7. Into the South

© 2019 Daniel Yordy

Returning to Oregon
Although my trip back to Oregon was filled with joy, something happened along the way that marked that fellowship. As I was riding the Greyhound bus south through Pine Pass, I was filled with such joy. Inside that joy, the Lord spoke to me, “You are My son.” 

After arriving at the Prince George bus station, however, I was standing in the large central waiting room with my stuff. There were a number of people in the room, although it was not packed. Suddenly, without warning, the fear of the Lord came upon me with intensity. I was trembling from head to foot, terrified of the Holy. I did not want anyone to see me in that state so I ran to the only private place I knew, a closed toilet stall. I sat down on the closed toilet seat to face whatever was coming. 

It was the same as the morning of the day I received the full release of the Spirit with speaking in tongues two years earlier. It was as if a sharp bony finger was pointed straight at my forehead, and I heard the words, spoken with great intensity, “Will you surrender all that you are to Me right now?”

Who can give answer to the Almighty? There are times when one does not even say, “Yea” or “Nay,” We close our mouth and are silent before Him. I managed to get out a terse, “Yes, Lord.” The fear lifted, and I continued on my way. The sweet peace and fellowship continued, but with a deep soberness underneath of it. 

I want to position this experience first, and then I want to give you a way to understand this seeming dichotomy between the truth of Christ our only life, even when we did not know such a thing, and the dealings of God in which He requires our willingness and the giving of thanks through great trials even for years. First, I don’t care about “theology,” but only about knowing this mighty Person who tells me to call Him, “Father,” in spite of the fact that He is far bigger than me and to be feared. We know His love only inside of our regard for His fear. Yet the fear of God leads only into living inside of absolute Love.

God establishes everything through two or three witnesses. The first time I experienced the demonstration of the Spirit with power was as God planted His Seed of giving thanks inside of me at age 15. The second time I experienced the demonstration of the Spirit with power was as God planted His Seed of asking and believing that we have received the fulfillment of His Word inside of me at age 19. Yet that second time was also attended with the fear of God and the bony finger and the demand that I surrender all to Him. 

In my reading of the Annie visions, which I will introduce later in this chapter, I received this understanding of the Lord’s ways. God does not control anyone, nor does He force Himself or compel anyone to love or serve Him. Yet God does have this right, that at a certain moment in a person’s life, He is free to take a meaningful acceptance or rejection of Him and to seal a person for this present season into that decision. With Pharaoh, it was to hardness of heart, but with those whom He has chosen, it is that one, “Yes, Lord,” that resonates at the depths God requires.

It seems to me now that when I said, “Yes, Lord,” the first time, God placed me on probation. But when I said, “Yes, Lord,” that second time at age 21 in the Prince George bus station, God sealed me into that decision. That is why, from then on, no matter how much I cried, “No, no, no,” no matter how much I fought with God and tried my best to be rid of Him and to go my own way, it never worked. He never paid attention to any of that, but continued right on as if I was actually in full agreement with Him.

You see, I was about to enter twenty years of immense pressure and difficulty, contention, confusion, glory and grief, without the knowledge of Christ my life that is so precious to me now. I see now just how important these foundations of God would be in my life, both the planting of His Seed with power deep into my heart and His contention with me Forehead to forehead.

If God had not done so, you would never have heard of me for I would have nothing to share with you otherwise.

In the diagram below, I give another picture of how I now understand this great dichotomy between Christ living as me through every moment and these years of what can only be called the “deep dealings of God” in my heart and life.



Christ our life is the only thing that has ever been true. It was He all the way through, and as I call every moment of my life into His Story of me, I see NOW just how true it has been. The problem was I did not know any of that then. And God cannot just tell us, for we are given to pretending and to using anything at hand, including God, to abuse other people and to exalt ourselves. Our human psychosis is too great for God to spring His knowledge on us in the way that He really IS. 

God has to draw us out of our self-thinking step by slow step until we can know His Christ-thinking which has been the only thing true. Except – that’s how we see it, but that’s not really what is happening. Consider this diagram of two paths.

The bottom path is the only true story of my life; the other path is the steps of my blind stumbling into the knowledge of what is already true. Where they come together is the beginning of my knowledge of Christ my life, and now I am always with Father through Jesus, regardless. As I walked through this seemingly split-path of my perceptions, I knew everything as the dealings of God with me. And that knowing is very important, for Jesus must win my heart.

BUT – here is what I discover after a season of walking with Father as one together. I discover that “God dealing with me,” though important, was only how I perceived things. In reality the only thing real that was ever happening in my life was the shaping of my human heart to contain and to reveal the Heart of God All-Carrying. 

And in the shaping of the human heart to contain Father’s Heart, it is the Father who takes the mightiest blows. You see, that finished Hheart, my heart and Father’s Heart together as one, is the Mercy Seat formed by the beating and beating of hammers. Father’s Heart is always beaten in order to fit the shape of my own human heart far more than I, being pressed beyond measure, was being shaped to fit His Heart.

This joining of Heart with heart is the only thing meaningful taking place in the present age.

Now, I am sharing all this because I am about to open up an eight-year period of my life that I have rarely shared from in these letters. And as I open up these experiences of great difficulty, I want to know them in one way only, as the shaping of Father’s Heart to fit mine and the shaping of my heart to fit His. There is no other treasure I would have.

A Time of Discontent
There is a whole lot of stuff packed into this short three-month space back in Oregon before my next grand adventure. I went right back to work with Jimmy. Andy was no longer around, and I saw him seldom after that. 

One of the first things I did was go down to the Lebanon Airport and sign up for private pilot lessons. The very moment the plane flown by Brother D had lifted up off the runway at Graham River with me in the back seat, I was in love with flying small planes. I started with the instructor right away. I took naturally to the task and after seven hours with the instructor, he thought I was ready to solo. That first solo was quite an experience, one which I did successfully live through, but I was not willing to go up again by myself until after three more hours with the instructor. Then, my second solo flight was much smoother. I flew as far as the Pacific in one direction and up to The Dalles on the Columbia in the other direction. I did not start ground school, then, until I had already begun to solo. I was well on my way to a private pilot’s license except my discontent sent me down the road before I finished it, and there was never again the opportunity to do so.

I also connected with a family in Albany who had known Jim Buerge, Don and Collette Manes and their two sons, Donny and Jerry. During my times in Oregon through the late seventies, I spent many evenings in their home in Bible study and fellowship. Mark Troyer also came to their fellowship times. His brother, John Troyer lived in the communities in BC with his family. My times of fellowship with the Manes’s were rich. I also soon went up to Portland most Sundays for the services of the group there that were part of the same “move” fellowship as the communities in the north. I would visit after the services with David and Kim Johnson in their home. David was the primary elder in the Portland group. Portland was about seventy-five miles from my parents’ home. I did not go up on I-5, however, but up the east side of the Willamette Valley, through Stayton, Silverton, and Oregon City. I became very familiar with that route over the years, including the long drive home after dark, which will factor greatly in the next chapter.

In May I rode down to the California convention in Van Nuys, California, with a sister from the Portland group, Kay Wallace, and her two young sons, Howard and Michael. Howard would spend five years in my English classroom at Blueberry, but I did not know that then. 

Brother Dural and Sister Ethelwyn were at the California convention, so I visited briefly with them. Brother D shared with me that the move fellowships of the eastern United States under Brother Sam Fife’s ministry had taken on the large task of building a community and convention center at a place called Bowens Mill, Georgia. Since Bowens Mill plays a large part in this history, let me recount the circumstances of its formation.

The same conventions that I went to at Hidden Valley and Headwaters were also held regularly by that fellowship throughout the world. The many traveling ministries went from convention to convention in a regular circuit that brought them to the same place at the same time each year. In the east, there had been an April convention in Canton, Ohio, then July in Miami, Florida, and October in Montreal, Quebec. As these conventions grew in size, the costs for a meeting hall, food, and lodging had also gone up. Brother Sam set many important things in place in the practice of that fellowship. One was a corporate ministry. We rarely had services in which fewer than three people ministered the word, including in the conventions. And the pulpit was always open, even to those who may not have been part of the fellowship. At the same time, there were no costs for attending a convention, except for getting there. All the costs of food and lodging came out of the offerings during the convention services. If you had, you gave; if you did not have, you could still attend freely.

At the same time, the largest community in the move at that time, a Christian community at a place called Sapa, Mississippi, was forced, by circumstances, to leave Mississippi. A large property had become available at Bowens Mill, Georgia. For that reason, in February of 1978 more than a hundred people from Sapa and elsewhere in the South had moved into a trailer-house community at Bowens Mill and were in the process of building a convention center where the April, July, and October conventions could be held at a much lower cost. 

Without explaining any of that, Brother D suggested to me that they sure could use builders to help get the convention site finished by the upcoming July convention.

Meanwhile, back in Oregon, I was caught between two things. On the one hand was a word of the revelation of Jesus Christ inside of me and on the other hand was a complete discontent with framing houses for people I did not know and a spiritual life that seemed to be going nowhere. I went with my parents a few times to charismatic services. At one such occasion, in Portland, I sat listening to a robed choir singing praises to God with great joy and in a lovely anointing. As I sat there, I could hear Sam Fife’s voice as a loud crow cawing in my ear. Yet I knew that the word I had received from God through Sam Fife’s ministry was the word to which I had begun to commit my life. I closed my ears to the siren’s call of an easy Christianity and held to that Word I had received.

During this time, I read the two most important books in my life besides the Bible, both of which my mother possessed. The first was I Looked and I Saw Visions of God, edited by Ed Miller. The visions in this little book, seen by a young girl named Annie under Ed Miller’s ministry in Argentina, caught my heart in their power. Every word I had heard in the move fellowship was confirmed to me mightily by these visions, particularly those visions that showed God planting of Himself into the lives and hearts of His chosen ones. To be one of those was more important to me than my breath, yet I had no idea how it could be so. The other book was Hind’s Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard. The journey of Much Afraid step by stumbling step has always given me hope that my Savior would also carry me through all my inability into knowing Him.

In early June as I was nailing the plywood onto a roof, my discontent became too great. I threw my hammer down, said “Goodbye” to Jimmy and headed home. I’m not one to dilly-dally, so in a day or so I said “Goodbye” to my parents and headed down the road again. This time, it was into the South.

A Long Trip to a Strange Country
I had bought a big old white Buick for $200 from my brother in law, Tim Louden, during this time. It had a strong engine and ran well. I headed up Highway 20 over Santiam Pass into eastern Oregon. Except – something happened I was not expecting. For the first time in my life I felt and heard something inside, an incessant voice that would become as familiar to me as anything. I heard – “NO!”

Now, I have said that I have never won against the “No’s” of God coming against me, restraining my way, bringing me to humbling myself and admitting my mistakes. That is true except twice. This was the first of those two times. As the “No” became unbearable, driving up over the Cascades, I would pull over for a bit, then keep going. The wrestling inside was fierce. Move community was life and adventure and the immediate knowledge of God and of the anointing and back home in Oregon was dullness and fleshiness and going nowhere at all. I did not know God well, and I was determined to know Him better, and I knew that I would never know Him at all if I just sat in Oregon in nothing. I could not turn around. Yet the “No’s” continued through the stretch south to Nevada. In the end, my obstinacy did prevail and the “No’s” slowly died away. I kept going, into what fire and affliction I did not know.

A straight line from Oregon to Georgia, would be a shorter route, but it would not include the Alamo. To drive within 500 miles of the Alamo and not visit it was inconceivable to me. So – my route had to include San Antonio, Texas. At the same time, I left with only a hundred dollars. Even in 1978, that was not enough money. So, my first destination was Phoenix, Arizona where my sister, Frieda, and her family, Tim, April, and Ryan, were living at that time. After a detour through Death Valley, I arrived in Phoenix, which was at 112 degrees F. The summers of 1978-80 were much hotter than anything today. It was the first week of June.

I spent a couple of days with Tim and Frieda. I mentioned that I had no more money to continue my trip, so Tim gave me $150. Later, I got in trouble with my dad, who had just sent them that extra money for their own needs. Ignorant of that fact, I headed east. I did spend an afternoon at the Alamo. I had read the story many times, but I was disappointed because the charge of the Mexican army was now a wide boulevard filled with cars. It was hard to re-picture the story. But I did check out the places where Jim Bowie and Davy Crocket had died.

Crossing the border into Louisiana was a very strange experience. Going to British Columbia in Canada was the same country to me. There was little difference between BC and Oregon. But the South was a strange and foreign country. I had no air conditioning, so my windows were down. As I drove across the vast humid swamps of Louisiana, I thought my engine was going to pieces, but when I pulled over, the loud grinding noise of the Cicadas kept right on. Everything of the South was DIFFERENT to this Oregon boy. It was a strange land.

I had the address of Buddy and Dorothy Cobb who lived a couple of miles before the Bowens Mill community. In the late afternoon, I stopped at their house. Dorothy was the only one there, but she directed me down to the service taking place that evening. She called ahead, and so as I arrived at the Bowens Mill community, Brother Pat Stafford came out to greet me. A new adventure had begun.

Below is the original Bowens Mill building. They were filled with people when I arrived.



My First Season at Bowens Mill
It is normal and expected in the move fellowship to go through a lengthy process of communication and confirmation of witness before showing up at one of the communities. I often paid no attention to that process, including this time. Yes, it raised some eyebrows, I’m sure, but my gentle spirit, my willingness to accept and to tackle anything, and the fact that I was a skilled builder opened the door to me every time. I have always plunged into any kind of adventure.

Bowens Mill was different than anything I had ever known. The people were different, the climate and vegetation were different, the food was different, the talk was different, the ways of doing things were different, the buildings were different, and the approach to construction was different. Yet I found the same Spirit and the same word that I had found at Graham River, the same open arms, warm smiles, and willing acceptance. I was back in community.

I placed a picture of the original Bowens Mill buildings on page 54. They are quite old. Originally this was a gas station on the left, a motel on the right and a community hall in the center. When I first arrived the community hall was the Tabernacle and meeting room and the motel was filled with families. Behind the motel and to the right of it was an open field filled with trailers of every sort. 

Although there were people who had moved there straight from New Orleans, Miami, and elsewhere, most of the people at Bowens Mill were from the Sapa, Mississippi farm, a community that had a distinctly different view and practice. Sapa was a “deliverance” farm, a place to which troubled people could come to find help. 

Brother Pat Stafford met me as I came up to the porch. The service was soon finished and I was directed to an empty bed in the men’s dorm, one of the many trailers behind the motel. Several of the brothers in the men’s dorm I would come to know later. Don Pettis was the “example,” the term given at Sapa to a non-elder in charge of others. Two that I spent some of my off-time with were Lebron Tucker, a tall, strong, epileptic man with a willing heart and smile, and David Knowles who was venturing into the plumbing trade.

This was my home for the next three weeks and through the first convention at Bowens Mill. We had all our meals in the central building in the picture. I remember finding breakfast cereal on my plate for lunch. They did not have sugar with it, so I compensated by putting jelly on it. I had no idea why people ate unsweetened cereal. Only later did I learn that grits are different. I remember Bambi Hinson encouraging me to eat more, even after I was stuffed, to “keep up my strength.” John and Bambi Hinson were the primary ministries of the Sapa group.

Sapa had been big on lots of meetings of every kind, so most evenings I was either in a service or a Bible study. On some evenings there was a choice as to which Bible study to attend. I gravitated towards one given by a gentle and anointed woman elder from the Mississippi farm by the name of Roberta Mack. I enjoyed her teaching.

A Fifteen-Year-Old Girl
One time, as several of us were sitting on the benches on the front porch of the community hall, a fifteen-year-old girl came up the steps of the porch carrying a big pot of soup that had been prepared elsewhere. I stepped up to her and offered to take the heavy pot. She did not smile or say anything, but she let me take it on into the serving counter. 

I learned later that her name was Maureen, the youngest daughter of Claude and Roberta Mack. She was elegant, gentle and kind. Twelve years later she would walk down the aisle to become the most important part of my life.

Working on the Convention Site
The work on the convention site was managed by a brother named Don Billingsley who led a crew of many men, young and old, skilled and unskilled. By the time I arrived, the main Tabernacle frame and roof had been completed, although the screen all the way around, the doors, and the sawdust floor were not yet in place. The Tabernacle was 100 feet wide by 150 feet long. It could hold up to 1500 people. A large platform for the ministry was being built in the middle of one of the long walls.

My first task was to build the doors and to install them and the screen all the way around. I worked with an older brother named Tony Materick. He was a kindly gentleman from Ontario, Canada. 

The slabs for the kitchen and the men’s and women’s bathrooms were being poured. It was above 110 degrees F through these weeks. I remember Lebron mixing concrete, stopping every little while to take his t-shirt off and wringing cups of sweat out of it. There was no air-conditioning, only fans in the trailers. That’s why the Tabernacle was open all the way around with board-and-batten siding on the bottom half of the wall and screen on the top half. 

A group of African-American men showed up to lay the cement blocks for the kitchen and bathrooms. They were led by an older gentleman, a true man of God, who was called Noah Nothing. I will refer to him as Brother Noah. His son, Daniel Bryant was also there. I was about to learn that Brother Daniel was one of the mightiest preachers I have ever been privileged to hear. Brother Noah had a church in Douglas, Georgia. Brother Sam loved to preach in his church, and they loved to hear him.

When we were finished with the screen, I was moved over to the task of framing the roofs for the bathrooms and kitchens. By this time it was seen that I was an experienced builder as well as a construction leader, so I was mostly in charge of this part. At the same time that we were framing these roofs, other men were bringing in truckloads of sawdust and spreading it out for the Tabernacle floor. The kitchen roof was the last roof we did. As we were framing it, storm clouds moved in. Everyone ran for cover. I stood on top of the wall laughing at them. “In Oregon, if we don’t work in the rain,” I said, “we don’t work.” No one paid attention. The first drops hit, way larger than any rain I had known. It’s twenty-plus feet from the corner of the kitchen to the Tabernacle doors. When the first drop hit me I leaped to the ground. By the time I made it under the Tabernacle roof, the water was flowing two inches deep on the ground. It was a bit more than normal, but I was introduced to a different kind of rain.

On July 4, I was finishing the tin on the kitchen roof. (In the move we paid zero attention to any “holidays” except to place the conventions when people were getting off work.) It was 115 degrees F. The tin had to be on the roof. A thousand people would be showing up the next day for the convention, and they needed a place to eat. No one else was willing to brave the heat coming off the bright tin. I have always felt a sense of responsibility, however, which is why I was given charge of work crews early on. So I would get on the roof, throw a piece of tin into place, hammer the nails into it, and jump down back into the slightly cooler shade. I did that over and over. The roof would leak a bit, but it was finished by the end of the day. Other men brought in the kitchen stoves and counters the next day even as people were arriving for convention.
Move of God Conventions

July 5-9, Wednesday evening to Sunday afternoon, I experienced my first convention in the South. These conventions became a huge part of my life and of the shaping of the word inside of me. I would guesstimate that I spent around 1600 to 1800 hours of my life in the praise and preaching of these conventions. When Sam Fife was still alive, the conventions were around 45 hours of praise and preaching over several days. They shortened in length over the years, but they still remained times of penetration and shaping out from the power of a third feast word, that is, a Feast of Trumpets word, calling God’s people towards the soon-coming fulfillment of Tabernacles in the life of the Church.

All the conventions have pretty much merged together for me, so I don’t typically remember what I heard when. I just know that it was always mighty in God and that the word always went all through my soul. Nothing in any other realm of Christianity I have known has come anywhere close, not even a little bit. I sat in my chair, hour after hour, caught intently inside a vision of God among His people.

I would come to know personally most of the men and women who preached in these conventions. Many would play a large part in my life; all were examples to me of integrity and devotion to God. All gave of themselves utterly for the sake of the kingdom, that God’s people might be established in the truth. I may understand some things differently now, but I was not connecting to ideas or theology, but to God. These ministries were different than any I have known before or since. There was no such thing as any “one-man-ministry.” There was no “I-am-the-pastor” identity. The leading ministries in the move lived in the communities, in the cabin next door, one of the brothers and sisters right along with everyone else. I have stayed in their homes; I have eaten many meals with them. Nothing was hidden; no one was “superior.”

Not all of those who preached in the northern conventions came to Bowens Mill, but most of those who did preach at Hidden Valley and Headwaters were also there. At the same time, there were a number of new faces at Bowens Mill. I want to recount some of their names.

Brother Dural and Sister Ethelwyn, with whom I had lived at Graham River, both preached in the conventions along with Eli Miller, also from Graham River. Sam Fife preached, of course, as well as Buddy Cobb, originally from Hollywood, Florida, but who lived in another new community two miles down the road from Bowens Mill. There were Herb and Janet Myers – Herb was killed in a plane crash that summer of 1978, but I had heard him preach twice up north. There were Milton and Bonnie Vereide, who both preached in the conventions; they eventually lived at the Smithers, BC, community. John Clark, then from Hidden Valley, Joe McCord who has lived at the Lubbock, Texas community from then until now, and Tom Rowe from Atlanta were also primary ministries in the move. Many of these brethren were hilarious, and we laughed a lot. Brother Noah and Daniel Bryant both preached. John Hinson always preached in the Bowens Mill conventions, but he rarely went north. Don Stockbridge and Gary Shamblin were younger but deeply anointed ministries with fascinating messages as well as John Jeffries from the Haines, Alaska community. There were ministries from England, New England, and throughout the south, speaking in strange accents. 

It was hot in the July conventions, of course, although the temperature dropped ten degrees the afternoon the convention started. Most everyone spent the services waving a fan to blow air across their faces. I determined that the effort required would produce as much heat as was being dissipated. I learned simply to ignore the heat.

When the convention was over, as people were still mingling after the last service, Brother John Hinson came up to me. “Brother Sam asked me if any good builders might be willing to come to the Citra Farm in Florida to help with the construction there,” he said. “I mentioned you, and so Brother Sam said to ask.” And so I got ready to drive to Citra. 

The Citra Community
I arrived at the Citra community in the second week of July, 1978. Citra is a small southern town, just outside of Gainesville, Florida. At that time it was orange grove country, but frosts since then have moved the oranges south. I lived in the Citra community for four months. The fairly large property had been owned by Brother Noah Nothing; in fact, it was where he grew up. He had given it to Sam Fife for a community. Citra would be Sam Fife’s community, although he did not get to spend much time there before he died. His wife, Lee Fife, lived there for many years. John and Bambi Hinson also had a small dwelling there and spent time back and forth between Citra and Bowens Mill. 

In the main house, a small southern house that had belonged to Noah Nothing’s family, there lived an older couple who were called “Ma-mo” and “Pa-po.” Ma-mo was an elder, but Pa-po was something else, a bit cantankerous, but good-hearted. Another elder was Howard Snodgrass who lived in a house next door with his family. Besides these married couples were a number of single young people, men and women, who had gathered there to help prepare a place for many more who were hoping to move to Citra. Art Jehle, a ministry in the move, and his wife, showed up a few weeks later. They came with a small travel trailer.

John and Bambi Hinson had differing ideas of how community should work than most others in the move. Their communities were much stricter than any others, and life was much more regulated. This was fine with me, although some of the particulars could be difficult. The move communities were never legalistic, however, as so many introverted groups become. One of the practices, coming out from Sam Fife, however, was that women wear dresses and men wear short hair and no beards. On the other hand, Sam Fife promoted women in ministry, along with many other non-legalistic things. The issue for Brother Sam was “the flesh.” He had no tolerance for “fleshy things” like swimming pools and air conditioning, etc. He also held a strong line against the rebellious practices of that time and the demonic forces behind them. I just read an article from Vigilant Citizen this morning that confirmed that he was not wrong. Far worse things are now common in our world today.

Two young men showed up one day wanting to join the community. Both had long hair. Brother Sam sat them down at a picnic table and spoke with them. When he was done, Kurt went to town and got his hair cut, a precious brother in the Lord whom I knew for several years. The other young man I never saw again. Yes, I do believe that God places moments like this in our lives. The tree of life is a thorn tree and only those who desire to know the Father above all will dare press themselves up through the thorns to get the life of that tree.

There were three places for the several of us young men to sleep, on mattresses in the front porch, on bunks in the second bedroom of the house (Ma-mo and Pa-po had the other bedroom) and a small travel trailer in the back. Brother John Hinson wanted to keep the young men at the Citra Farm from sinking into “self-identity.” So he instituted a rotation. We spent a week in the front porch, a week in the bedroom, and a week in the travel trailer, rotating around each time. 

I am now an opponent of such thinking; you will find the opposite concept in Symmorphy V: Life. But let me ask this question. How could I learn what was the Lord and what was not except I experience many things? I can say that never once in my years in community did I see any morally wrong practice, only sometimes quite misguided ones. This was a misguided practice; it prevented us from ever feeling at home.

Some of the brothers with whom I lived and worked were Lloyd Smith, an African American brother who gave me wise counsel concerning relating with blacks that I had never learned in Oregon. Another brother was Scott Risley. I don’t remember most of the others. 

Through most of this time I led the construction of an addition to the main house, about doubling it in size. This large room would become the meeting and dining room of the community as well as an extension of the kitchen. Later some brethren came down from Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Dallas to help build some larger family buildings in a back area of the property for families wanting to move to Citra. I worked with them some in pouring concrete. I became good friends with Al Danduran, his wife and, and his son-in-law, Billy Sims. 

Citra was a good place for me overall. I was learning much, both in the Lord and in construction. It was in my spare time at Citra that I began the practice of writing out whole books of the Bible. Actually, someone had a typewriter, so I typed all the verses I wrote out. Typing is even better than writing for seeing the word entering into your understanding. At the same time, it continued to be a time of learning what was not appropriate in relating with other people. I could be a bit dense and even offensive at times. Ma-mo was a wonderful teacher in this regard; she was always trying to teach Pa-po to be kind, but she never succeeded. 

Knowing how to walk together in harmony is not something anyone is born with. All of us must learn it, and the learning is very often painful. “Christ as me” never gives us the excuse to be rude and crude or to treat people badly. Treating people badly is something we have to learn not to do. For instance, Lloyd had to take me aside and let me know that “negro” was a word that was very hurtful to him. I appreciated that counsel, but it was not always easy to discover that I was being a pain in the rear.

While I was at Citra, a number of the young people there had the privilege of attending a rural, southern, Holy Ghost-filled black church associated with Brother Noah. The congregation welcomed us with open arms, escorted us down to the front rows, and we participated in one of the greatest experiences of my life, a worship unlike anything I had known.

Sam Fife
Sam and Lee Fife came to Citra in early September. Brother Sam was there as part of the community for about two weeks. There was a small building behind the main house that was just a bedroom. This was where John and Bambi stayed when they were there. Since they were back at Bowens Mill, it’s were Sam and Lee stayed.

Sam Fife never allowed anything to be written down regarding his life and ministry. He was so adamant about it that his wife, Lee Fife, continued to refuse permission to anyone to write a history of Sam Fife. We accept Christ living as our brother, yes, but this was an unfortunate fetish. At the present time if you go looking for information on Sam Fife online, you find only terrible reports, none of which are true. I reject any testimony about any Christian ministry that does not come from someone who walked closely with them over years. All the evil reports about Billy Graham and Joel Osteen, or about this Christian group or that, are just that, evil and false. 

But no one ever told me not to write about Sam Fife, so I will. Here is an account I wrote for a college paper while I was at Blueberry. This gives an important, but idealistic view of Brother Sam. In the next chapter, I will give a differing view.

A Character Sketch of Sam Fife
He was a short, wiry, funny-looking little man, about five feet two or three inches tall. He had wavy white and gray hair and a rough, drawn face, very Scottish. He was usually dressed in casual unpretentious clothes – corduroy pants and a plain work shirt. Upon first meeting him he did not seem like much, sort of a vacant look on his face, a preoccupation with something obviously other than the person to whom he was speaking. He was not the kind of man to whom one would give much notice, sort of an absent-minded eccentric, a man who did not have his feet fully planted on this earth. His wife constantly followed him about, seeing that he did not forget to tie his shoes or to take his toothbrush along with him or to comb his hair.

Yet upon closer observance, one was struck with the depth of strength and even fire that was in this man. Disdaining trivialities and “how are you doing today,” he had within him a bulldog determination that awed everyone who met him. One knew unequivocally that this man knew who he was, where he was going, and how to get there.

He was a man who loved judgment, who embraced judgment, who went out of his way to bring judgment into his life. He tried never to travel alone, even when accompanied by his wife. Always he would ask someone else to go with him so that his life was open and visible. Always he stayed on his knees before God. He would travel day and night, ministering the word, counseling, praying through the night, rarely stopping to sleep, never stopping to find his own pleasure. He would go a thousand miles out of his way to minister to a handful of saints. He had one view in life, the revelation of Jesus Christ.

It was when he stood up to speak that the quality that made him different became readily apparent. He spoke with authority. He knew the vision God had given him, he believed it with all of his heart, he had committed his life totally and irrevocably to its fulfillment, and that was all there was to it. His utter faith in the word that he preached could not but strike the very center of his listeners. His words demanded a decisive reaction; no one could hear him passively. Some that heard him speak found their lives totally re-oriented. They found themselves selling their belongings, forsaking their homelands, the only way of life thy had ever known, moving to far distant places, and adopting a far different lifestyle. Others who heard him speak rejected his words utterly, yet that word still left a mark upon them.

He opened the Bible like no one before him. He spoke of marriage union with God, of sitting in the throne of God, of being made just like God. He spoke of overcoming sin and putting death under our feet, of driving all the demons out of this earth and setting all creation free. His words were stirring and penetrating, permeated with the anointing of God. Though he himself has since gone to be with the Lord, his words continue today, alive in the hearts of those who heard and believe. He spoke also of a people who would love one another in this age, and there is no greater proof of the authenticity of his life and message than to see today, over eight years after his death, the firstfruits of that love in the lives of many who had loved to call him, “Brother Sam.”

~~~

You can see from this description the source and the determination of so much that I teach. I truly want to give as full an account of this man, who influenced me more than any other, as I am able. It was his intensity that showed me face to face what I had seen from Madame Guyon and Rees Howells from a distance, that a man could know God and walk together with Him. The truth is, the things Sam Fife taught that I do not bring into the present word I share, are of less significance in my present understanding. Yes, a lot of people ran into great difficulties unprepared because Sam Fife did not know our present union with Christ, preached a false version of the cross and was not always gentle. That was wrong. But as I have said, the thing important to me was a man connecting with God, and that is what I remember.

Sam and Lee arrived at the start of the real garden season in the south. Planting a full garden in September was something new to me. But Brother Sam was a worker, and he had us all out there planting our food for the coming months. Seeing the “leader” of a movement numbering upwards of ten thousand people hard at work in the garden, or walking in his pajamas from the bathroom in the house to his bedroom out back was unusual in the realms of “leadership.” 

We were putting siding on the addition to the main house. Sam Fife wanted used painted-tin on it because we already had it from tearing down some buildings. Neither I nor the elders were in agreement. We wanted to match the siding that was on the rest of the house. They knew Sam Fife too well to raise the issue, so I was elected. When I made our argument, Sam Fife paused, then turned and walked away without saying anything. That evening, as he got up to preach, he spoke respectfully of our request. But then he presented a vision of giving all to the kingdom that was so clear and so inspiring that all I could think was, “Thank God for used painted-tin.”

One time Brother Sam stepped into the young men’s bedroom to talk with some of the brothers. The topic was the move communities in Columbia, South America.  His eyes and his face glowed with the passion of absolute devotion to the Church of Jesus Christ and to her gathering together in community that I was simply enthralled. If you have heard me sing, “If I forget thee, Oh Jerusalem,” you must realize how I have asked God to grant me such a heart for His people. 

Most of the brothers and sisters went with Sam Fife to a meeting in the fellowship in Daytona Beach where he was ministering. There were quite a few groups throughout Florida, indeed all across North and South America, in England, Africa, Australia and Taiwan. For the drive home I was available, so Brother Sam had me ride back with Sister Lee and himself. There was not much conversation, but he always made sure his life was an open book.

Many of us from Citra then went up to the second convention at Bowens Mill, October 4-8, 1978. It’s too hot in July, but October is the best time of year in the South. This was one of the most anointed times I have ever been privileged to attend. I have never known the Fire, the Purity and Power, the immanent Presence of a Holy God cut all through my heart and soul than listening to Sam Fife preach, prophecy, and pray during this convention. At this convention, I spent most of my time on the front row. 

At the same time, a black brother from Jamaica was also there, by the name of Lester Higgins. Lester Higgins preached a word of union with Christ now. The power and anointing that was upon him and that word were as great as any in the move conventions. His words went across the congregation like lightning. I watched Sam Fife’s face filled with joy and expectation at the hearing of such a word. I was deeply moved.

Returning to Oregon
I returned to Citra after the October convention in the front seat with Pa-po. Riding that distance with Pa-po was an experience like no other. I feared for my life every mile. You know we made it safely because I am writing this now, but it was only just. After a week or so, I realized that I did not feel at home at Citra. At the same time, my longing to return to Graham River Farm only grew. When I shared that with John Hinson, he said little more than, “Well, thanks for giving us your time here.” He did ask me, however, if I could do one more task on my way. I was more than happy to comply. 

That task was to stop at the former Sapa community in Mississippi, which had not yet been sold, in order to tear down a building and load the materials on a truck to be sent back to Citra for the building needs there. I readily agreed. Scott Risley, a young man around my age, cheerful and easy to get along with, went with me; he would drive the loaded truck back. We left probably by the end of the second week of October. 

I spent about a week at the former Sapa community. Most of the core buildings were still there. Most of the people had lived in trailer houses which were gone to Bowens Mill, but there were two large dorms, the Tabernacle and school, as well as a smaller “dorm” that was more like a lodge. Jim and Joyce Fant had remained at Sapa with their daughter, Mary Ruth, to caretake the place until it could be sold. This was the first time that I met them. We had a wonderful time with them. Jim and Joyce would play a very large and positive role in my life. 

After Scott and I had torn down one of the large dorms and loaded the material onto a truck, we said our goodbyes. I drove my Buick the long road home to Oregon, stopping at my brother’s place in Nebraska for a few days along the way.