From the Land Down Under to the Rising Sun

Mary:

 In Kobe, Milton and June got their high school rallies off the ground with that first rally that attracted 153 high school students. (blog post “Kobe Adventures”) The time frame is late 1958 to early 1959. The last post flashed back to Milton’s beginnings of organizing camps in Australia which ties right in to the comment he makes in the first sentence of the following story:

Milton:

 We had weekly Bible groups and monthly rallies and memories of the experiences in Australia flooded my mind. I knew we had to follow up the rallies with a summer camp. I started out on a search for a suitable site. After following clues up some blind alleys I was delighted when a young Christian man from a country village suggested using the public campground along the river near his place. We snapped up his offer and began to advertise. Less than two months before our camp, I received a telegram from him saying the village elders had learned that we were a Christian group and had turned their thumbs down; sorry. Our committee was to meet the next night. I didn’t know whether to cancel or not.

Then I recalled seeing a pretty poster from the window of my train at a little railway station in the hills behind our home. It portrayed a sparkling lake, created by a new dam in the mountains. June and I traveled there the next morning. Right on the edge of the water was a large teahouse designed for the enjoyment of passengers from the sightseeing buses. The travelers could buy refreshments and stretch out on the wide matting floor for an hour or so. We asked the owner if we could rent it, not for 2 hours but for 5 days. He was flabbergasted. What kind of tourists are these foreigners, he wondered and went off to discuss the whole thing with the inevitable someone higher up. He came back quickly with the okay on the condition we use it after the middle of August. That was exactly when we were planning to hold our camp. Everything was running on schedule. He also showed us some land overlooking the teahouse where we could put up tents if we wished.

We hurried home to the committee meeting and informed the members we had the opportunity of going to a much better place than the one by the river. Everyone was happy. Soon after that a missionary friend called me and offered a portable, nylon, lightweight tent that he used in tent crusades. He said he wasn’t using it and thought it just might suit us. As it happened, we needed somewhere for the boys to sleep so it was perfect. That was the last year that this missionary and his tent were in Japan. Also, that year, an organization in Tokyo had sent a large Chevrolet van down to our Osaka-Kobe area for use in evangelism. A committee of pastors scheduled its use in tent meetings and other special services. I arranged with a fellow missionary for him to drive our supplies and equipment to the site and then come back after the close of camp to haul equipment back. Then I applied to the Chairman of the committee for the use of the vehicle. He came over to talk with me.

“You can use the truck,” he said, “no problem. We have no meetings scheduled on the days you mention. Why don’t you just keep it up there for the week?”

“Actually, I haven’t a driver’s license; I let it lapse. And a friend offered to drive the goods up and come again to bring them back.”

“Look, you will need that vehicle all the time. What if a student gets hurt? Who takes him to the hospital? What about supplies? No; take it up and keep it there.”

“Who drives it?” I challenged.

“You do” he shot back.

“Licenses are hard to get in Japan and we have about 10 days to do it,” I protested.

“Never mind the negative side of the problem. Try,” he laughed.

The next day I located a driving school. At that time, driving schools had developed into one of the greatest money-making operations in Japan, but this one was a simple one on a little dirt road with a wooden office in the back streets of our city.

“I don’t want to take the regular course,” I explained to the school operator, “I would like to drive around in a big car and get the feel of the course.”

He agreed and away I went. The test was given using a right-hand drive American car, which was awkward for anyone accustomed to driving in Japan (and Australia). So, I drove the car around for an hour and came back the next day for more. At the end of the second day, as I was leaving, the principal called me in.

“Do you know what kind of written test you will get?” he asked. All I knew about the written test was that it was a big problem for foreigners. There was no way to study in English; the Japanese handbook meant long tedious technical study. Many failed.

I told him I didn’t know, and he placed some papers in front of me:

“This is the kind of thing you are asked,” he told me, “study them. It’s not hard, but unless you study you won’t be able to pass.”

“I just hope the test questions tomorrow are like those,” I thought as I walked home.

The next day was Thursday. This was the one day in the week they tested drivers for large cars. I wanted to be able to transport our camp supplies on Saturday in the Chevrolet, so it was now or never.

I watched the drivers before me struggle with the course. It was two parallel white lines that formed a long “S”. The car was to be driven between the lines up to the end and then back around inside those white lines to the starting point. If one wheel touched the white line, the policeman on the mound blew a whistle and the driver was out.

I had been warned of the problem of turning to the right in a car with a left-hand steering wheel. When my turn came, I drove up to the top of the S without too much yelling from the policeman about speed and where to stop. Then I started my turn. I edged around the bend to the right. The white guidelines disappeared. This is where the other drivers oversteered I thought, but how much is enough. I lost confidence and just cried to the Lord: “Jesus you drive this thing. I have no idea where I am going.” I let Him take over and I just hung on. In a few seconds, the white line appeared, and I was driving down the track, perfectly positioned. When I got out the admiring would-be drivers all clapped. One said, “No doubt about it, Western drivers are good.” He didn’t know I had left it to God.

Then came the written test. I met a very nervous European lady there who had taken it six times and failed each one. But because they wouldn’t tell her which questions she got wrong; she had no way to correct herself. I took my seat and the officer solemnly handed me the paper. I opened it up and my mouth fell open. It was identical to the questions given to me to study at the school the day before. I still only managed 96% but it was a pass.

At 5:30 pm I was finished, and I floated home on cloud nine.

The lead member of our camp committee came around that evening.

“I have my license!” I shouted.

“You passed the test, you mean. You haven’t got your license. For a big car, it will take about a week. The police will tell you tomorrow.” He quietly informed me.

“I have to have it tomorrow,” I lamented.

The next day I figured out a good speech, to plead my case for special treatment as I was there to help youth. I walked into the Police station and was told to fill out a form and take it to the counter. I did. The lady police officer took it from me without looking up. She wrote for a while and then handed me another slip of paper. As she did, she smiled and said:” Come back tomorrow and I will give you the license.” That was all – no need for a big speech – I was thrilled.

The next day I loaded up the Chevrolet van. We had a great first camp up in the hills. We swam and hiked. I carried little Mary on my shoulders when we climbed 4 kilometers up a mountain to a Temple at the top. We stood under waterfalls, and we used the van every day just like the Pastor said we would. That was the only year the van was in our area. It was pulled back to another location and never returned. God had launched us into a camp ministry without even a launching pad. By the next year, we didn’t need the large tent, or the van or the man-made lake; we had a much better place to go.