Much Alive at Ninety-Five: How God Answered My Prayer of Dominant Desire

Overview

Let this book help you to know that:

A crisis does not need to destroy you. Worry wrinkles diminish with a clear conscience. Friendships are worth all they cost. A good attitude opens many doors. Cherished memories add spice to life. Smiles do what wrinkles cannot do. Forgiveness creates a healthy body and soul. What you say to yourself can make or break you. Your body is a gift worthy of good care. The upward look brings a Divine Helper.

" ...he here brings together lessons ...

See more details below
Hardcover
$26.80
BN.com price
(Save 27%)$36.95 List Price
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (4) from $25.24   
  • New (3) from $25.24   
  • Used (1) from $28.71   
Sending request ...

Overview

Let this book help you to know that:

A crisis does not need to destroy you. Worry wrinkles diminish with a clear conscience. Friendships are worth all they cost. A good attitude opens many doors. Cherished memories add spice to life. Smiles do what wrinkles cannot do. Forgiveness creates a healthy body and soul. What you say to yourself can make or break you. Your body is a gift worthy of good care. The upward look brings a Divine Helper.

" ...he here brings together lessons from his "prayer of dominant desire." He has answered many a call from church and community, with a humble: Here am I, send me. I cannot think of anyone, regardless of age or station, who will not be enlightened and inspired by reading this book. I am honored to recommend it."

-- Rev. O. Gerald Trigg, PhD

"What leaves an impression are the experiences of a man with an underlying happy heart, ever glad to be of service to God and others."

--Philip Green Jr.

"I wrote this book at my age because I felt led to do so. This book has much to say about what God has done through me."

--Philip Green Sr.

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781475996272
  • Publisher: iUniverse, Incorporated
  • Publication date: 8/30/2013
  • Pages: 420
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 1.06 (d)

Read an Excerpt

MUCH ALIVE AT NINETY FIVE

How God answered my Prayer of Dominant Desire


By PHILIP L. GREEN

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 Philip L. Green
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-9622-7



CHAPTER 1

GROWING UP, A MIXED BAG


Home-life and School for a Preacher's Kid

Mealtime together was a requirement in my home. We were always ready for the next meal because the last one was hardly adequate to last until the next. Food for a family of seven growing children often stretched my mother's ingenuity to the limit. Meat was a commodity available not more than twice a week, but meat derivatives (or leftovers) appeared the next day(s) in food extenders like meatloaf and soup. To kill and prepare one of mother's pullets, or one of her fat hens, was an occasion of happiness, for its meat and juices flavored rice and potatoes for days. Chicken gravy was delicious over a fresh open-faced biscuit.

Gathering us together to eat was never a problem. Getting us quiet and keeping us from snitching morsels of food before "the blessing," or table grace, was a special challenge for mother when father was away. Retaining us at the table, after gobbling up our portions, when we wanted to be off fast to play or follow our own private desires, was another issue. Coming home after school, hungry as bears, we often found the cupboard with hardly more than a crusty piece of stale cornbread. Then, when suppertime came, we would not dare to be absent, though some of us would be guilty of disobedience or infractions of family rules deserving a thump on the head by a tired mother who in that way reminded us that the thump was well deserved. So, frequently, elbows went up to ward off the mild punishment, as she circled the table with platters of food.

There were times when food was so scarce that the meal consisted of nothing more than a glass of milk and freshly baked cornbread. On those evenings we had what we called evening "crumble-in"—meaning we'd crumble the cornbread into the milk and spoon it out. Later in life I saw and heard a commercial that advertised a brand of soup that "ate like a meal." That's what we had for supper—"crumble-in that filled in for a meal."

Hog killing time in the fall was a time of great interest and abundant meat. The hams were hung up, covered with salt and other seasonings to be eaten during long winter months. But the other parts needed to be eaten quickly while they were still fresh. We had no refrigerator when I was little, so neighbors were the beneficiaries of whatever we couldn't cook and eat right away. A delicacy was "chitterlings" made from the inner linings of the hog's small intestines. They lasted for days.

Later, when I was a college student, an evangelist by the name of Rev. Hezekiah Ham came to Greensboro, NC, and introduced himself to his first congregations by saying, "Just think of the best part of a hog and you'll know my name." He told us in one city, a woman of color shook his hand after the service and said, "I sure did enjoy your sermon, Mr. Chitterling."

Unless my memory is faulty, a young man by the name of Billy Graham was converted in one of Rev. Ham's meetings.


A Fearful Childhood

Several things contributed to a fearful childhood. The absence of a male head of the household when my father was away in evangelistic meetings made for reliance on my mother—who herself had a fearful disposition. During severe electrical storms, she huddled us together away from electrical drop cords and appliances (a wise decision, but it made us more afraid of being struck by lightening than we needed to be). To make the country home more "safe," all the doors had to be locked in communities where most people left their doors open day and night.

We were exposed to imagined dangers of a literal hell, preached by some evangelist in which an angry God held an avenging sword over sinful and disobedient people, ready to sweep them away at the Day of Judgment, if not before. The concept of God's "all-seeing eye" was something to fear.

Scary ghost stories and yarns about preternatural happenings, told after supper on a dark porch by the elders, made going to bed a frightful experience. Our bedroom was dark, and going up and down the stairs was in darkness. Reason said there was nothing to fear, but darkness after such stories made for uncertainties. There were some gruesome events that happened in the community to add some authenticity to what was untrue, like the man who cut his throat while hanging himself.

My mother had premonitions of deaths in the family and among close friends. These came in the form of an unexplained "knocking"—a knocking in the house that came spaced a few seconds apart. These seemed never to come when Papa was at home. We children were party to these knockings that came in an otherwise peaceful night, and one night in the midst of a powerful electrical storm, we were frightened spit-less, wondering who among our relatives (or ourselves) the knockings were for.

One Sunday, as a lad of ten, I had gone with Papa to a service in one of his seven churches. Several neighbors were invited to eat in one of the homes. At the table the conversation covered many subjects. We had fish in the meat dish, and was it ever delicious! My young ears pricked up when someone said that one should never eat fish and drink milk at the same meal—that she knew of a man who had died after eating that combination. Imagine how I felt. I had just drunk two glasses of milk with my fish. Immediately after the meal, I made my way into a cornfield away from the adults, and there made my peace with God, and waited to die. It never happened, thank God, but I was very frightened!


Nightly Prayer—Time at the Parsonage

Always when my father was at home, and nearly always when he was away, we gathered around what devout people called "the family circle." The Scriptures were read, after which we'd all kneel at our chairs while Papa prayed. When he was absent, Mama would gather us and ask us to quote Bible verses. It was a race to get to say the shortest ones, like "Jesus wept," or "God is love." One night my sister Lois, two years younger than I, had memorized a much longer verse. It was, "Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." She was the nervous type so, when it finally became her turn, she blurted out, "Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you trouble." That ended the session in much hilarity.

I never saw my father pray a silent prayer. Whether at church or camp meeting, or yet in the privacy of his bedroom, his prayers could be heard. He prayed for causes and for people by name. His bedroom was next to mine, so I heard his prayers for those on his heart. I often heard my name being lifted up to God. It was a "warm fuzzy" to know that he thought enough of me to pray for me. That made up somewhat for the fact that he never told me he loved me.


Mama's First (and Last) Driving Lesson

One day several members of the family were out riding with our parents. It was a lovely day and the top cover of the car was folded down. Papa kept asking Mama to take a turn behind the steering wheel. Finally she gave in and drove us a short distance. Nervously she kept asking Papa to take the wheel again. She didn't know how to stop the car and make Papa take over, so she guided the car off to the side, right up a bank. The car turned over on its side, and we all spilled out like peas from a pod. In retrospect, I wondered how many of us would have been badly hurt or killed if the car had turned all the way over, but the car on the side was bad enough. Papa looked over the situation, and I could tell he was worried. The best I could do was to cry out, "Papa, Papa, get a man, get a hundred mans." Other motorists stopped, and several men put the car on its wheels again. That was Mama's first and last drive, and that was the last time Papa invited her to "take the wheel."


Youthful Chores

Slopping the hogs was a job I reluctantly performed. It was a necessity in order to be ready for "hog-killing" time in the fall. That meant meat all winter. So often it was my responsibility to see that their food was mixed with water and poured into their trough. I knew when it was time to feed them, for their squeals were insistent at mealtime.

I learned to milk a cow when quite young but preferred to "let" older siblings do the milking. In the summer, when grass was green, the cow had to be moved from one spot to another—that is, when she was not in a pasture.

Chopping kindling to start fires in the kitchen stove, and gathering dried bark and twigs for the same, was a perpetual necessity—no fire in the kitchen stove meant no hot cornbread or biscuits or hot meal. Mama would not stand still for that. Not having a fire in the stove would have made her feel like the children of Israel in Egyptian bondage, when they had to make bricks without straw. When I was a teenager, Papa was gone to preach in revival meetings for several weeks at a time. Often this meant that we'd run short of firewood for the house during cold weather, as well as "decent" dry wood for the kitchen stove. When he did have a break in those duties, he'd come home, take one look at the wood pile, grab the crosscut saw, and say, "Philip, let's go out and cut some wood for your mother."

That meant sawing down a large tree and working it up into useable lengths and splitting the pieces into stove wood for Mama. I wasn't nearly the man at the other end of the crosscut saw I wished I were. Papa was a 200 pound man, and my poor back ached as I tried not to let him know that I was too tired to pull the saw through the wood one more time.

I didn't mind gathering the eggs. The hens hid their nests around the barn and yard in a variety of places. They cackled after laying an egg—but only after they had gotten off their nests. It was a game to find their nests, and sometimes difficult. It was necessary to find every one of them because a hen would sit on her eggs in an attempt to hatch them. Unless the eggs were gathered regularly, they were spoiled. The embryo of a chick would begin to form inside the shell. The rooster had seen to that. When we wanted chicks, we'd buy eggs of the variety of chickens we wanted and let a hen hatch them. Sometimes we'd buy the chicks already hatched.


The Ole Swimming Hole

Without a doubt, the swimming hole a half mile from our home in the town of Rutherford College was the source of much activity and happiness for me. It was a natural place in the creek east of our house where the water came over a solid formation of rock and carved out a good-sized pool deep enough for swimming. My first experience as a child was not the most pleasant one. My older brothers threw me in before I had learned to swim. I almost drowned before they pulled me out. Every summer it was a gathering place for the boys of the community. Girls were allowed with bathing suits, but so many boys had no swim suits that the girls were reluctant to come most of the time.

The water was cold and fresh from under South Mountain. It took a bit more than a little courage to plunge in, but that's what we did. Going into water that cold, a little at a time, was excruciating and only delayed the inevitable final plunge. No lifeguard stood near by because it wasn't a public place. You were on your own, and as far as I can remember, no one ever drowned there. We liked to have it available because it was three miles to the Yadkin River. That was too far to walk more than once or twice a month.


Camp Meetings

A great influence upon my young life was the midsummer 10-day evangelistic meetings at Camp Free, between the towns of Rutherford College and Connelly Springs. The latter town was on the main railway that ran east and west across the length of the state. In earlier years, a large hotel had been built there for people who would take the train to the mountains for extended vacations. My father was the founder of Camp Free (Camp Meeting) a mile west. Using funds from a powerful revival in Thomasville, NC, he purchased land and, with the influence and help of like-minded clergy and laity he built, organized and scheduled it annually—usually in late July through early August. A look at the tabernacle showed no walls on three sides, admitting everyone. The north end had a wall behind the participating speakers, musicians and special guests. The wall helped augment the sound system, when we had one, and the voices of the speakers.

At the time of the first camp meeting in 1921, I was only seven. Year after year I took an increasing part in helping get the camp set up—washing off the many very dusty 15-foot homemade wooden benches, removing last year's dried out sawdust, hauling in fresh sawdust and scattering it over the dirt floor, opening and readying the dining room and kitchen for use, preparing cottages for those who had built them for the camp meeting dates, and many other chores.

The older youth enjoyed piling the fresh sawdust in the middle of the tabernacle where, before scattering it all over, we would climb up into the rafters above the pile and drop from there to the top of the sawdust pile. What fun! I could hardly wait until I was big enough and brave enough to do that myself.

The year finally came when I decided to try it. I needed to try, in order to prove I could do it. So, with older youth watching, I climbed up and over to the drop-point and let myself down arms-length. Then I made a mistake. In fright, I hesitated. The others egged me on. I looked down and measured the distance to the top of the pile. I had never heard the expression, "He who hesitates is lost." I decided finally that it was not the year for me and tried to climb back up the 2" x 8" rafter to safety. My strength and skill were not equal to that awkward task. What to do?

I yelled loud enough to attract the attention of my father who was working nearby. I did not have the sympathy of the other kids, who wanted to see me drop. Sizing up the situation quickly, Papa piled benches crossways and climbed up. He could almost reach me and said, "Philip, turn loose."

I hesitated again because I decided that, if he missed me, I'd be in real trouble. Papa said, "Don't worry, I will catch you." I cried, "Oh no, Papa, if you missed me I'd be hurt bad on those hard benches."

Finally, I could hold on no longer and my young fingers slipped from the rafter. It was great to feel the strong arms of a 200-pound caring father enfold me and lift me to safety. There's a sermon in that incident that I'll save until later. It could be summed up in the oft-quoted expression, "Man's extremity is God's opportunity."


Earliest Memories

To confirm my earliest memories, I could go no further back than age three. My father was pastor of the Candler Circuit in Buncombe County, southwest of Asheville, NC, for a year beginning November 1917. The square two-story parsonage sitting uphill across a road from a naturally formed swimming hole was forever engraved on my mind. Water flowed over a huge rock in the creek and hollowed out a basin where my two older brothers had many swims.

One day as I watched in anguished disbelief, James, the oldest, began vigorously kicking the water as though he were struggling for his life. He was holding onto a large rock on the edge of the pool so I yelled out the best advice a nearly 4-year-old brother could give, "Hold to the rock, James, hold to the rock!" I was undeceived only when he calmly released his grasp on the rock and swam across to the other side—all of that ruckus for my anxious benefit.

Further down the creek there was a mill pond that froze over in the cold mountain winters. I remembered the sad incident of a boy who skated out too far toward the middle where the ice was thin, broke through, and was drowned.

Up the creek from the parsonage, a curve around a high hill was necessary for a road beside the creek. It was fenced with two strands of barbed wire to prevent cattle from falling from the cliff. Everyone was saddened to learn that a part of the fence was broken down and a cow had fallen to her death in the road below.

Farmers with wagons were frequent passers-by. The tail end of the "coupling pole," protruding from the rear of the wagon, was an attractive temptation to a boy hankering for a free ride for a few yards. One day a farmer stopped for a brief visit with my pastor father. That first "free ride" was costly. My father had never mentioned that riding someone else's coupling pole was forbidden. I found out when he spanked me and hustled me up the bank to the yard of the parsonage. That was the last of any free rides.
(Continues...)


Excerpted from MUCH ALIVE AT NINETY FIVE by PHILIP L. GREEN. Copyright © 2013 Philip L. Green. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Contents

This Book Is Dedicated To....................     ix     

Foreword....................     xi     

Their-Word....................     xiii     

My-Word....................     xv     

Acknowledgements....................     xvii     

Section I....................     1     

Section II....................     57     

Section III....................     117     

Section IV....................     145     

Section V....................     189     

Section VI....................     233     

Section VII....................     277     

Section VIII....................     309     

Section IX....................     335     

Section X....................     355     

Addendum....................     373     

Sources....................     399     

Meet The Author....................     401     


Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously

    If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
    Why is this product inappropriate?
    Comments (optional)