So many times we don’t realize all the miracles—small and great—God is arranging for us until we look back on them. Sometimes it takes weeks, other times years, before we realize how guided our paths were.
When we married in 1965, Steve had one more year of college and I had a teaching job in Nashville. He was also preaching at Totty’s Bend Church of Christ (50 miles from where we lived) each Sunday morning and Sunday night and teaching a class on Wednesday nights as well as working part-time at Sears. He was busy! But it was easier on both of us than dating while doing all that.
His major professor, Dr. Carroll Ellis, asked Steve what his plans were after graduation, and of course he had none. Dr. Ellis suggested he apply to Pittsburg State College in Pittsburg, Kansas, for an assistantship to earn his Master’s degree. He did and was accepted into the program. So Dr. Ellis was the first God-guided part of our 15-month adventure.
Steve’s parents were coming for his graduation, so we asked them to pull our rented trailer to Kansas since we couldn’t do it with our VW bug. They agreed, not really knowing what they were getting into.
Our plan: Graduation on Saturday, my college roommate’s wedding on Sunday, and leaving for Kansas on Monday. We suggested his parents leave on Sunday since they would be traveling slower than we would, but there was a glitch to that. How would we find each other once we arrived?
Steve insisted I “get my hair done”—a thing back then. So I scheduled an appointment at the closest beauty salon to our little attic apartment on Wingate Avenue.
I wish I remembered the name of the girl who did my hair, for she was part of the miracle of the story.
“My husband graduates from college tomorrow!” I told her. “Then Sunday I’m in my college roommate’s wedding and Monday we take off for Pittsburg, Kansas—wherever that is! That’s a lot in four days!”
She stopped still, staring at me. “Pittsburg, Kansas! I can’t believe it! I’m from Pittsburg, Kansas!”
She started telling me all about the small college town where she had grown up. I told her that we were going in two cars and that the car with the trailer would go on ahead. “But not knowing the town, we don’t know where to meet each other,” I explained.
She immediately suggested the Jones Motel. “Everyone in town knows where it is, and it’s a good clean place to stay.” Steve and his parents were elated when I shared such specific details. Truly the miracle we needed to set our minds at ease.
After crossing Missouri, we arrived in Pittsburg, at the southeast corner of Kansas, and started looking for apartments. Our only source was advertisements in the local paper. Every place we looked at was filthy. We were appalled, but Steve’s parents were more so.
“Here’s one on the motel bulletin board,” I said. And it was The One. Why? Not because it was spacious or beautiful, but because it was CLEAN. It had just been painted and cleaned and we jumped at it.
It was a shotgun-style duplex. The rooms were lined up—living room, then bedroom, tiny area for eating with a tiny bathroom beside it, and then the miniscule kitchen. One saving grace was an enclosed back porch where we could store things we didn’t have room for. A welcome discovery for $50 a month–315 East Euclid Street.
The day before Steve started summer school, a sweet, middle-aged, dark-haired petite woman appeared at our door with a bouquet in hand. It was Dr. Mary Margaret Roberts, who had offered Steve the assistantship for the year. She was a serendipitous find—a friend of Dr. Ellis—and remained a close friend until her death in her eighties.
After I’d unpacked and gotten us settled in, I dropped Steve off at the college and took the car to start job-hunting. I went to the Pittsburg Board of Education and timidly asked the receptionist for a job application to teach elementary school. A gentleman stepped out of his office, introduced himself, and asked where I was from. I told him I’d just finished my first year of teaching in Nashville after graduating from George Peabody College for Teachers in Nashville.
“You’re a Peabody graduate!” he exclaimed. “Come on in here and let me introduce you to the superintendent.” He swept me into an office and introduced me.
“Young lady, we’re glad you’re here!” the superintendent exclaimed, pumping my hand. “Let’s drive around town and I’ll show you the schools where we have openings. We’ll let you pick your place.”
Really? I don’t even remember ever filling out the application, though I surely did. As we drove around the town, he pointed out Washington School, where there was an opening for a fifth-grade teacher—the grade I’d taught in Nashville. And it was two blocks from our apartment! I told him I’d take it.
Now Steve wouldn’t have to take me to school and pick me up as he’d done in Nashville. I could walk to school. What a gift! Another miracle from God. I’d only gone to Peabody because I could go tuition-free since my dad taught there; I’d had no idea it had such a national reputation.
My time at Washington School was lovely—great teachers, cooperative students, and I could walk home for lunch each day.
And the list continues. Steve’s assistantship was $1200; my teaching salary was $4500—a tight budget. A local professor offered Steve some work painting apartments he owned. Steve and I both picked up Saturday jobs judging speech contests in surrounding towns. Occasionally Steve would be invited to preach at Baxter Springs, Kansas. All supplied the extra money we needed. Such blessings poured on us!
Turned out that our mailman, Judd Waggoner, and his wife Eileen went to church with us. They became our surrogate parents since their children lived far away. We even watched the first EVER Super Bowl with them!
It’s hard to know what to consider a miracle, but we do know that God was working in our lives to the extreme. We loved the folks at the church there, and when we left 15 months later, they gave us a big going-away party.
The Middletons were one of the faithful and dear church families. Their daughter, pudgy blonde Jeanne, was one of my fifth-grade students. One of my fondest memories is Jeanne when we all arrived at church at the same time. She would inevitably scream across the parking lot, “Hello, Steve! Hello, Mrs. Boyd!” The contrast and her enthusiasm never failed to bring a smile.
Still does. Joy in such dear memories!
But Timothy has just now come to us from you and has brought good news about your faith and love. He has told us that you always have pleasant memories of us and that you long to see us, just as we also long to see you. I Thessalonians 3:6, NIV
