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4. Harvesting in Kansas 
It was a snowy Winter in 1937, when I arrived in Hayes, Kansas. My host showed me on to an outside porch. "Here you are, Captain Lewis" she said politely, pointing to a bed with a tarpaulin cover. "I'm sure this will be suitable. All you army officers are so very fit and healthy!" The snow lay heavy on the cover to my bed when I awoke. Discipline was Spartan. Every day started with Morning Prayer and Holy Communion at 6.30 a.m. We crunched through the snow to the church, the wind billowing the black cloaks and Berettas of my colleagues.
Father Bob's Newspaper
After breakfast, we observed quietness until lunch. The sole voice was that of our meticulous housekeeper, Mrs. Reid. She spoke very softly like someone who had come out of a fairy tale. In early life, she had something of a Cinderella experience after the death of her husband.. Many gave up in the Kansas drought that year, but she persisted with their farm. Unexpectedly, a black harvest of oil rewarded her and she had more money than she knew what to do with. But like Cinderella at the midnight toll, her riches melted away when a Colorado Hotel investment went bankrupt.
One morning, I overheard her ordering groceries on the phone. In her thin trill voice she whispered, "Three large onions, five medium carrots." Then, in a very, very delicate and secretive tone, as if not to shock the clergy, she added, "and two rolls of plain toilet tissue!" Like Mrs. Reid, we all had our daily routine. Mine was to write out a prayer request list and pin it to the main door. Bob Mize, our jovial director, insisted on following this unusual prayer ritual, "Father Bob's Newspaper." Each of us prayed for our own people and those on the other lists. It would read, "Pray for Mrs. . . . thinking of divorce, Billy . . . who ran away from home, Joe . . . tempted to give up his business." As time passed, our work grew under the hand of God.
Little in Great Bend
The Bishop of Salina dispatched me to a new piece of evangelism at the tiny Mission Church of St. John's in Great Bend. In many people's estimate, being stuck away in a dark alley off the Main Street, made it weak and insignificant. The only accommodation the little congregation could afford was in the church vestry. This tiny room had barely enough room between the robe cupboards and the desk for a folding camp bed. Having no toilet facilities, I had to hunt around for an open gasoline station early each morning to use its washroom!
After several months, one of our affluent church families, the Treasurer of Barton County, invited me to stay in their spacious country house. This large cool basement and shared bathroom was like heaven to me. Then, my dream world evaporated. My host's wife drew me aside to tell me quietly, "I'm sorry, but our daughter needs more time in the bathroom for her make up in the mornings! Perhaps you could build a little "lean-to" of corrugated iron behind the chicken coops like the scouts do on camping trips."
"You've gotta have a glory in the things you do, an alleluia chorus in the heart of you" 
