A Pastor's Path: How in the World Did I Get Here?

By Hershel Owen

A Pastor's Path: How in the World Did I Get Here? is the account of one pastor's life. It reveals the depth and despair that he and his family suffered on the journey to salvation and the call to serve God and God's people in the high calling of being a pastor. The book was written with several purposes in mind. One reason is the hope that Christian people may be able to see their pastor in a new light. He is a man who has gone through some of the same struggles as some of them have. Many pastors may have had very difficult childhoods. He may have grown up with abuse and hurts that have left a lasting effect on him. Some pastors have served in the military and have suffered both mental and physical scars that he still carries.Pastors always bear about in their memories the times he has stood by the bedside of a sick family member or a Christian family member. He never forgets the desperate cry of "why" from the suffering one. He does not forget holding the hand of one who is entering the door of death.Another purpose is to help others forgive wrongs that they have experienced that have robbed them of the peace God intended for them to have. From the writer's own experience, it is hoped that those who have little or no self-worth in their life will realize that God can take a nobody and make a somebody out of them. May God use these experiences of the past to be a blessing to the readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098066765

Book preview

Chapter 1

Some Hurtful Years

I do not remember December 23, 1938. The weekly date was a Friday. According to a research of that day in history, the president of the United States was Franklin D. Roosevelt. The movie Trade Winds (of which I have never heard), one of the best viewed movies of that time, was released.

The temperature on that day was thirty degrees Fahrenheit in Burnwell, Alabama. I do not know very much about the people who lived in that little coal mining community. I have been told that the reason the town was named Burnwell was because the coal from the coal mines, where most of the men and young boys worked, burned well.

The reason I know so little about that place and that date was that was the date and place of my birth.

According to what I have been told, the times there, and most everywhere were very harsh. We lived in a small four-room house. The house did not have walls but just had wall studs without any boards on them to separate one room from another. Though I do not remember very much about the house, I have seen pictures of the outside of the house. The outside of the house was unpainted and made of rough sawed pine lumber. Pictures of my sister and me show little children bundled up in rough winter clothing and wearing brogan shoes standing by the chimney of the house.

We were poor people.

I am not sure of my earliest memories in life. It seems that I can remember throwing my baby bottle across the room. The bottle did not break, but it seems that I can remember my mother scolding me.

Being as poor as we were, we did not get many treats in those childhood years. I do remember an older man who lived in the mining town bringing us an occasional small cup of ice cream.

We were poor people.

My first grade at school in Burnwell, Alabama, did not leave me any lasting memories. Those memories have long ago faded away.

Since we did not have a car, I know that I walked to school. As protective of us as Mama was, I wonder if she walked to school with me. Earline was not old enough to go to school in Burnwell.

One of the few memories there for me was a day when some of the other students dared me to walk through a big drainage ditch that was on the school grounds. The pipe had water in it.

Nevertheless, I walked through the pipe wearing my overalls and brogan shoes. The only pair of shoes that I had and probably the one out of two pairs of overalls that belonged to me. I remember that my darers ran to the teacher and told her what I had done.

She stood me in front of the potbellied coal stove until I was partially dry. Then she sent me home with my older cousin Dean leading the way to make sure I went home and make sure that Mama knew of my transgression. Mama did not know of double jeopardy. She gave me my second spanking for this offense.

Another hurtful occurrence happened sometime during these Burnwell years. My tonsils were badly infected during this time, on several occasions. Being a poor coal mining family, we didn’t have any connections to a pediatrician, even if there was such a thing.

Mama did the best that she could with what she knew. During these infections, my fever would go so high that I would have hard convulsions. During one of the convulsions, my left eye became crossed. I was blessed to be so young when it happened, but the mockery and name-calling hurt me and made me ashamed.

Only in recent years have I come to understand what Mama went through being unable to help her child. She could not fix me. One of our granddaughters has been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. Only one who goes through these times of feeling so helpless, personally, can understand this heart pain.

We cannot fix this.

Only the assurance that God is going to do what we cannot will allow a person to stand up under this hurt. I am sure that this is the strength that carried Mama through.