Preacher "A Man Sent From God": The Life And Times Of Rev. Earl W. Freeland

2014

Prologue

It was a lazy fall afternoon and the leaves from all those trees were just starting to fall. June was sitting on the front porch of his home enjoying the million or so squirrels, birds, cats, dogs and other unidentified animals as they paraded by. Of course, it wasn’t his home by legal definition but the parsonage of the Portsmouth (VA) Christian & Missionary Alliance Church. And the only person this side of West Virginia who knew him by June was his wife, Freda. To the multitude of people in Portsmouth who knew and loved him he was Pastor Earl Freeland or most often simply Preacher. And this afternoon Preacher was doing what he’d done as often as possible since 1963, when the church built the house on the back side of the church property. He was looking over the 10 or so acres of church property and the magnificent church the Lord had blessed the congregation with. Preacher closed his eyes and leaned back. It was impossible to tell whether he was dreaming or just remembering.

He had been the pastor at three churches in Pennsylvania before God told him to come to Portsmouth and build a church. Seemed like every time he had gotten comfortable there was that small voice and it usually meant one of three things — move, renovate or build. This afternoon Preacher was confident in his own mind those days were over. He was certain he was in God’s will in Portsmouth. The church and fellowship hall were a perfect fit for the congregation. All was well. He would serve the church as long as God wanted him there. And then he would retire. A serene nap was interrupted by the barking of a hound chasing a squirrel, causing him to sit up and again look over the property. Seemed to him it was an awful lot of land for just a church, fellowship hall and ranch home. And then, the tap on his shoulder. As he looked across the property he heard something. Not the chirping of birds or the bark of that ole’ hound dog. No, it was the sound of a bouncing basketball. Here we go again, he thought. Time to build a school.

Editor’s Introduction

Genesis 1:1: In the beginning… As a reporter, editor and publisher for nearly 30 years, I’ve learned a few writing tips in my career. One of the most important is to always include a backstory. I remember very little about the sequence, effort and circumstances that led up to the original printing of Preacher A Man Sent From God. Although my dad insists I edited the first version for him, I have serious doubts I gave it much more than a cursory glance. It was his project, not mine.

A signed, first edition copy of the Preacher book has sat collecting dust on my bookshelf for the past 14 or so years. Not entirely out-of-sight, but certainly out-of-mind… until a couple months ago. Through an amazing series of events you’ll read about later, he asked me — in a technical sense — what it would take to reprint the book. I’ve worked on several of dad’s projects before and knew instinctively where he was headed. No way was I going to take the bait, again. So I gave him a stock answer. Take the original camera-ready copy to a local printer, pay them several thousand dollars, and, although not verbalized but implied, leave me out of it. Case closed…

Until late that night. My wife and kids had gone to bed and, as I do often, I sat reclined in my easy chair watching SportsCenter on ESPN. Having already seen the same highlights several times, and for no other apparent reason, I picked up the Preacher book and read the first few pages. And cringed. While mildly entertaining, all I could really see were the grammatical errors, spelling typos and run-on sentences. Why, I asked myself, would dad want to have it reprinted? And who would want to read it now after so many years had passed? It had been a nice gesture on his part back then; a self-published book about his local preacher. Nothing more. So I went to bed…

And woke up 30 minutes later. By sunrise, I had read the entire book. Really read it this time. Tears? I cried a boatload. Conviction? I asked God to forgive me of every sin in my life going back to the time I punched Sonny Meeks in kindergarten. Smiles? A lot of those, too. I realized Preacher A Man Sent From God — literary warts and all — did deserve another go-round. And with God’s guidance, I would help dad make it happen. Oh, sure. I would still complain and grumble about it. That’s always been my curious way of showing dad how much I love him.

So about this new edition of Preacher. First, I have tried to clean-up and correct the human errors (misspelled words, etc.) that appeared in the original. I have also attempted to make sense of several timeline inaccuracies. Moreover, I have hopefully spruced up the writing style a bit. But this book remains 100 percent my dad’s work and his intent to tell the story of Pastor Freeland’s life remains intact. Second, the book is now complete with the addition of several new chapters — ones that pick up the story where it left off in early 2000. And lastly, it has been made available not only in print but also in various e-book formats.

One last question must be addressed. Who will want to read it? I admit, I wrestled with that one for quite a while. On the surface, as I alluded to, Preacher would appear to be localized and geared toward those who knew Rev. Freeland. I no longer believe this to be true or accurate. This book is a fascinating account of a man sent from God that transcends the geographical boundaries of Portsmouth, VA. Because, in reality, it is the story of what Jesus Christ can accomplish in anybody’s life if they choose to believe in Him. That opens a really big door. For Christians, I believe this book will strengthen your faith and remind you of the urgency to share the Gospel of Christ. For those of you going into or already studying for the ministry, this book can be a source of advice and inspiration. For current pastors, Sunday School teachers and youth leaders, you might just pick up a sermon or lesson idea. Finally, and most importantly, Preacher is compassionately written for the sinner in all of us. For it is those whom Pastor Freeland showed his love to most.

Lord, the fleece has now been laid at Your feet.

Bud Key, Jr.

August 2014

Chapter 1

Look Out World, Here I Come

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark 10:14 (NIV)

Autumn is God’s most colorful season… a canopy of flaming reds, crisp oranges, harvested yellows and earth-toned browns. I have marveled at the palette He chose for over 80 years now, always believing it is one of His many ways of showing us just how beautiful Heaven will be. The fall months. Or more precisely, as a launching point for this book, October 4, 1981. So many years ago. And while it is true I now sometimes forget where I laid my keys or who won the ballgame I watched on television the night before, that particular date remains a sweet memory. For it was the evening I heard the personal testimony of a man sent from God.

The night was cool and lazy… comfortable in a flannel shirt sort of way. Not that anyone would have seriously considered wearing brushed plaid. Back then, attending a Sunday evening service still called for a degree of fashion decorum. For the men of the church, that meant wearing a suit or sports jacket (sans the necktie if you were a little younger) or, if feeling a bit rebellious, at least nicely-starched Khakis and an Izod sweater. The idea of showing up in your best holy jeans hadn’t made its way into sanctuaries in the South just yet. Neither had pastors dressed up like Don Ho in Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. The ladies that evening were dressed conservatively, too, with the only noticeable nod to the trends of the day being their ginormous hairstyles. Even the teenagers — most who were understandably eager for the service to end so they could get to the local Shoney’s Restaurant before the Baptists and Pentecostals down the road got all the good seats — showed reasonable restraint in their wardrobe choices. It was a small price to pay for the chance to spend an hour or so holding hands in one of the back pews. With text messaging, Facebook and on-line dating websites still years away, attending a Sunday evening church service was still one of the best places to catch the eye of a pretty girl or an eligible young man.

As most every Sunday evening since June 1959, Preacher Earl Freeland was on the stage of the Portsmouth (VA) Christian & Missionary Alliance Church preparing to deliver the sermon the Lord had laid on his heart — a message he had prayed over, studied and jotted down on not much more than a scrap piece of paper. But first he took time to enjoy the singing. Preacher Freeland often thanked the Lord for blessing his church with what was arguably the best music program in the Tidewater area. Or the entire world, in his eyes. In fact, several church members and groups — among them Chuck Conti, Delores Taylor and the Alliance Trio — had recorded gospel albums. To this day, I still sometimes sneak out to my workshop and listen to their cassette tapes. Or at least to the ones that haven’t been eaten by the old stereo player I picked up at a yard sale years ago.

With the music portion of the service complete, Preacher Freeland rose from his chair on stage, straightened out his pants legs, and strolled to the pulpit. It was his most favorite place to be, and he commanded it with the meekness of a lamb and the protectiveness of a mountain lion. Like so many times before, Preacher sensed the Holy Spirit permeating the sanctuary that evening. Lord, we sense your presence in an unusual way tonight. We believe Thou has come to speak to our hearts. Help thy servant to obey Thee in all Thou hast said. And I pray there shall be listening ears and hearts that need that which You have said. I pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen. After that heartfelt prayer, he opened his Bible and read the first 14 verses from Psalm 107: Oh give thanks unto the Lord for He is good… He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death and broken their bands of sunder.

With the scripture reading complete, Preacher Freeland began what certainly promised to be another one of his surprisingly simple yet deeply profound sermons from a man who could literally preach the paint off a barn. And then he stopped just as abruptly as he had begun. I doubt there was a believer or non-believer, saint or sinner, who didn’t feel the warm touch of the Holy Spirit enter the building during those precious few moments. And then, almost apologetically, Preacher spoke. I must do something that I do not do very often, and have not done, and I think my wife can testify to that, very often through the years of my ministry. While I was sitting on the platform, God spoke to my heart. I had another message prepared out of this Psalm tonight. But God has instructed me and I want to share with you my testimony. I believe there is someone here who especially needs to hear what God has done in my life — maybe to encourage you to trust Him a little bit more. I was born in a little town in West Virginia named…

His father, Earl Marquis Freeland, was from Monumental, WV. Although informally trained as a mechanic, his dad was determined to find his fame and glory — and fill his pockets with a few extra coins — as a minstrel actor in a Vaudeville show. Preacher’s mom, Mahalia, meanwhile banged out saloon songs on the piano in a competing traveling act. Since both groups played the same small mountain towns, it was inevitable the two would meet. It was love at first sight and Earl and Mahalia quickly married and settled in the tiny railroad town of Cunningham, WV. The couple was still seeking their big entertainment break when on April 10, 1916, Earl Walter Freeland, Preacher, was born. His parents thought he was just about the prettiest 10-pound baby boy they had ever seen. Many years later, Preacher would admit he couldn’t remember if somebody had told him that or if he’d simply made it up.

Preacher’s only real memory of his parents’ Vaudeville act occurred at about the age of five when his dad gave him a small part in their act. He would run onto the makeshift stage with a bundle of newspapers yelling, The woods are full of them, the woods are full of them. At some point his dad would then ask, Full of what? Standing as tall and as proud as possible, Preacher would yell in his best theatrical voice, Full of trees.

Remembering even further back, Preacher recalled first learning about the principles of sharing at the age of two or so. It came with the birth of his sister, Florence May (Babe). Like any good big brother, Preacher took Babe under his wing and actually looked forward to the times when his mother was busy and he would have to look after his baby sister. More times than not, he would take her bottle, crawl under the bed, and drink the milk. You talk about an undernourished baby girl. Preacher also remembered becoming a master mud pie maker at an early age. He and his hooligan friends — none older than four or five — would spend hours making the mud pies and then climb on top of a shed or up a tree. Our favorite targets were the straw hats on the men who walked by. There wasn’t a clean straw hat in the county.

For the first few years of his life, Preacher had the curliest and most resplendent red hair in the county. But this unruly mop of mane piled on top of a cherubim face belied the fact that he was, as anyone who lived within 10 country miles of him would agree, plain snake mean. Still, that red hair and angelic face caught the attention of a traveling photographer who, after getting permission from Mahalia, took Preacher’s picture. He then entered it into a beauty contest and, wouldn’t you know it, won first place. Preacher’s red locks might have been cute to most folks, but not to his Uncle Dick. One day, while babysitting with Preacher, Uncle Dick took him to the local barber shop and had his head shaved as bald as a cue ball. And then something strange happened. The hair started growing back brown and as straight as Cupid’s arrow. Stayed that way. With my background in Vaudeville, if my hair had stayed red and curly, I might have become quite famous in West Virginia.

With two small children to raise, Preacher’s parents reluctantly decided there wasn’t enough money in show business to pay the bills. As luck would have it, his dad heard about a job in Texas working on an oil rig. I guess he thought he was going to become an oil baron or something, ‘cause he loaded us up when I was about five and we headed for Texas. That was a grand adventure for a boy Preacher’s age. Soon after they arrived, his dad found work as a tool maker on an oil rig named the One-O-One. He later became an oil well digger on the ranch, one of the first such operations in Texas.

So the early 1920s found the Freeland clan living in a company-owned shack. There was a large field of broom sage between the house and oil rig, and Preacher spent many hours playing in the front yard or just sitting on the porch. Although his dad walked a path through the broom sage to work every day, Preacher had never ventured into the tall, bushy beard grass. That all changed the day his mother decided to make a big plate of fudge. Thinking it would be a big treat and even bigger surprise for her husband, Mahalia wrapped up the fudge and told Preacher to take it to his dad at work. Life was pretty boring, and Preacher jumped at the chance to see the oil rig up close. The journey started out splendidly until Preacher realized he had somehow left the path and was lost in a huge field where all he could see was broom sage taller than he was. I can’t remember how long I wondered around in that dumb broom sage, but I do remember I had no idea where the oil rig or our house was. I started yelling and crying. I must have had good lungs because someone finally came and rescued me. But there was still one problem. When he was finally found, all Preacher had in his hands was an empty fudge plate. I must have lost that fudge while I was wondering around. Of course, a piece or two might have been lost in my mouth.

Although life in Texas was mundane at best, Preacher made the most of the couple of years he spent there. It was during this time, in fact, that he owned the only official pet he ever had. I had me a great big rabbit that I kept in a box in the house. I think dad caught him in a trap. One night my rabbit was making so much noise thumping his tail against the box that my mom couldn’t stand it. She let that thing out of the box and I never saw it again. Boy, was I disgusted. That rabbit was really something special, really fast. I don’t remember giving my rabbit an official name. I think I just called him Jack.

It only took a couple of years for Preacher’s dad to figure out he probably wouldn’t be the next Anthony F. Lucas. So his parents decided it would probably be best to move back home to West Virginia. Although he was in Texas for only a short while, Preacher often thought about his experiences there. Especially the day he spent alone and afraid in the broom sage. It was the first time in his life that he had felt totally lost. And though his parents had never taken him to Sunday School or church, he decided God must have let him be found for some untold reason.

When they arrived back in West Virginia, the Freelands were plum broke and could not afford to pay for a place to live. With nowhere else to turn, they moved in with his dad’s father in Barrickville. Preacher’s grandfather was a blacksmith and the days and nights spent in his home were happy ones. Not too long after returning, Preacher’s dad found work in the nearby Number 7 coal mine. It was time to start a new chapter in Preacher’s life.

By now Preacher was old enough for school, a small one-room building that housed grades first through fifth. It didn’t take long for him to realize recess was his best and favorite subject. Preacher loved the big merry-go-round that was in the school yard. It consisted of a wooden board laid on a tree trunk with a rusty bolt running through it. So much for expensive playground equipment. One day the boys got carried away playing on it and Preacher wound up with a deep cut on his left index finger. The scar never went away, and the story of how he got it took on a life of its own over the years.

One of Preacher’s favorite hobbies as a youngster was catching june bugs — small beetles less than in inch long that got their name because they would emerge in large quantities early each summer. Often Preacher would put his prized collection in a fruit jar and carry them to school. Some of the other kids would sometimes do the same, but to Preacher, catching these winged, hard-cased insects was a passion. So much so that he picked up the nickname June Bug. It was a moniker his friends in West Virginia would call him by for the rest of his life.

Just before his 13th birthday, Preacher started attending regular school in Barrickville. Miraculously he had made it to the sixth grade and the students had a classroom all to themselves. It was about this time his parents finally were able to move to their own house at the coal mine camp. His dad, who had started out working in the mine as a blacksmith, had become a master mechanic. The coal mine was flourishing and had become the largest coal-producing outlet in West Virginia unearthing nearly 3,500 tons per day. The mine employed 1,700 men and if you lived anywhere near the area, you probably worked there. The entrance to the mine was located in a valley flanked by two large hills. It didn’t take Preacher long to find out if you lived on one of the hills, you were the bitter enemy of anyone living on the other. There were daily scraps