Elizabeth Jamieson's Testimony

After Willie (Wm. Jamieson, her brother) heard and accepted the Gospel (in his first meeting), he asked the worker who held that meeting, if there would ever be an opportunity for him to go into this ministry?  This worker asked him, "How soon could you be ready?"  "In two weeks," replied Willie.  It was a little longer than this before he went, but during this time of waiting, he came to Edinburgh, where my older sister, Violet, and I were working.  He told us about the Truth he had found, every day for a whole week.  One morning, by my bedside, I yielded my heart to God, and at the same time, offered my life for God's great Harvest Field. My sister, Violet, went out then, in the Work in July or August, 1905, and I followed on the 27th of October.  I was nineteen, my sister older... It hurt Father and Mother to have Willie go, and then Violet, but it nearly broke their hearts when I left.  Tears were streaming down their faces, and mine.  They were Presbyterians.  Father an Elder for as long as I could remember.  On my knees that night, for the first time, I realized the meaning of words in Luke 14:26 -- "If any man come to me, and hate not his father or mother...he cannot be my disciple."  My parents were saying too, to each other, "If what our three children are doing is right, we're not right." 

Later, after some experience in this work in Scotland, I became ill.  I had then, two offers:  one from my favorite brother, to come and housekeep for him.  Ordinarily, I would have liked nothing better, but I got a letter just then from Willie, offering me a place in the Work in California.  He and Walter Slater were at Pismo Beach, "a grand training ground for preachers," he wrote.  Later in the letter, he said, "we're living on bread and water."  Sydney, Australia.  He has never professed.  I wrote to him, "no man putting his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of Heaven." 

So I came then, to California, at the age of twenty.  I had been in the Work less than a year.  Florence Langworthy (age twenty-two) became my companion.  We came to Paso Robles, and worked in that area.  At one place, San Miguel, we had a street meeting, and people came out.  We paid 254 a night for a room, and lived on bread and canned milk.  I was young and always hungry!  Florence said to me, "You can surely eat considerable!"  About that time, we moved to Hames Valley.  People were more friendly in this country district, but as it grew near to Christmas, they cooled off, and we were feeling they might be afraid we would be with them at Christmas time. 

On a Sunday afternoon, they had a meeting and we attended.  No one invited us home for supper, so we stayed in the school until our meeting time.  The school would hardly hold the people that night, but nobody asked us home.  There was a stove in the school, but no fuel, and it was too cold to sleep there so we wandered outdoors.  We'd not gone far, when a young man caught up with us, and asked us to ride with him.  He wanted to know where we were going and almost before we could answer, he said: "You are wasting your time there.  These people are not worthy of what you are doing for them.  Imagine all these people there, and not one of them asking you home.  Now I'll tell you what I'm doing; I am taking you to town (Bradley), and paying for your room and breakfast."  And that is what he did. Next day, we went out to the school again, and the first thing we noticed, was a load of wood at the door, and as we crossed the yard, we found an apple that a child had bitten into.  We cut out the bitten part and divided it, and that was our supper.  One old man came out that night, and we slept in the school. 

Next morning, we walked along the road, hardly knowing where to go, too discouraged almost to speak, when a man we had never seen before overtook us.  Later, we learned his name, Dave Ray.  He had heard about us, and asked us, "Where are you girls preaching now?" We said.  "We have just closed in Hames Valley," and then he asked us where we were going next, and we said, we didn't know.  He said, "Why don't you come out to our place?"  When I asked him where he lived, he said, "Bryson."  That was twenty-five miles out in the mountains.  I had been brought up in the Lamamor (sp?) Hills in Scotland two and one half miles from town, and to go out into the mountains with a man we had barely met, seemed rather doubtful.  I said we would think about it.  We came to a cross-roads, and he said, "I'll be here at 10 o'clock tomorrow, and be ready."  I had asked him how he knew we were preachers, and he said, "As soon as I saw you, I knew who you were.  You had meetings in San Miguel, and an old man came to those meetings."  I said, "Yes, and he quit coming," and he said, "That man was my father, and we had to send for him because mother was sick, and since he came home he has never quit talking about those meetings, and wants to hear more." It seemed as if God was opening up the way for us, but still I was doubtful, and we decided to ask advice from the lady who had given us two meals when we were in Bradley before. We went then and told her all about it, and asked her to advise us, just as she would her own daughters.  After thinking for awhile, she said, "Yes, if you were my own girls, I'd say, 'go ahead,' and if you want to stay with me at night, you are welcome."  The next day, we met Dave Ray, and he took us to Bryson, to his eighty-year-old mother's house.  He was a bachelor, and it was with much surprise that she saw her son handing down two young women from the buggy.  "These are the two preacher girls Dad told us about.  They're going to have meetings in the school, and stay with us here." 

Then a few decided:  Aunt Dora Smith, and Hazel, her daughter, others, too, until there were five.  Then later, some others, and two meetings were formed, Wed. evening and a Sunday.  Then later, we moved to another district.  Grandpa Ray had another daughter and family.  One relative was an infidel, Jeff Harris.  His wife was Aunt Dora's sister.  He gave us an open invitation to come any time to stay, but he had two very fierce hunting dogs, which he kept on his front porch.  Well, one night, no one had invited us home, and we started out walking toward the Harris'.  After a while, Florence fearfully said to me, "What about the dogs?"  I was thinking of them too, and as we neared the house, I was sure we'd be rushed by them and attacked.  We heard nothing, and continued up to the front porch where they ordinarily slept, and slipped into the house.  In the morning, when Jeff discovered we were in his home, his face got white.  He knew that his dogs, if they'd attacked us, could easily have --led (sp) us.  I told him, "Jeff, when I preached about God closing the lions' mouths, you didn't believe it, but now you can see that God kept your dogs from meeting and attacking us." 

I had to learn a new language in this country.  One word that was strange to me was "joiners"... "Have you got any 'joiners' yet?" we would be asked.  In Scotland, a 'joiner' is a carpenter!  What would we do with a carpenter? 

One evening, in one home, we were served supper, and with it, what we thought was tea.  It had a peculiar smell, so my companion didn't drink any.  One of the men at the table complained to the cook about its odd taste.  A little research revealed that the "tea" had come from a shelf near the kitchen stove.  This shelf held various tins of things; things such as coffee, tea, and tobacco.  You can guess the mistake that had been made, and I, who had been enjoying such hearty fare, had to hastily arise and go out to the back yard, where I promptly lost my supper. Later, we were at Lockwood, and then attending Special Meetings, I met Jennie Butler.  She had professed near King City, through Uncle Willie.  She was then thirty-five years old, and I was amazed that someone her age was still in the Work!  Here am I, still in it, and I won't tell you how old I am! 

Then, in 1907, some of us took a steamer from San Francisco to Portland, Oregon (a trip of five or six days at that time).  Willie and Jack Carroll were seasick the whole time, but we girls were not at all, and how we laughed at their misery, singing to them... 

  "Art thou sunk in depths of sorrow, 

   Art thou sunk so low?" 

Then we came to Willamette River, and Jack Carroll said jokingly to Willie and me, "Why don't you take opposite sides of the river; one of you on one side and the other, the other side?"  And that's exactly what we did!  I said to myself, "I'll let Willie come to me, before I ever go to him!"  And that is what happened.  On one side of the river (my side), Charlie Konschak, a bachelor, professed in our mission.  On the other side, a number of young girls had professed in Willie's mission.  His companion had left him, and he didn't feel free to visit them in their homes.  On my side, folks were marrying Charlie and me off!  Willie said he didn't know what to do!  "I do," I said.  "I'll go and help your girls; you come and help Charlie!"  And so we traded missions. 

In late 1910, my companion and I had meetings in a district some miles from Boring, a farming community near Portland, Oregon.  We heard from many about the Swedish Settlement, and several strange Swedes who thought they were the only people who were right.  I decided if I came back to that part after convention, I would stay away from the Swedes!  Sure enough, we returned to that part and found an opening on Sandy Ridge, about six miles from the Swedish district, but there was no real interest, so we closed.  We then tried to find an opening farther away, but found no open door, either in any of the towns or country districts.  Very reluctantly we decided we would have to go to the Swedish district.  From the start, most were kind and friendly, and one very religious man even went around and took up a collection for us, which of course, we refused and this gave us a chance to tell him personally, what God's way was.  He had to go around again and give back the money.  After we had been several weeks there, Willie came and helped us for two or three weeks.  We then had the joy of seeing Carl Hanson and his wife, and two brothers decide, and some others.  Edith decided later, and a nice little church was formed.  All kept true.  We were there for seventeen or eighteen weeks, and left with thankful hearts.  If we had seen ahead, that several years later, convention would be held at Carl Hanson's place, it would have been easier to tramp through snow, and over much roads.  However, God does not lift the curtain, and as we sincerely seek to labor in faith, we can leave the results with Him. 

In 1911, several weeks after the mission at Boring, I became ill.  And early in 1912, I went to Paso Robles to the Hill's farm.  Two different doctors had told me I had tuberculosis.  Another had told me I was anemic, needed much rest, in fact probably wouldn't live very long.  Sending me to the Hill's farm in Paso Robles proved to be the very best thing for me.  They put up a tent for me, and gave me a dozen beautiful leghorn chickens to care for.  The children also found two cats, which I kept in my tent (two holes being cut through which the cats came and went).  One day, while sitting on my cot, I saw a white head poke through, and it was one of my chickens!  She was followed by one, and then another and soon all dozen decided this was just the place to lay their eggs in my tent! 

In Mountain Dale, I was having eight meetings a week, for six weeks.  I had the local church for the evening and the afternoon, and was, as usual, getting ready for the afternoon service, when the Swedish preacher came up to me and asked rudely, "Are you the woman who's been having meetings here?"  "Yes," I replied, "I'm the LADY."  "Well," he said, "It's MY  service!"  I didn't argue with him at all, but moved quietly to the back of the church.  At this, a big tall logger got up and came back to where I was.  "Aren't you preaching this afternoon?  Well, if you're not, I'm not staying."  He stalked out and with him, about ten of his friends. 

In 1920, Mable Pryer and I went to Vancouver Island.  At that time, there were no friends North of Victoria.  Here we discovered a man of the Plymouth Brethren sect who was going from house to house, influencing people against us.  His favorite salutation when he met anyone was, "Are you saved?"  He accused me of being a Cooneyite".  I pretended I didn't know what he meant, letting on that the only coney I knew about was the little animal spoken about in the book of Proverbs.  And, of course, he was against women preachers.  But in spite of all, a little church was formed at Sandwick.  I'm happy to say that the children and the grandchildren are still going to that little church. 

An incident which took place not too long after I professed in Edinburgh, comes now to mind.  I had asked my parents' permission to go to a meeting, which was a little farther away than usual, and they had somewhat reluctantly agreed to let me go. 

Bicycling along, it was very dark the last two miles, and it was ten before I reached home. Bedtime at our house was at nine, but I found my father still up and waiting for me.  I had walked that last two miles, pushing my bicycle ahead of me in the dark.  I found out later that father had watched through the window, looking at my bicycle light.  When I reached the last two miles, he had come down to walk along beside me on the other side of the hedge, unbeknownst to me. 

Had I needed him, he would have been instantly at my side, but he kept so quiet so as not to scare me.  How like our heavenly Father this was, and how often I have thought of it and connected it with the words spoken to Moses: 

 "My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest."  I can truly say, throughout these early days, and even until now, I have known His presence walking by my side, and giving me protection and rest of mind and spirit as I have tried to do His will. 

 

Elizabeth Jamieson – Taken from longhand notes – "Auntie Elizabeth's" reminiscences –Hayward, California 1969