Reprinted from The Skipper Parson: On the Bays and Barrens of Newfoundland by James Lumsden
Transcribed by Wanda Garrett, January 2015
The Way I Commenced My Ministry
“Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out to me,
And the changes that are sure to come
I do not fear to see;
But I ask thee for a present mind,
Intent on pleasing thee,” – Miss Waring
Happily there was not much time for thought. We were called upon to act. It was arranged that our voyage should be continued in the vessel belonging to our kind host, who volunteered to take us. Before it was possible for me to proceed I had to borrow clothing. Our host, a man twice my size and build, supplied me for the occasion with long boots, a warm coat, and a scarf. A Tam o’ Shanter cap which I had in my portmanteau completed by attire. Once more we committed ourselves to the deep. We had a head wind and a wretched time. I could not bring myself to go below, but lay on the deck, without any desire for food. By nightfall we were landed in the settlement where the skipper of the Llewellyn lived, known as the Long Beach. We were very sorry for this poor man in the loss of his vessel, which meant much to him. I spent the night at his home, and it was impossible to witness, unmoved, the grief of his wife and friends. I received nothing but kindness from his hands from first to last, as also from all the crew.
Next day was the Sabbath, “most beautiful, most bright,” and as I walked out on the soft green sward that morning it seemed as if all nature had undergone a transformation. We were in the Southwest Arm of Random, a beautiful sheet of water, two miles wide, and running inland fifteen miles. The land on both sides of the Arm was thickly wooded to the water’s edge, except here and there where there was a clearance and a settlement built up. Everything was resplendent in the glorious sunshine – everything but my poor heart. I lay on the grass, and there on that lovely morning of the Lord’s Day I found myself in the bitter throes of a spiritual conflict, unlike any known before or since. I doubted my call to the work of God in Newfoundland, events seeming to indicate that the hand of God was against me. I asked God that I might not be left in doubt regarding his will, and he answered the prayer.
We now began the last stage of our journey. We were taken in a rowboat that Sunday morning to Northern Bight, our destination – that is, the young passenger (now looking quite cheerful) and myself. The water was transparent in its clearness, and perfectly calm. The day was warm as well as beautiful. By and by as we neared the land of the Arm we caught the first glimpse of Northern Bight. The little village, with its stretch of houses, and, at one end, its two churches, all shining in white paint, and in the background the dark green of tree-clad hills, looked as pretty as a picture. As we drew near we noticed that the people were coming out of church. Arrivals were only at infrequent intervals, and our coming naturally created a stir. We could see them as they brought their glasses to spy us out. Evidently the absorbing question was, “Who are they?” They decided, as I afterward heard, that the man in the queer rig must be a railway surveyor. They never thought of identifying him with the young minister they were expecting from England. The people received me with open arms, From the first they showed a kindly, even an anxious interest. The house I entered, with its neat and cleanly appearance, wherein was the appetizing savor of pork and cabbage being cooked for dinner, was most inviting after the perils and privations of the last few days. The little room that was to be my sanctum for the next two years was soon crowded with friends eager both to hear my story and to help. “Have you saved nothing?” asked one. “Nothing,” I replied, “but what is in my head.” Said he, with kindly humor, “I hope you have something in your heart, too.”
Having returned the clothes loaned by my big, kind friend in Ireland’s Eye, I was compelled to borrow once more. “Lend me a pair of boots and I’ll preach to you,” I said. I soon got their answer. I found that during dinner they opened their stores and ransacked their wardrobes in my interest. They spread before me half a dozen hats, several pairs of boots and other garments, from which I was invited to make my own selection. The hat chosen was not the best fit, neither was it in the latest fashion; the coat was evidently not made for me, and now I boasted a brand new pair of long boots. Thus fitted out by my enthusiastic friends, I commenced my work as a Methodist preacher.
My text that afternoon consolatory, John 14.27: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” In the evening it was admonitory, Matt. 24. 44: “Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh.” At the first service that afternoon the cloud lifted, and I felt I could take up the work God had given me to do with a calm heart, an unwavering faith. On Monday morning, however, I found that my real difficulties had not been removed but awaited solution. My dilemma may be stated in a few words. Not only was I without needful clothing for the coming winter, but I had lost my library and all working materials, not having even the books in the probationer’s course which I was expected to study with a view to examination at the next district meeting, and this while I seemed so far off from the sources of supply. Early in the morning, therefore, I set off to walk to Shoal Harbor, Random North, a distance of twelve miles, to seek counsel and help from the Rev. Henry Lewis. After a weary walk, when I arrived at the parsonage I was disappointed to hear that Mr. Lewis had not returned from St. John’s. I was the innocent occasion of perplexity to Mrs. Lewis, as she often afterward confessed. Of course, being an absolute stranger, I had to introduce myself. The account of the shipwreck was briefly given in explanation of my unexpected visit and very unclerical appearance. Mr. Lewis was absent, and here was one with a very plausible story, whom nobody in the place knew, and who presented no credentials; to believe or not to believe—that was the question. Here was Mrs. Lewis’s perplexity; her hesitancy was but short. A woman’s instinct (and she was one of the most amiable and judicious of women) led her aright. I was admitted to their hospitality, and doubt not that theirs was the blessing of Him who said, “I was a stranger and ye took me in.”
It was a day or two before Mr. Lewis arrived. I then went down to the beach to meet him. He had heard of my trouble, and was anxious about me, fearing that discouraged and broken in spirit I would be off again, shaking the dust from my feet in leaving those inhospitable shores. In coming toward me his eyes were cast down, but when our eyes met we read one another’s thoughts and involuntarily laughed outright. We had either to laugh or to cry, and our conflicting feelings found relief in mirth. It was well it was so, for has not the wise man said, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine; but a broken spirit drieth the bones”? With Mr. and Mrs. Lewis I stayed some days, and was treated with the greatest possible kindness. On leaving I was fitted out with many little necessaries, which added much to my comfort. This was not my last visit to the parsonage at Shoal Harbor; at intervals, necessarily far apart on account of the exigencies of the work, I enjoyed refreshing and happy hours under that hospitable roof.
Doubtless a man has to be in trouble to discover how many kind hearts there are in the world. From England and St. John’s I soon got word of financial aid; while from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and even the Northwest Territory, I received letters of sympathy and encouragement, as well as an occasional volume. Among the most touching of these communications was a letter from William Holland, Esq. (now Sir William Holland, M.P.), my old Sunday school teacher and class leader in Cheetham Hill, Wesleyan Church, Manchester, enclosing money. He said he would have cabled if there had been a bank in Random, and intimated that there was more to follow. I did not accept the proffered help in this direction, though fearing I might be misunderstood. The kind thoughtfulness of the act, however, is one of the things I shall never forget. Neither can I forget the kindness of my dear friends the officers and teachers of Red Bank Ragged School, Manchester, who duplicated their valuable present of books. Curious to relate, a trunk of clothing, of which I was in immediate need, despatched at the earliest opportunity from St. John’s, only reached me near the end of the year.
This, then, is the way I commenced my ministry, so utterly different from what I had anticipated or would have chosen. But God’s way for each is the right way. Sometimes in after years we see it, and praise him; sometimes we see it dimly, if at all, and yet we praise him, believing that in the better world all will be made plain.
From the President of the Conference, the Rev. Charles Ladner, whom I did not meet until the following summer, I received, by letter, “a most hearty welcome to the ranks of our ministry in this colony.” Truly I felt I had entered upon a holy apostolate when I read his words: “In this country God has made Methodism the means of saving thousands of souls. Our fathers toiled along these rugged shores, and saw multitudes saved. They suffered many privations, sometimes persecutions, but they achieved great things in the name and strength of the Master. God gave them many revivals of religion. I am glad to inform you that their sons in the ministry are also blessed in this the greatest of all work. I pray you may have souls given on every circuit you shall be appointed to.”
These transcriptions may contain human errors. As always, confirm these as you would any other source material.