The Radio
That radio was one beautiful
item. It was a Silvertone console, beautiful wood, classic
lines, a brightly lighted and colored dial at least nine
inches wide and four inches deep. It had all kinds of special
bands but we never bothered with any of those. We were content
with the regular offerings. I can still see it clearly in
my mind. Yes, indeed, it was a beautiful radio. And
I have a miracle story about it.
Recently, my sister,
Barbara, was talking about her recollections of that radio
from her early childhood. That started me back down Memory
Lane to a time when she was just a toddler and I was a teenager.
We lived in New Hope, Alabama, at that time hardly more
than a wide place in the road. Many "construction'
families were moving into the small town grabbing any housing
available and many like our small house had barest necessities.
No telephone. Daddy was working double shifts at his
job on the lock at the new Guntersville Dam, still under
construction. We only knew one family... friends from "back
home" in Florence, Alabama. They lived a good piece
on the other side of the small rural town but we seldom
got to see them because of Daddy's and Mr. Moore's work
schedules at the dam. Lucian was living in Florence with
our grandparents to finish his senior high school year and
graduate from his old Alma Mater, Coffee High School. Actually,
my mother, my little sister Barbara, and I were pretty isolated.
And homesick. And lonesome. So lonesome. On top of this,
our one source of entertainment was the radio and it was
broken. It had not made one sound, not a peep, for several
weeks. Things were rather tight financially right then and
Daddy had to wait till he could put a little money aside
to get it fixed.
On this particular Saturday
night, I was so bored, homesick and lonesome I thought I
would die. I'm thirteen, maybe barely fourteen so
you can just imagine. Bless her heart, Mama did all
she could to cheer me up. She could usually lift my spirits
but not this time. I could hear her moving about in the
kitchen while I sat in the other room swallowing bitter
tears. Finally, standing in the kitchen door she spoke.
"Why don't you turn on the radio?" I just looked
at her. "You KNOW it's broken". She moved
back into the kitchen and in a few minutes almost mechanically
and in desperation, I turned the radio on and out of that
broken radio comes he voice of Red Foley singing "Old
Shep". I have never heard a more beautiful sound in
my life!! ( I still cry when I hear that old song.) I yelled
for Mama to come listen and we just stood in happy unbelieving
shock for a while. That night we listened for hours sitting
right in front of the radio soaking up every sound that
came out of the speaker. Finally, when the station signed
off for the night, we went to bed. When Daddy came home
next morning we told him what had happened and he couldn't
believe it. He turned the radio on and not a peep!! He just
stood looking at it and shaking his head. Mama told
me years later that she had felt so sorry for me and so
helpless to do anything that while she was in the kitchen
she just prayed to the Lord and asked Him to PLEASE just
let the radio play if only for one night.
Daddy took us to Florence
that very week on his off days and somehow while we were
there, tight as finances were, he bought this beautiful
deluxe Silvertone radio. It was the envy of everyone
who saw it. We took it back home with us and it played faithfully
for us for years and years. Barbara still remembers it from
her earliest childhood. My Daddy knew how hard it was for
us to have to live so far from home under especially tough
conditions, so he did what he could to make things easier
and more pleasant for us. The cost to himself didn't matter.
His family's happiness did.
I have never forgotten
that night. The night the broken radio played all night
long. It was a MIRACLE in answer to my sweet mother's prayers
for her lonesome child. This was not the only time my mother
prayed for me. Mama was not one to pray in public but she
prayed nevertheless. In every letter she wrote me over the
years until she died and there were lots of letters from
her, she always told me she was praying for me. I used to
sing a song on Mother's Day just for her..."My Mother's
Prayers Have Followed Me." What a blessed heritage
to have a praying mother. What a comfort in troubled times,
what an encouragement in struggles. What an incentive to
live so as to honor those prayers and the mother who prayed
them.
