The Circuit Preacher

Brother Timothy Bowman had served as circuit preacher for more than 10 years. He served a dozen far-flung churches on the Kentucky frontier, riding many miles from one to the other on horseback, visiting each every three months or so. It was always a special occasion when Brother Bowman conducted services at one of the small log churches on his circuit. The country was sparsely settled and none of the congregations could support a full time preacher. So in times when they were without a minister, each congregation would meet in their church house, pray, read from the Scripture, and sing hymns.

The circuit could be difficult and dangerous. If marauding Indians didn't attack, there was always the weather to contend with. Violent thunderstorms with torrential rain would nearly drown anyone on
horseback. In winter, a sudden blizzard might blow in from the north with howling winds and sub-zero temperatures. This January night, an especially dangerous snowstorm had set in. Wind swept the falling snow into stinging sheets that blinded the rider.

Brother Bowman had been on the trail since early morning in an attempt to reach the next church on the circuit by nightfall, but deep drifts impeded his progress. At ten o'clock that night, he was still a good distance from shelter.

The frigid wind stabbed through his clothing as if he were naked. He shivered from the top of his beaver hat all the way down to his deer skin moccasins. Ice hung from the mane of his rangy brown gelding as the horse blindly plowed through the mounting drifts. Bowman knew that if he did not find shelter soon, both he and his horse would probably freeze to death. A fervent prayer for Divine help escaped his blue, cracked lips, and was barely heard above the raging storm.

Bowman looked for a cave that would offer shelter, but he saw nothing except a relentless veil of white. But what was this? A light? Bowman reined his horse to a stop and leaned into the wind. Yes, indeed. There was a light, barely visible.

"Come on, boy," he said as he urged his horse toward what might be their salvation. The light became brighter, more distinct. Then the outline of a small cabin emerged through the blowing snow. He rode up to the front door, dismounted, and knocked. The door opened almost instantly and a
man appeared.

"Welcome, Preacher," he said. "Come in to the house before you freeze to death." Then the man turned to his teenage son. "John, tend to the Preacher's horse. Put him in the empty stall with fresh straw. Rub him down good and feed him some of our best corn." "Yes, sir," the boy answered as he stepped outside.

Inside, the one-room cabin was warm and toasty. A roaring fire crackled in a large stone fireplace at one end of the room. Beside it sat a woman, stirring the contents of a big iron pot. "Come over here by the fire and warm yourself, Preacher," she said. "I've made some stew for supper. Will you share it with us?"

"Do you know me?" Brother Bowman asked as he peeled off his coat.

"Yes," answered the man. "My name is Ketchum. We heard you the last time you preached around here," he said as he took the snow-encrusted coat from Bowman and hung it up beside the fireplace to thaw out. "And it was a mighty good sermon, too. Best I ever heard."

"Praise the Lord," Bowman said. He eyed the steaming stew that the woman was ladling into wooden bowls. Thick slices of bread were on the table as well as steaming cups of "Indian coffee". It was almost as if this family were expecting him. Most curious, he thought.

The squirrel stew he ate that night was the best Brother Bowman had ever eaten. Soon after, everyone went to bed. As Bowman lay snug and warm on his corn husk mattress, covered with a mound of quilts, he praised God for his deliverance and thanked Him for the Ketchums.

Sometime during the night, the storm subsided and the next morning the sun shone brightly on a thick blanket of new-fallen snow. Bowman was anxious to continue his journey. He might be able to make the church in time for services if he started out right away. He thanked the Ketchums and asked them if they planned to attended services that day.

"Perhaps," Mr. Ketchum said smiling. "Perhaps."

After his horse struggled mightily through knee-high drifts, Bowman reached the meeting house just as the first worshipers began to arrive. "We were afraid you were not going to make it," one of the worshipers told him. "That was surely a bad storm yesterday -- it surely was."

Brother Bowman had already prepared a sermon for today, but decided to discard his prepared text in favor of a testimony. He wanted to talk about the storm and how he had prayed for his deliverance -- and how God had delivered him from the mouth of death. As he stood at his rude wooden pulpit, he looked out over the dozen or so people assembled for the meeting. The Ketchums were not there. That was just as well. He was afraid that his praise for their generosity might embarrass them.

As soon as he mentioned the Ketchum family and the miracle of finding their cabin in the blizzard, however, the church suddenly became deathly quiet. Members of the congregation looked at each other in surprise. But no one was more surprised than Brother Bowman at their reaction. "What's
wrong?" he asked out loud. "Did I say something wrong?"

Elder Spivy, sitting on the front row stood up. "No, Preacher. You said nothing wrong. But if you were taken in and warmed by the Ketchums, then it truly was a miracle. Praise God! You see, a month ago the whole Ketchum family was massacred by Indians and their cabin was burned to the ground."

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Ed Price spent 35 years in print and broadcast journalism. He is author of 15 books. After becoming an ordained minister he settled with his wife on a farm in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, to study God's word and to write. Ed and Patty are the parents of three girls, have one grandchild, and cater to the every whim of two spoiled cats.
© 2009 Ed Price - All rights reserved. Visit his website, The Loving Heart.

This column is used with permission.