1

C h a p t e r ONE

I

in my junior year of high school what I planned to do with my life, I would have given you a ready and confident answer: “I’m going to help people and make a decent living at the same time. I’m going to be a doctor.” My determination was written all over my class schedule. In preparation for a premed degree, I had loaded it with science classes—biology, physiology, and chemistry. I had chosen a destination, unfurled a ten-year map, then highlighted all the routes I intended to take to reach my goal: an affluent surgeon in the service of God. f you had asked me

The problem with trying to predict the future, of course, is that we’re blind to the obstacles placed along the path ahead. Plans have an unpleasant habit of going awry. No matter how often you scrutinize the map, trace your route, and dream of what you will see along the journey, you can’t foresee the detours that await you. 9

c h u c k sm i t h : A M e m o i r

of

Grace

The well-ordered future I had envisioned at sixteen instead became a confusing maze of sharp turns and dead ends. Some of the events I endured alone in my single years, as well as those I weathered later with my wife, Kay, seemed pointless and frustrating at the time. Yet looking back now, I can see the necessity of every unwanted experience. Only in retrospect am I able to connect the dots and marvel at God’s ability to maneuver, prepare, and shape me for what He had in mind. From my birth—truly, even prior to my birth— there was a profound and specific purpose for my life, but it was not to be of my choosing. My course was guided by a greater wisdom. Sometimes God guides us through thunderous events. Most often He uses quiet means—smaller moments, private pains, or the hush of a spontaneously whispered prayer offered up in a desperate plea. It was the latter that molded my life, before I’d even drawn one breath. To understand that, you need to know the story of Virginia. Just prior to my birth, when the Smith family consisted of my parents, Charles and Maude, and my older sister, Virginia, the subject of church was not a unifying topic. My parents were not able to come to an agreement about religion. Dad had been raised in an upper middle-class Presbyterian home and chose to stay true to those roots. But he had also become disillusioned by some financial decisions made by church leaders while he was an elder, and as a result, his church attendance was sporadic and passionless. Mom went to church regularly, walking a few blocks each Sunday to a Baptist church. But on occasion she ventured into the Pentecostal 10

CH A PTER ONE

church that was nearer to their home. She enjoyed the livelier music she heard ringing from its windows, and the Pentecostal preacher’s faith in God seemed stronger than that of her other pastor. Those Pentecostal folks still believed in miracles and divine healing. And so when my sister contracted spinal meningitis, and the cool washcloths and the rocking and singing couldn’t stave off her seizures—and the inevitable stilling of her breath—Mom picked up Virginia’s limp body and ran next door to the Pentecostal parsonage. The preacher took one look at Virginia in Mom’s arms and steered them both into the church building. “Only God can save your daughter,” he said. Then he told my mother to get her eyes off Virginia and put them on the Lord. He told her to pray, and said that if she wanted to see God intervene, she had better fully devote her life to Him. My mother went a step further. She vowed that if He would spare and fully heal Virginia, then Mom would dedicate her life to Christian service. My father was unaware of the drama unfolding on the floor of the Pentecostal church. In fact, he was out earning extra money for the family by playing in a pool tournament when Virginia had her seizure. But word reached him that his daughter had stopped breathing. He ran first to their apartment, where someone told him that Mom had carried Virginia’s body to the church next door. Intending to scoop her up and take her straight to the hospital, Dad ran to the church. But when he entered the sanctuary and saw 11

c h u c k sm i t h : A M e m o i r

of

Grace

Virginia’s lifeless body lying on the floor, he fell on his knees next to Mom and cried out to God. And while Mom was offering up her vow and Dad was pleading for a miracle, Virginia was healed. The miracle of my sister’s recovery changed my father. In what must have been one of the most dramatic conversions of the decade, Dad turned his life over to the Lord. But he did not merely become a church member. Rather, he became a true believer who conscientiously lived for Jesus every day for the rest of his life. Mom never forgot her vow. She determined that no matter what else she did with her life, she would fulfill her promise. In June of 1927, just two months after Virginia’s ordeal, I was born. Though she fully intended to dedicate her own life to God—and did—she also felt an urging to present this fresh, new life to Him. At my birth she prayed, “Lord, I am going to fulfill my promise to You through my son.” Not wanting to influence my decision regarding my life’s work and devotion to God, my mother never told me about the deal she made with God. But she never forgot nor abandoned it either. Without explicitly nudging me toward some kind of ministry, she began preparing me for the day she was certain would arrive—the day when God would call me into His service. From my earliest memories, Mom taught me to memorize Scripture. If she was hanging laundry on the clothesline outside and I was playing nearby, she would have me recite the verses I had learned the day or week before. The same was true when she pushed me in the swing, or prepared dinner, or walked with me 12

CH A PTER ONE

to the store. She turned Bible memorization into a game, and we played that game together until it melted into the rhythm of my climbing, hopping, jumping, and running. The Bible became as familiar to me as childhood axioms like, “Look both ways before crossing the street.” Scripture was so ingrained in my mind that I could not imagine a world where the heavens did not declare the glory of God or where the Word had not become flesh and dwelt among us. When I reached the age of four, Mom taught me to read. While she was folding or ironing clothes, she would have me read to her from the Bible. If I came to a word I could not pronounce, she would ask me to spell it out for her. If I did not know a letter, I would describe it for her, such as when I told her that a ‘v’ looked like “an upside-down tent,” and so on. Every night Mom read from the Bible for our bedtime stories. Those biblical characters became my heroes. More than heroes, they were friends—people I knew and among whom I lived. I fought the Philistines with Samson and trudged through the wilderness with Moses. But most of all I ran with David. Before I entered elementary school I could name and spell all the books of the Bible. As I grew, church provided more exposure to the Bible and gave me experience in leadership, public speaking and choir training. During one period in school, I even took voice lessons to improve my singing ability, never guessing at how those exercises would serve me many years later. Each opportunity was preparation, but I was oblivious back then to the plans God had for my life. 13

Ch u c k S mit h P h o t o G allery

Chuck’s mom, Maude

Chuck’s dad, Charles

Chuck’s parents, Charles and Maude Smith, 1950

Virginia, shortly after she was healed

Chuck on horseback at age 5

Chuck at age 6

Chuck preaching at 20

Smith Brothers outreach flyer

Evangelistic flyer for Chuck and Paul