The Iron Lady...Anniedeen Creel, 1922-2019

  I have written in essays past about my parents’ conversion to faithful churchgoers in the early 1950’s when I was just a child of seven.  At that time, through the eyes of a child, the only dramatics changes I noticed were the all-Downing all-night domino/beer binges stopped, and I seemed to gather a new bunch of friends at the church.  When you’re seven years old, you don’t notice the adults around you very much, choosing rather to size up the kids in your age bracket instead.  Such was the case as my family and I began attending Peace Tabernacle in Baytown, Texas, pastored by Rev. V. A. Guidroz.
    The first adult I remember noticing at my new church with any regularity was, naturally, my Sunday School teacher, Glory Guidroz.  Glory was one of several adult Guidroz children who served their parents in some church capacity.  A friendly woman with a pleasant face, she made me feel welcome in this strange world of new kids.  On my first Sunday at church, she put my name on the attendance board on the wall and a gold star next to it and told me that when I had five stars on my attendance board I would be a genuine full-fledged member of the class.  Four weeks later I watched proudly as she affixed my fifth gold star, and I felt like I had arrived.
     As time advanced, I made many new friends and even learned to recognize some of the adults…mainly those who were parents of the kids I had become acquainted with.  There was one woman, though, who, though she had no dealings with the younger youth, still seemed to be somewhat visible to everyone, and even caught the attention of us younger kids…although (please forgive me) not in a respectful way.  She was known to us as “The Lady Who Sings Funny.”
     Miss Anniedeen Bateman was a school teacher, unmarried, who lived with her mother.  During the summer vacation, they would disappear to Alto, Texas, to a family farm and then magically reappear about the time school was to start in the fall.  A watercolorist, pianist, and singer, very talented in any creative endeavor, she was deeply involved with the music of the church, directing Christmas choirs and whatever other special choirs the church deemed appropriate and singing special songs during services.  It was in this activity that she caught the attention of us kids.  You have to remember that in the era of the fifties in deepest, darkest Texas (especially in somewhat conservative Pentecostal churches,) practically everyone sung with sort of a down home country twang backed up with a piano and maybe an organ or guitar.   Sister Anniedeen Bateman, however, put her musical skills to the forefront and played every song exactly as it was written in the book and sang with an operatic gusto that was so far over the heads of us immature little rug runners that we would listen, giggle, and squirm until she finished her song. (Even as I write this, I am embarrassed.)  Occasionally, as we played after services, we would attempt to duplicate her operatic skills, but it was hopeless.
     I came into closer contact with Sister Anniedeen (as she was affectionately called by the church members) a few short years later when I reached my early teens.  She had begun giving piano lessons at her home, and my sister, Judy, had become a favored student, though she was five years younger than I.  After Judy had been at it for about a year, Mother decided that I needed some culture in my life and signed me up for lessons also.  Actually, I was a little excited about it, and got Judy’s early study books out and began to practice on our home piano.  I had about the first six songs perfectly nailed (I thought) and was ready to impress Sister Anniedeen when I finally sat down at her piano.  I took off on the first song at about sixty miles an hour with no concept of rhythm, and she yelled (quietly), “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!   Let’s follow the rhythm!  Now ready?   A-one, a-two, a-three…..”   I told myself silently that this was apparently not going to be as easy as I thought.  I lasted for about a year and a half, but, once I discovered girls and guitars, my piano career (truly regretfully) fizzled.  However, she still would not let me off the musical hook.  In her eyes, everyone has a musical talent, and she insisted that I receive a few voice lessons, and so, in a matter of a few months, I sang my first solo at church…quavering voice, knocking knees and all.  But I found that I sort of enjoyed it.
     It was in my teenage years that I began to see the value of Sister Anniedeen.  She took a special interest in the youth of the church, serving as our Sunday School teacher, guidance counselor, and to a certain extent, disciplinarian.  She opened her home to youth gatherings and was instrumental in creating the Conquerors’ Club, a social organization for youth which emphasized personal responsibility, devotion to the church, and Bible understanding.  The club spread to several other churches in the Galveston Bay area and was highly popular amongst the youth for several years.  Our Sunday School classes were heavily Bible oriented, and she was not afraid to offer pointed advice about how we as young people should conduct ourselves.  The Conquerors’ Club was instrumental in keeping dozens of youth in the churches of the Galveston area, and out of it came many ministers, missionaries, and church workers.
    Shirley and I married in 1961 and having been booted out of the Conquerors’ Club due to our marriage, our contact with Sister Anniedeen became limited to church and an occasional older youth visit to her home.  Shirley had suffered through the loss of her mother in 1957 due to cancer.  My father-in-law remarried, only to relive the same cancer nightmare with his second wife.  In 1963, however, we were stunned to learn that a third marriage was imminent.  The Reverend James L. Creel announced the engagement and pending marriage to none other than Sister Anniedeen Bateman.
     It seemed strange at first to realize that Sister Anniedeen wasn’t just “Sister Anniedeen” anymore, but rather “Mom” or “Mom-in-law.”  Shirley and I probably had less of an adjustment than the rest of the family to make because we basically disappeared for four years as I joined the United States Air Force in the fall of 1963.  Although we occasionally visited Baytown while on leave or traveling to a new assignment, it was not until the fall of 1967 that we moved back to Baytown to reestablish a home.  By then, the new order had been well established.  Sister Anniedeen brought order to a family which had suffered the loss of two mothers, and the fact that she was new at parenting didn’t seem to be a drawback.  After all, once a teacher, always a teacher.  She applied her teaching skills to parenting with the same enthusiasm.  The cycle was complete when a child of the new union, Rocky, was born.
    In 1970, our church in Baytown suffered through a tumultuous time resulting in a minister leaving under clouded circumstances.  As it turned out, I found that my in-laws and I were on opposite sides of the issue, and, when the climax occurred, there were some hurt feelings and strained relationships.  From our marriage in 1963 to 1970, I had addressed my father-in-law as “Brother Lemuel” and my now-mother-in-law as “Sister Anniedeen.”  In 1971, my in-laws moved to Casper, Wyoming, to take the pastorship of a church.  Shirley and I visited them the next two summers, and somehow a new relationship with my in-laws was formed.  In the fall of 1973 I wrote them a letter and said that after twelve years of marriage to their daughter, I would like to go beyond the “Brother/Sister” relationship and call them “Mom” and “Dad.”  I still remember the wonderful, gracious letter I received in return which I still have stored in my archives somewhere.  From that moment, they were “Mom” and “Dad.”  We moved to Wyoming in 1974, and for the next seventeen years my bond with Mom and Dad grew stronger with each passing day.  For the remainder of this essay I will refer to “Brother Lemuel” and “Sister Anniedeen” as Dad and Mom.
     I haven’t the time to describe my every experience with Dad and Mom.  Dad, quick-witted, quick-tempered, opinionated, and outspoken, met his match with Mom, who could match her husband in every aspect except maybe the quick temper.  She was far more temperate in her emotions and was the consummate dutiful wife.  Serving as the pastor’s wife, she enthusiastically performed her duties, and continued to display her musical talents with piano/organ playing, singing, choir directing…and insuring that we did our parts also.  She still reached out to the youth in Sunday School classes and social gatherings, stressing not just the social aspects, but also the need for the youth to have a spiritual foundation.
    As the years drifted by I began to suffer the dreaded “middle aged spread” and started having to really watch my weight.  It was during this time that Mom really began to get on my nerves.  OK, I’m just kidding, but she had always been somewhat of a health nut…always watching her calories, etc.  So when she would see me eating a greasy hamburger with double meat and double cheese with extra fries, she could not stop herself from saying something.  I was tempted to start eating only in the dark, but that’s hard to do in a restaurant.  I finally resigned myself to the idea that she was just looking out for my best interests, whether I wanted her to or not.
    I have written in previous essays of my daily morning trips to their home on the way to work for coffee and breakfast.  I was touched after Dad died in 1989 when Mom asked me to keep coming by for our morning visit and coffee.  It was about a year later that I truly discovered the depth of her spiritual faith and Christian behavior.  A short time after Dad died, our church elected a new pastor.  As is the case sometimes, all was wonderful for a while, but things began to unravel after a year or so. Controversy began to swirl around the pastor, and, as luck would have it, Mom and I again wound up on opposing sides. I am not a person who likes confrontation.  When I have something to say, I prefer to write it down.  I wrote letters to two people respectfully stating my opinion and what I though needed to be done.  One of them was to Mom in which I also stated that until the trouble blew over, I felt it best not to come by for breakfast in the mornings.
     Within a few days after mailing the letters, I received a phone call at my office.  The caller was the other letter recipient, and it was clear that in her mind my spirit was bad, I had bitterness in my heart, and I needed to pray through this issue and clean up my bad attitude.  It was obvious to this woman that I was completely wrong.  By coincidence, a day later I received a written letter from Mom, and my only regret is that I have since misplaced it.  She was so gracious and so understanding, praying that the turmoil would soon be resolved and we could reestablish our relationship.  It was so beautifully written that I instantly wanted to resolve any conflict I had with her.  As it turned out, the issue was soon resolved, and in short order we were having breakfast again.  My respect for my mother-in-law went through the roof.
    In 1991 Shirley and I moved back to Texas, and Mom stayed in Wyoming even after Dad’s passing.  Although by that time in her seventies, she had always entertained a yen for missionary work.  As a result, she began a fifteen-year career of teaching through the United Pentecostal Church Foreign Missions Department in India and Sri Lanka.  Although she established a rewarding relationship with the churches in those areas, the highly polluted air of the Indian cities slowly began to take a toll on her health.  She developed a nagging cough which at times would flare up, but through medication it was controllable. By 2009 and then in her late eighties with most of the family in the Houston area, she decided to retire from her missionary teaching, sell her home in Casper, Wyoming, and move back to the land of her roots.  Shirley and I retired in 2009 and moved to the Spring area to be near kids and grandkids, and Mom settled not too far from us in a retirement home.  We all attended the same great church and enjoyed a closer relationship than ever before. 
    She and I had many interesting discussions about the end time and Bible prophecy.  For years, she had been a highly respected Bible scholar and teacher and was a virtual well of information concerning scripture and prophecy.  She had that characteristic (and I say this with much love) of most dedicated Bible scholars: the scriptures are CRYSTAL clear in their meanings.  The Book of Revelations is as understandable as your daily newspaper. But…not to me.  She would expound on some aspect of the prophetic Second Coming, and I would ask what scripture was she drawing her conclusion from.  Given the scripture, I would read it, and she would say, “See?”  And I would lamely answer, “Um…OK.”  Her Bible and Sunday School lessons, however, were masterful.  In a 45-minute lesson she would quote dozens of scriptures and never use a note; she knew them all.  Occasionally I would try to convince myself that I was a great teacher…and then I would listen to her and realize I had a long way to go to be at her teaching level.
      Being the independent sort, Mom had always driven her car from The Woodlands to our church every Sunday.  But in a moment of realization that her driving days probably should be over (much to the relief of the family), she gave her car to the missionary with whom she had worked for fifteen years.  He was ecstatic and the family was relieved to get her off of Interstate 45.  But even in this act of giving she reflected her missionary spirit when she said, “At least my car will still be on the mission field.”
     On October 20, 2019, she attended her last church service.  We did not know it at the time.  A few days later her rasping cough from the scarred lungs caused by the Indian air pollution flared up again, but this time it did not go away, but worsened.  While in the hospital, the cough became pneumonia.  The progression was a slow decline, ending in her passing on November 19, 2019.  The Iron Lady, about whom I had joked would outlive all of us, had demonstrated that we are all but mere mortals.
    In the nearly seventy years that I knew Anniedeen Creel, first as “Sister Anniedeen” and finally as “Mom.” she was always the model of stability and control.  Every morning for those seventy years she exercised and prayed, keeping body and soul healthy.  Her Christian walk was rock solid; she NEVER changed her philosophy, her religion, and her personal standards.  She and I discussed more than once the evolution of churches and people over the last many years, and she always made it clear: “People and churches may change, but God never changes…stay the course.”  Though she has left us for a better place, her memory and legacy will live in our hearts.  But the void of her presence will take a little getting used to.  Love you, Mom.

More Than Friends

    In the early years of our sixty-two-year marriage, Shirley and I were wanderers.  Not aimlessly…usually with purpose.  We spent a few years in the military and then after college graduation worked for Sears, Roebuck and Company when it was the top dog in the retail industry.  With Sears during this period, any promotion meant a required move…so we moved.  In the first thirty years of our marriage, we moved twenty-seven times.  I will admit there may have been a tad of wanderlust evident, but usually each move was for a good reason.  It’s hard to believe now, but in those really early years (before children), Shirley and I could put everything we owned into our car…and head to the next adventure.

      Because we were both children of devout Pentecostal parents, there was one constant with every location we moved into…we always found a local United Pentecostal Church to attend.  This was back when UPC churches had a common doctrine, a common standard, and a common spirit, and when we walked into a new UPC church, we were immediately surrounded with friends of like spirit and a surrogate home for us to enjoy. 

    The only downside to all this traveling, however, was when the time came to say goodbye.  It seemed that just as we were getting well acquainted with our new Pentecostal friends and ministers, it was time to move on.  The saying, “Parting is such sweet sorry,” may be true, but sometimes it’s just plain sorrowful.  We remember with great fondness many of our former pastors and church members we have had the privilege to meet along the way of life.

    After we retired, moved away from our ancestral home of Baytown, Texas, and settled in our current home in Spring, we as usual settled also into our new church.  It is a far larger church than we have been accustomed to, but as time has passed, we have gained new friends.  Unfortunately, Shirley and I are also now at that stage of life when friends whom we have learned to love even since moving to Spring are suddenly being taken from us due to the advancement of years.  As a result, we value our friends more because we have become acutely aware that we have no promise of tomorrow.

     Our church had a class on Sunday morning for all senior citizens over the age of sixty.  In the first couple of years after we arrived, there was a potpourri of teachers who led our class.  Things did not really become established until the arrival of Reverend Carl and Sister Shirley Boothe.  The Boothes had been attending the church long before we arrived, serving in various capacities, but it was not until they assumed leadership of our class that their spirituality and influence came to the fore.

     The story of their early years is the stuff of Pentecostal history.  Brother Boothe had been called to preach before they married.  They were married on one weekend, and they hit the evangelistic trail the next weekend…launching out into the ministry with only a calling to preach, a dream, and a wife by his side.  With no Bible college credentials, no parental influence to smooth the road ahead, and no backup financial plan, the young couple spread the gospel around the parishes of Louisiana.  Sister Boothe became a minister/teacher in her own right and together they have pastored, evangelized, and influenced a generation of Pentecostals.

     When the Boothes became our Senior Class teachers, Shirley and I quickly began to appreciate their depth of spirit, teaching skills, and obvious concern for their class members.  Brother Boothe is a country boy who did well, and Sister Boothe is a gregarious city girl who says what she thinks.  They are a perfect match, and their team teaching is outstanding.  They are examples of true Christian holiness and ministers without reproach.

     Shirley and I have now been church goers for over seventy years.  In our walks with God, we have discovered there are two types of ministers: those who are called to preach and do so very capably…and those who are called to preach and do so very capably, but in addition God has instilled in them the heart of a pastor.  A pastor is more than a minister; a pastor is a shepherd leading a flock of saints toward heaven, and like a shepherd, a pastor has concern for his flock, guards his flock, and nurtures his flock even as he is led of God.  It is abundantly clear that not all ministers are qualified to be pastors.

    Four years ago, the Boothes announced to our class that they had felt the leading of the Lord to accept the pastorship of a church in Mississippi, and soon we bade goodbye to our dear friends.  Though we were happy that they were following the leading of God, our hearts were broken because we knew we would sorely miss their love, concern, and wisdom.  Over the years we have truly appreciated their phone calls, texts, and visits whenever they were concerned about our well-being.   I have said this jokingly more than once, “Whenever I get the sniffles, I can expect a phone call from Brother Boothe.”

   The Boothes have been our valued friends and teachers, but more so they were our pastors, perhaps not in an official capacity, but certainly in spirit and deed.  For many reasons, but especially as our pastors and counselors, we miss them.  When they left, Shirley and I wished the Boothes every possible blessing as they began a new, exciting chapter in their service for the Kingdom.  No doubt the folks in Pulaski, Mississippi, have realized by now how tremendously God blessed their church with the coming of their new pastors.


Men's Conference, 2019...The Swan Song

     The month of May always brings with it two momentous events: my birthday (May 5) and the annual Men's Conference of the South Texas District of the United Pentecostal Church, United. Held in San Antonio around the first weekend of the month, the conference is a gathering where men of like-minded faith can get together and share a common spirit, gain strength and encouragement, and renew a commitment to God.  I have written previously of high moments (See ) and low  moments (See ) in the conferences, but the positives far outweigh the negatives, so it was with anticipation that we group of old veterans headed west toward the Promised Land again on Friday, May 3.
    As usual, and for the fourth time in the last seven years, it was Brothers Jerry Steward, John Cook, and me in Brother John’s venerable Honda Pilot…and as usual, we left Houston after having breakfast at our favorite Denny’s Restaurant…the Denny’s where we have enjoyed breakfast every Friday for the last five years.  The place where, when we walk in the door, the coffee is already at our favorite table, waiting for our first sip.  They take care of us; they should…we tip pretty well.
    Unfortunately, we were missing Brother Prentiss Smith, John’s father-in-law, who backed out at the last minute for undisclosed reasons.  I’ve said it before…it’s always good when you’re in the company of Brother Smith because he is a man of such impeccable character that some of his respectability sort of rubs off on common old church members like me.  However, this past year Brother Jerry Stewart was chosen as a certified board member of Bethel Tabernacle, and, with John Cook already being a board member, I am still surrounded by Men of Impeccable Character…I couldn’t sin even if I wanted to.
    Anyway, we left Denny’s under threatening skies which opened up as we headed west on Interstate 10.  From Katy to Columbus, it was heavy rain and dark clouds, but as we sailed by Columbus, the weather began to lighten and we made an uneventful trip to our destination, The Drury Hotel at I-10 and Loop 1604 in Northwest San Antonio, arriving around 4:00 p.m.  Jerry and I shared a room, and John was left out in the cold, all alone.  He had to wing it alone in his room because his father-in-law had backed out.  I offered to get an extra bed in our room, but he declined…probably because I had told him Jerry snored like a freight train…or at least, someone in our room does.
    Drury offers free evening and morning buffets, so downstairs we went after the obligatory naps for some tacos and salad.  They were not five-star tacos, but they were sufficient for the moment.  While we three were dining, Pastor David Fauss came in and joined us for a bit of conversation.  In his new position as Superintendent of the South Texas District, he was constantly being tapped on the shoulder by passersbys who wanted to say hello.  Such is the price of fame and responsibility.
    Brother Fauss is the newly elected superintendent of the newly formed South Texas District.  Actually, the name is the same as before, but where the South Texas District once ranged from Beaumont to Brownsville, it has now been split roughly on a line from Austin to San Antonio into the South Central District (San Antonio to Brownsville) and South Texas District (east of that line to the Louisiana border.)  I can’t give you the exact boundaries because no one knows what they are; the boundaries have never been published, documented, or publicized.  The UPCI, from its national headquarters to the local church organization, is highly secretive.  If you read Pentecostal Life, the official publication of the UPCI, you will read wonderful inspiring sermons and testimonies, but very little about the administration of the organization.  The local and state districts carry on that policy.  The original South Texas District, which split from the original Texas District, has now been split into the aforementioned two districts, and rumors have abounded as to the reasons for the action.  Nowhere can you read or hear of the new boundaries or the reasoning for the divide.  The pattern of non-information is carried to the local churches.
     About 7:30 p.m., the lights of The Hope Church, Rev. Scoggins, Pastor, dimmed and the service began…or rather, the show began.  There was suddenly a cacophony of rolling drums, blinking lights, wailing keyboards, and blasting voices, accompanied by flashing psychedelic images on two large screens.  Someone needs to watch the Michael Caine movie The Ipcress File (1965).  In that movie, those same procedures were used as torture for captured prisoners in an attempt to break down their resistance to questioning. It was standard questioning procedure during the Cold War period of the fifties and sixties.  To complement the entertainment, there was also the obligatory lead singer yelling at the top of his/her voice.  We also received a heavy dose of good old Christian rap (that is an oxymoron, my friends).  However, I am not going to dwell on this negative aspect of the conference; I have made my opinion known before (see above blog “The Concert,”) but I will make this one statement and use a term I have heard two ministers use recently; albeit, they were using it in reference to the world. Pentecostal music has gone to hell in a handbasket.  The music may bring in people, but it destroys the spirit and cheapens the church experience.  ‘Nuf sed.
     We were blessed to have as our main speaker, Brother Stan Gleason, who is the Assistant General Superintendent of the UPCI, Western Division.  He preached an outstanding sermon concerning the role of men in the church and the responsibilities we have as men to represent Christ and the church.  It was powerful, positive, and inspiring, and most of us wound up somewhere around the altars reconsecrating ourselves to the work of God after the sermon.
    There is an unwritten rule amongst Pentecostals…after church…we go eat.  Fortunately, in the Drury Hotel complex is an Applebee’s, and that was and is our usual stopping place after service.  By that time, we had other great friends join us, Brothers Melvin Hogan and his son and Carl Boothe…who is more than a brother. Brother Boothe is a minister and leader/teacher of our Senior Bible Class at Bethel Tabernacle.  We had a great visit at Applebee’s, and it was after midnight before we left the restaurant, primarily because Brother Hogan can eat more…and slower…than any person I have seen recently.  But it was OK.
     The next morning, bright and fairly early, we were downstairs for the Drury breakfast which was full course and pretty tasty.  We made it to the church about 9:00, and, thankfully, the weather had brightened considerably after yesterday’s rain and storms.  Revs. Donnie Huslage and Roger Blackburn preached briefly but eloquently on the subject “Men at the Gate.”  Then it was time again for Brother Gleason.
    Brother Gleason’s sermon that morning was worth the $50.00 price of the conference.  His subject was “Be Famous with your Family!”  His most noteworthy statement to our group of men was,” If you have to choose between saving your church or saving your family…save your family.”   He used examples of ministers who are so wrapped up in building churches, they neglect their own families, and men who try hard to provide for their families, yet they forget their families’ spiritual welfare.  “Do not be afraid,” he said, “to say ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry.’”  The sermon created some serious soul-searching and re-committing among many listeners.

    Shortly after noon, John Cook headed the Pilot back eastward toward Houston.  We had one more obligatory stop to make: at Chili’s in Seguin, Texas.  The food is good, and we were ready to eat, but it’s the chocolate volcano dessert which made me want to make the stop.  If you’ve never had a “chocolate volcano,” it’s a big chunk of fudgy chocolate cake (hot) with a great scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Chili’s chocolate volcano is huge and comes with 3-4 spoons, depending on the number of participants.  Sadly, another memory has been tarnished a bit.  This time the cake was not very fudgy…more like a regular lightweight chocolate cake.  It was OK, but you didn’t get the usual chocolate overload with each bite.
    After one more brief stop for fuel, John delivered Jerry and me to our respective homes about 5:00 and another enjoyable conference was in the books.  Next year, the two now-separate districts will each offer its own men’s conference, so whether we ever return to the Drury Inn or San Antonio is unknown at this time.  Personally, I enjoy the trip traveling with my good friends nearly as much as I enjoy the conference itself.  The idea of driving across Houston to a conference is not as appealing.  We’ll see.

A Voice from the Past...Rev. V.A. Guidroz

    A few days ago, Shirley and I were enjoying some reminiscing and visiting with our good friends, Reverend Ronny and Jerry Guidroz.  Actually, they are more than just friends.  Shirley and Jerry are stepsisters which I guess makes Ronny and me stepbrothers-in-law.  We have all basically grown up together. In our visiting on this particular day, Ronny
Rev. V. A. Guidroz
mentioned he had several old reel to reel tapes of his dad, Rev. V.A. Guidroz, preaching many of his memorable sermons.  Two tapes that he presently had with him were two morning devotional services that Brother Guidroz had conducted in August 1961, at the Texas District Camp Meeting of the United Pentecostal Church in Lufkin Texas.  Even in those early years, Brother Guidroz was known for his powerful morning devotionals.  
    Ronny expressed a wish that he could find someone to update those tapes to a CD, and, since I happen to have that skill and computer capabilities, I quickly volunteered to take on the task.  For the next couple of days, in the quiet of my den sitting at my computer with Brother Guidroz’s tapes running, I listened to a voice from the past.
    Brother V.A. Guidroz was the pastor of my childhood.  My parents joined Peace Tabernacle in 1950, and Brother Guidroz became our family’s spiritual leader.  (See “In Memory of Pastor V. A. Guidroz”  His influence on my parents and us kids was immense, because those were the days when pastors took an intense interest in the spiritual well-being of their church members, and in turn the church members actually listened to their pastors and followed their guidance.  
    The two tapes I converted were the Thursday and Friday morning devotionals of the camp meeting.  In 1961, the main tabernacle of the camp meeting was a round-roofed large structure capable of sitting approximately two thousand people. By today’s standards, it was rustic: no air conditioning, NO WALLS except front and rear of the building, sawdust floor, and wood plank seating.  During times of shouting and excited praising, a light cloud of fine sawdust would rise up from the floor.  At the end of night services in those days, if you didn’t have a light coating of dust on your clothing and a little sweat to match, you must have been sitting quietly.  This was old time camp meeting.  People stayed on the campgrounds in tents, campers, cabins (upper class!) and even in backs of cars and carrying a web-shaped fan to give one a little breeze in the stifling day-time heat was the order of the day.  Restrooms were small buildings a fair walk away from the tabernacle.  And yet no one complained…contemporary Christians would probably refuse to attend such primitive facilities.
    Brother Guidroz’s morning devotions at camp began at 6:30, so it took hardy souls to even make the services.  However, even at that early hour, several hundred saints (members) would be gathered.  As I listened to the tapes, it was brought to me so forcefully how our churches, and in particular the United Pentecostal Church in general, have changed over the last 55+ years.  Please be aware, this blog is not going to be a rant concerning how the church has lost its direction or how I feel about the music: I have made my opinions concerning such subjects in other blogs.  I will simply describe what I heard and felt on the tapes, and you can draw your own conclusions.
L-R: Revs. Ron Guidroz, Steve Galloway, Milton Ford, V.A. Guidroz, Lloyd Moreau
I was struck by the simplicity of each service. Brother Guidroz was the only speaker for the entire nearly hour and a half.  He led the prayers, led the singing, taught the lesson, and preached the sermon.  Behind him, furnishing the music, was an organist…that was it.  No “praise” singers, no song leader, no other musicians at all.  A couple of days after I converted the first tape, I called Ronny to tell him how I had enjoyed the devotional, and he told me that the person on the organ was none other than my future mother-in-law, Anniedeen Creel.  At that time, she was Sister Anniedeen Bateman, another member of our Peace Tabernacle church in Baytown, Texas.  In the mid-fifties she had attempted to teach me how to play the piano, but she gave up after a year or so when I discovered the guitar.
    The Thursday service began with a timeless hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer.”  Brother Guidroz was not a singer, but he led the song and set the tone for the service.  His words thereafter created a spirit of deep worship as he discussed “Your Desert Place.”  He spoke as befitting his position as the District Superintendent of the Texas District.  He encouraged, cajoled, admonished, and advised saints, sinners, preachers, and pastors in his audience.  He, as many ministers of the day, did not mince words; he was direct and clear in his admonishments.  A noteworthy quote to the ministers: “Do not spend all your time preaching to those who will not listen…preach and be a pastor those who will.”  
     Brother Guidroz was representative of many ministers of those days.  With limited education and no finances, he began preaching at an early age because he felt God’s calling on his life.  He did not go to Bible college to get his license to preach, nor did he have a license bestowed on him because he had church influence.  He and Sister Guidroz traveled and preached with only their faith in God to depend on.  He told of the time during the depression days when he preached for weeks in an area where the people told him up front they had no money, but he felt the need to be there.  Early ministers were determined to spread the gospel, not amass a financial estate.  In 1959, when Brother Guidroz resigned his church in Baytown to become full time district superintendent, he walked away from a church he had spent over twenty-five years building up from scratch…no financial compensation, no retaining a financial interest…he left it all.
   Reviewing to the tapes, I noted that 
Peace Tabernacle, 1956
s the audience sat and listened, there were moments during the sermons when Brother Guidroz would call everyone to worship, and a chorus of hundreds of voices would rise up in a season of prayer.  There were no calls to “give God a handclap of praise” as is so prevalent today...because it was not done.  In those days, applause was what you gave performers and actors; it was not in the church.  Oh, there was handclapping during singing and when praying, but not applause.  Applause became prevalent first via the television preachers whose studio audiences were encouraged to applaud every singer and every time the televangelist said something profound.  When Shirley and I moved back to Texas in 1991, we were surprised to see the practice had infiltrated even Pentecostal churches.
    After over an hour of ministering, the audience had moved into a deep worshipful period, and Brother Guidroz invited those who desired to come to the front and pray.  The sound of a great number of people praying lasted several minutes…no screaming, no yelling, no singing, no blasting drums or music…just deep, powerful prayer.  By this time, I was praying with tears in my eyes right along with the folks on the tape.  It was the type of prayer that is rarely heard in churches today.        (Read “An Unusual Church Service” 
     After listening to the two devotionals three times apiece and putting over forty other Guidroz sermons on CD, I am a little nostalgic for those uncomplicated days of yesteryear.   Things were simpler then.  Life was uncomplicated and even trying to live a Christian life was less...challenging.  A pastor told you how to live based on his following the scriptures, and saints believed and followed willingly without challenging every detail.  We put faith in our leaders and faith in God.  And we were happier.