Overcome Fear with Faith
Inspired by 10 memorable words, he's relied on faith to wait out tough times.
Once again I straightened the For Sale sign in front of our house in New York. Although my wife, Tib, and I lowered the price again and again, two years had passed without a single bid.
To make matters worse, just before the recession hit, we’d bought an apartment in Massachusetts, intending, in our mid-eighties, to move near our daughter. Maintaining both places and paying taxes in two states was shrinking our savings alarmingly, undermining our retirement security.
As I went back inside I remembered an earlier time when a disastrous economy wiped out people’s nest eggs. The Great Depression, as it became known, locked the whole country in fear. We’d been here before as a nation.
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I grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, during the Depression, and I saw what financial ruin could do to families.
I remember going with my best friend, Van Varner, to peer—scared, poised to run away—through the window of an abandoned house where a neighbor had committed suicide after the 1929 crash.
I was seven in 1929, too young to be concerned about anything but the changes in my own life. Mother no longer took me to Mr. Coppolo the barber, where I liked smelling the jars of ointment for “Gentleman’s Hair Styling.”
Instead, she perched me on a tall kitchen stool and cut my hair with the kitchen shears. Van’s mother started cutting his hair too. We’d look in the mirror in his front hall to decide whose mother did the worse job.
More serious was the disappearance of school lunch money. Usually I walked to Belknap Elementary with 15 cents in my pocket, just enough for a sandwich, fruit and milk.
Now Mother sent my sister and me off with sandwiches in brown paper bags. No way to save a few pennies by skipping the fruit, to stop at The Candy Lady on the way home for forbidden jawbreakers and Dubble Bubble gum.
I noticed changes in my parents’ routines too. Mother no longer threw away scraps of soap but put them in a little wire box with a long handle, which she swished around in the dishpan to get suds and save the price of a new bar.
Dad stopped driving the Chevy down to the seminary where he taught. Instead, he rode the swaying, clanking trolley, which was slower but cheaper.
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I liked visiting the seminary. I’d read the quote carved over the entrance of the big gray stone building: “Lo, I am with you alway.” I liked the way the “s” was left off “always.” God couldn’t spell either.
There was evidence of the Depression there too. Dad loved his Coca-Cola! His office was so hot in those pre-air-conditioning days that the papers on his desk would stick to his arm.
His relief was to walk down to Manny’s newsstand on the corner—once every morning, once every afternoon—and bring back an ice-cold Coke.
One afternoon when I went to Dad’s office I saw a warm, half-finished bottle of Pepsi on his desk. “You get the same amount,” he explained, “and save a nickel.”
Money seemed to be the topic of every adult conversation. One night when my parents had dinner guests from the seminary and I was supposed to be in bed, I crept to the top of the stairs and listened to the conversation down in the living room.
Much of it I didn’t understand, but I followed enough to know that the entire faculty had just taken a salary cut. “Do you think,” someone asked, “the whole school will have to close?”
As the Depression worsened...1930 ...1931...1932...everyone was afraid. Our friends the Carlsons had lived in a mansion with white pillars and a sweeping drive. In 1932 Dr. Carlson sold his mansion and moved his family into a little brick house even smaller than ours.