear lady wanted the little girl named after herself. Some of them brought gifts, hoping thus to insure the name. Obviously, it was impossible to burden the child with all the names; however, the mother chose one, even though she did not like it, and used that for the middle name—in other words, did not use it at all! So it came to pass that the little girl was christened Florence Alma—Florence for the mother’s choice, Alma because of the friend’s desire.

It was not a Christian home. Father was the only lawyer in that little country town. He had been a school teacher before the study of law. The mother had also followed the profession of teaching before her marriage. The father was a skeptic. His reason told him there is a God, therefore he was not an atheist, but he did not recognize God through Jesus Christ. He believed, and later taught his children, that Jesus Christ was a myth or a fairy tale, and that belief in Him was to be strictly avoided as belief in all the other fantastic stories of their childhood. The mother, though not a Christian, had an inner longing that her children might know and love the One in Whom she intellectually believed.

Florence was the second child. As she made her advent sixteen months after the birth of her elder sister, Alice, her mother’s hands were full—and still more so as another daughter, Edna, and a son, Eldon, followed in quick succession.

The little law practice of the country town of Louisville was not sufficient to support the increasing family, and so it came to pass that the Newberrys removed to the larger town of Plattsmouth, where the father hoped to establish a more lucrative practice. It was here in this little town of Plattsmouth that Florence had her first religious experience. Her memories go back to the father, whom she feared and loved; to the mother, whom she loved but did not fear; to the elder little sister, whom she thought so wise; and to the two other children, whom she loved to tend. They go back also to the little Sunday school where the father at last consented, because the mother so earnestly pleaded, to their attending.

Florence was early taught to read. Her father was a skillful teacher, and she can never remember the time when she could not read, first by the phonetic system—strange weird characters—which she had no trouble in transferring when she came to read her English readers. When her eldest sister started to school at the age of six, Florence begged to accompany her. The parents laughed at first, but then the father, whose favorite child she was, said, Why not? Let her go! She may get some good, and will get no harm.

She learned to know and love a little playmate who was bitten one day by a mad dog, and who some time afterwards developed that dread disease, hydrophobia; but Lily loved Jesus, and in her dying agony had no fear.

Florence had heard about Jesus, too, at Sunday school, though, alas, never in the home. Now the Holy Spirit came pleading with her, young as she was, saying, My child, give me thine heart! Coming home one day from Sunday school, she went out to the little swing behind the barn. She was not yet five years old, but she had a great question to decide, and wished to be alone. Should she accept this Jesus of Whom she had heard? She longed to do so, but fear of her father became uppermost in her mind. She decided, as many another has done before, that she would be a secret Christian. Yes, she would love and trust Jesus, but she would not tell her father. Who could fail to pity the little child thus defeated in life’s first great spiritual battle? The wooing of the Spirit left her.

Florence at right with Sister Edna at left

Florence—growing up, with Sister Alice on the right

Grammar school in Plattsmouth, Nebr., where Florence went to school

For years, as she went to school, her heart never again felt that deep attraction with an intense compulsion which we call conviction. Alas, that it should have been so! Yet she remained religious, having rejected the truth. With this intensely religious nature, she became a prey to error, and it was while the family still lived in the town of Plattsmouth that she met and loved one whom she remembers as a sweet and beautiful lady.

This lady was a Seventh Day Adventist, and having won the love and confidence of the little one, asked her if she did not desire to be saved. There was nothing that the little girl more earnestly desired. And so Nellie, as Florence always called her, proceeded to point out the way. It was not, as one might have supposed, Acts 16:31, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, but it was Exodus 20:8, Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Satan does not oppose errors and isms. And so it came to pass that the little girl, who could not find the courage to confess Jesus, very readily went to her mother, telling her that she desired to keep Saturday as the Sabbath. Her mother was a shrewd judge of human nature, and after pondering for awhile her little daughter’s request, said, Very well, you may keep Saturday if you wish, but I will see that you have your share of work on Sunday.

This did not daunt the earnest little seeker. She was glad to work on Sunday. How many like her embrace the religion of works, stumbling over the simplicity of faith!

She now became an earnest Bible reader. Nellie had told her that if she read the Bible three times a day on other days and five times on Saturday, one chapter each time, she could read it through in a year. This she diligently did. Strange to say, her father permitted it, and smiled indulgently. After all, the Bible was literature—it would not do her any harm to become acquainted with it as long as she did not believe in Jesus Christ. Florence instinctively knew she must not mention this name, and so followed out more diligently her religion of salvation by works.

Sundry early memories come to her concerning her brother, of whom she was extremely fond. The day he was born, as she was lifted up in her father’s arms to see him lying on his little bed, she cried in ecstasy, Oh, Papa, is he ours? Can we keep him? She could hardly believe her good fortune when her father assured her that no one else had any claim upon him. How proud she was!

It was concerning her brother that she had her first answer to prayer, and yet that prayer was not offered in Jesus’ name. He was crying lustily, and she had exhausted her feeble efforts, when she thought, Why not pray that he will stop crying? So she uttered the simple prayer, Make my brother stop crying, and help me to remember it! There came an instant lull in those lusty wails, and she never forgot that God can answer prayer.

Unfortunately, she was near-sighted. She never remembers having normal vision. Years later, when she was studying medicine, one of her professors in medical college made a statement that myopia is non-congenital. When the time came for questions, she asked him if there had ever been an instance of a child being born myopic. Yes, he said very curtly, eyeing her over his glasses (he was presbyopic), but they were either fools or degenerates! As in most classes, students are better known to each other than to the professors, so he was completely taken aback by the sudden roar with which his statement was greeted. Notwithstanding her myopia, she was a diligent student. She was not satisfied unless she had many head marks and all the prizes.

CHAPTER II

SCHOOL DAYS IN COLORADO AND ILLINOIS

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me (Rev. 3:20).

Then shall I know even as also I am known (I Cor. 13:12).

My life is but a weaving

Between my Lord and me;

I cannot choose the colors,

He worketh steadily.

Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,

And I, in foolish pride,

Forget He sees the upper,

And I, the underside.

Not till the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

In the Weaver’s skillful hand,

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned.

—Author unknown.

At the age of nine years, a great change came in her life. Her parents removed to another state. Those were days of caravans, long trains of covered wagons, which wound their way slowly westward over the plains to a new and unexplored territory. Those were the days of the famous Kit Carson; and it was to Kit Carson County, Colorado, that the family took their flight in one of those coveredwagon tents. Fleeting memories come to her in later life of this long voyage: gypsies by the roadside; crossing railway tracks; plodding slowly on, day by day. And then, at last, as they passed by slow stages through western Kansas, they came to their Eldorado—Kit Carson County in eastern Colorado. How glad they were to be near their journey’s end! They went to a little town called Claremont, and passed its outskirts to what became their own claim three miles from the little city. Just 160 acres was this homestead.

A few happy years passed at Claremont. There were some awesome and gruesome things for the little girl to remember. There were holes in those vast fields inhabited by strange trios—rattlesnakes, owls, and prairie dogs. But there were pleasant memories also, such as vast fields of luscious sugar cane. How she and her sisters did like breaking the stalks, to enjoy the sweet juice! There were great herds of cattle, all branded and belonging to this or that particular person who had been skillful enough to lasso them. Wild horses, too, roamed on the plains. Altogether, it was an exciting existence, but spiritual life was unfostered.

Children, for the most part, were untutored. But there came a happy day in the lives of these and other children when a school was opened at Claremont. Here Florence, her sisters, and the children of neighboring settlers attended together a school taught by Mrs. Wellman, whom they all learned to love and obey. It was a red-letter day in Florence’s life when she was permitted to spend a week or so with the teacher, whom she so much loved.

How she loved the schoolroom! More than the three R’s—Reading, ‘Riting, and ‘Rithmetic—were taught there. She reveled also in history and geography, and was so studious that her parents became anxious about her health, especially her vision, as she pored day after day over her beloved school books. Happily, the outdoor life was an excellent antidote for such a condition.

Shortly after the children became well established in school at Claremont, it became necessary for the father to remove to Tuttle, another town not far distant, but too far, alas, for the children to avail themselves of school privileges. Sod houses were built at both these places—quaint, but comfortable structures made from the sod of the freshly ploughed furrow. Additional accommodation was provided by dugouts, which were also useful in times of intense and heavy storms, and in which the family took refuge during the not-infrequent passing cyclones.

It was while at Tuttle that an aunt from Illinois visited the family, and then a great change came into the life of Florence. She was just twelve years old now—the time when changes are romantic and enchanting, and altogether desirable. After much hesitation and many preliminary arrangements, it was agreed that she should go to Illinois to live with her aunt and grandmother. She was the one chosen, not because of her specially brilliant qualities, but because of her intermediate age. Before the decision was made, her aunt had long since departed.

Florence Newberry, High School Senior (in foreground, wearing glasses), age 16

Florence remembers being escorted to Burlington by her father, and being placed alone in charge of the conductor upon that long winding train. She remembers, too, something of the dreariness of the journey, and of a dear young lady missionary or Christian worker who, seeing the child traveling alone, came to her that Sunday afternoon and taught her something of the Word of God. She has forgotten the lesson learned, but remembers the sweet personality and the tender kindness of the one who taught it.

And then she reached Omaha, that great city, as it seemed to the eyes of the child, where she would have been completely lost had it not been for the kindness of an uncle and aunt who met her at the station, took her to their hospitable home, and bought for her many little things which delighted her heart. Then, after the brief visit was ended, she was put on another train to Mendota, Illinois.

Here she was met by her grandmother, who escorted her to the last stage of the journey by still a third train, to La Moille, the little town which, for more than ten years, was to be her home.

She was soon given her place in the orderly household. She was to go to school, of course, but her time at home was to be well occupied, and she was to be thoroughly and methodically trained. The more-or-less wild life of the plains was a thing of the past, but the child did not regret it. She liked work, and, unlike most children, preferred discipline.

Her life was the same in routine daily. It consisted of washing and wiping dishes, sweeping floors, making beds, dusting furniture, carrying wood, pumping water, and various other duties. In winter there was snow to be shoveled, as the great drifts fell on the walks, but she was happy because she could go to school.

She was judged to be fit for the eighth grade. She entered in Miss Mayne’s room with other boys and girls of her own age, but they did not mean business as she did, and soon Miss Mayne had a consultation with the principal.

We cannot keep Florence in the eighth grade, she said. She’s a little young, and, unfortunately, small for her age, but she will have to go into high school. This announcement thrilled her through and through. To be promoted so soon—oh, what joy! She now worked the harder that, her home duties being finished, she might have the more time for study.

She went to church also—the little village Baptist church to which her grandmother belonged. Sunday after Sunday she sat in the pew, a demure little maiden beside her elderly grandmother, and listened to stirring sermons preached by the old white-haired minister, who believed so thoroughly in personal righteousness that she sometimes shuddered as she thought how far short she came.

The collections annoyed her the first Sunday. Having no money, she put in a pin, but her grandmother’s reproving looks caused her to desist from such a policy in the future. Thereafter, before they went to church on Sunday morning, grandmother placed a coin in her hands and told her it was more appropriate for Sunday collections than a pin would be.

Soon the little town was in a state of considerable excitement. Peter Bilhorn, the renowned evangelist, was coming to hold a revival. He was the son of a saloon keeper in Mendota. How true it is that a prophet is not without honour, save in his own country. He who had set whole cities ablaze, and whose converts had been numbered by the thousands, was about to leave the little self-righteous town of La Moille without a single conversion.

Florence’s heart was stirred with pity for the evangelist. She was not under conviction of sin at this time, but it was too bad for the evangelist to go away without a convert! Therefore, she made a firm resolution: if no one else was converted at that last meeting, then she would be! The evangelist must not leave disconsolate! The invitation was given out that last Sunday evening. Nobody arose, nobody responded! Then suddenly, from the central pew arose the form of a little girl. All eyes turned upon her. It was a harder ordeal than she had thought, but somebody must be brave!

After church was out, it was hard to meet the friends. One dear old lady came up to her, saying, We are so glad you have found the Lord. The pastor, with tears streaming down his cheeks, patted her upon the head and said, You have done well to confess the Lord. You must seek, step by step, to follow Him. Her grandmother said nothing!

The pastor called at the home, now that Florence had been converted. Did she not want to be baptized? The grandmother seemed strangely unwilling. Florence, herself, had no desire, but did not say so. Grandmother finally said, Florence is under the guardianship of her aunt. She must ask her permission.

And so, another ordeal was before the little girl. Summoning all her courage, she faced her aunt, who was strongly unsympathetic with all churches and religion. Her aunt looked at her gravely. I do not believe in excitement, she said, nor do I believe in children taking such a public step. You are only twelve years of age. Wait six years. If you are still of the same opinion, I will make no opposition.

Needless to say, as the reader has doubtless already judged, Florence was not yet converted. It takes a stronger motive to be willing to endure difficulties, and perhaps persecution, than simply the desire which had led her to profess conversion. So she waited throughout the long years.

The next great event in her fife was attendance at the World’s Fair in Chicago. It was in 1892, the 400th anniversary, as every American school child knows, of the discovery of America. She went to Chicago with her grandmother, and stayed at the home of the same aunt who had entertained her at Omaha, now removed to Chicago. The large buildings, the wonderful exhibits, and the immense crowds, thrilled her through and through. Then she remembers the most thrilling day of the whole Fair. Grandmother was lost in the great crowd! Aunty was worried. The child herself was tremendously concerned.

Oh, what can I do to help, Aunt Edie?

Florence, said her aunt very solemnly and almost sternly, there is just one thing you could do to help. Could I trust you to do it?

Yes, replied the little girl, with equal solemnity.

It is just this, replied her aunt; stand still right where you are at the entrance of this building until I return, no matter how long it is!

It did not seem to the little girl that it was a thrilling part to play in the little drama. She would have preferred to join the search party, but she gave her promise. Her aunt disappeared. Long weary moments followed, stretching into hours, yet she still stood there. Everybody was lost, it seemed to her, and in the great crowds which surged in and out of the building, she saw not a single familiar face. But she stood her ground, and at last came her reward. There was Aunty, worn and weary, and on her arm was leaning dear, tired, worn-out Grandmother—found again! She will never forget the look of relief upon the face of her aunt.

"Oh, Florence, you did stay! she exclaimed; I was so afraid you would not hold out!" That was reward enough for all the weary hours of waiting.

Often since it has encouraged her in times of waiting, especially where great endurance was required, to hold out, believing, knowing, that He that shall come, will come, and will not tarry.

After the brief interval caused by attendance at the Fair, she returned to high school. How she loved each successive study as it unfolded before her! How she wondered at her schoolmates, that they were so willing to waste their time when they might have been learning more about the great and interesting world in which they lived! Whatever her study was—Grammar, Rhetoric, History, Algebra, Geometry, Latin—with that particular branch she was thrilled. No wonder that with such intense interest, and without distractions, she was able to excel, even though her attainments and her intellect were not of the highest. After all, what is genius? It is, someone has said, an infinite capacity for taking pains.

Her years of high school passed quickly, and the great year of 1896—the year of her graduation—came. She had had, throughout the whole of her course, the highest marks. She expected, therefore, to be the valedictorian of her class. But jealousy had its way, and the class of 1896 decided that the valedictory should not be assigned according to rank, but by election. Therefore, another was chosen to the place which should have been hers, and she was assigned the class prophecy. A medley of posms was chosen for the foundation. A parody was written, each successive poem for respective members of the class. For herself, she only quoted Whittier: As for myself, I can but say—

I know not what the future hath

Of marvel or surprise;

I only know that, life or death,

His mercy underlies.

I know not where His islands lift

Their fronded palms in air;

I only know, I cannot drift

Beyond His love and care.

She graduated at sixteen. The year of her graduation was followed by great spiritual awakening. The Holy Spirit strove in her heart. She cared too much for the things of this life, too much for the praise of man, too much for the honor of being first, too much f~r the adulation of relatives, too much for the flattery of friends. Give these all up, the Spirit pleaded, and follow Me! But she could not, did not, yield.

Oh, that some instructor had spoken to her then, that some kind and sympathetic hand had been outstretched to teach her the best and highest way, to cause her then, in this time of great conviction, to choose Jesus Christ, and Him crucified! But the time of conviction passed. Truly, the summer was past, and the harvest was ended, and she was not saved.

She wanted to teach, not only to help support her mother and the younger children, but because teaching had been from her childhood the great desire of her heart. She passed her examinations and obtained her certificate, but she was not allowed to commence her teaching because she was not of legal age. Too young! Too young!—she had heard it, it seemed, all her life. Too young to be baptized, too young for high school, too young now to teach! What should she do? Finally, she decided to return to school and take a year of post-graduate work, continuing studies that had not been necessary for graduation, but which formed attractive optional courses.

So another year of her life passed, and the time came, at last, when she stood upon the threshold of her professional career. No thought that teaching would not be her life profession ever entered her mind at this time.

She commenced teaching in a country school. The boys and girls were many of them older than she, herself, and not