In the autumn of 1947, when I knew I wanted to write, but was giving Christian ministry as a vocational choice a chance, I was sent to do "field work" at an old-style tuberculosis sanitarium in St Louis.
A group of us were sent there to converse and pray with utterly poor, family-less, friendless African-American women, abandoned to die alone.
Almost without exception, they ministered to us out of resources they'd gotten in the black churches or from their own reading and soul.
Six or seven of us headed out there in a bus, envious of classmates who golfed or swam on Friday afternoon, while we sullen few were supposed to experience dread.
Instead, we were lifted up, sang our way home, and usually celebrated with an almost-sacramental beer, ready for next week's encounter with God in an experience that gave us direction and hope.
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