nurse depending on her and prayer. Thirty below zero, 6 A.M., Decem ber fourth — hardly a day for a walk. But the hospital was close and a Friend walked beside me. “Our God- our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home!” With each contraction, my pitch varied but God gave me a song to keep me once more. And when she came, there was no question about her name: Gloria—in excelsis Deo. But after three years, it was time for us to leave Barrow. Local na tive men would take over our part of the work. The congregation gave us a farewell party. As they had lined up to greet us, so they lined up to tell us good-bye, full of love and even some tears. Together, we sang: “God be with you till we meet again; May His counsels guide, uphold y°u? With His sheep securely fold you; God be with you till we meet again.” We spent four months on fur lough, but it was consumed with deputation work. “ Anywhere, Lord,” we said. “ Alaska?” we add ed hopefully. The pioneering and peace of the north had charmed us. “ Angoon!” We hurried to buy furniture aft er learning that there was a nearly- empty house. Farther south, wetter, warmer, Indians, perhaps a place for gardens, leaky roof, little heat: we knew these things as we started north again. Further planning was not in our hands. “ Be not dismayed whate’er betide, God will take care of you. Beneath His wings of love abide, God will take care of you.” This was our song in the tossing plane, during a week’s windy wait at Juneau with our supervisor (which was a vacation at last), and through a bouncing boat trip. Our supervisor told us, “ In summer you’ll have to carry water — I don’t know where you’ll find any. The electricity is on only during dark hours. Your only real prob
lem is fire. The manse is in the middle of many crowded, tinder houses.” “ God will take care of you,” I sang. The house was a gothic bam of 1920 style. We rattled in the door, and continue to do so. Our song carried us through an afternoon’s unpacking and an early bedtime in the big, cold bedroom. At midnight it came — the fire siren. George hobbled into his clothes and ran to join the bucket brigade. I climbed onto a chair so I could look out the window — and stayed there praying to a caring God above our needy village. From the Russian- Greek Orthodox Church on the hill the rose flames reflected onto the whole village which made up for the electricity now turned off. He did take care of us! Only the power house burned and by the next eve ning a new power plant was work ing from the village jail. Our water pipes were frozen in the morning, Sunday, which tem porarily stopped their leaking. Our supervisor was right; the roof leaked. So did the walls, in places. After two days, a deacon showed us light switches behind the cur tains, so now we turn the lights on —after dark. Angoon is fun; the people are nice. Already, they are taking us into their hearts. Just last night they installed George as their lay preach er. The other two churches have native lay leaders who seem to look to him also. The installation serv ice — typically Angoon — promises that our life" will continue to have variety. Angoon should have a new song to fit its uniqueness, I thought. But from God comes the same old song, newly-meaningful for here. It goes like this: “ Blest be the tie that binds Our hearts in Christian love.”
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