She was so frightened when she awoke she didn’t know what to do first. She told me about the dream and asked me to interpret it for her. Then she burst into tears. She already guessed what the dream meant. “Last week,” she wept, “I would have laughed at that dream. For some reason today it’s not funny. O Lord, I’ve been so proud.”
She dressed and left the house before even eating breakfast. I caught a streetcar and arrived in church just before the service began. Taking a seat, I looked up at the altar, and there was Jackie on her knees praying.
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The Lord allowed me to help several other black people from the South come north to get better jobs. I wrote to Margie regularly asking her to come to Detroit, but she flatly refused to leave Dad, who was old and sick.
Jackie and I were thrilled to be able to help our people who were still trapped in the poverty and bigotry of the South. We were able to send clothing, food, money, and help to those who wanted to come north. The employment manager at General Motors told me that he’d hire as many Blacks from the South as I sent in. I was able to help over thirty men from South Carolina get good jobs in Detroit. It brought back familiar memories as they arrived in Detroit. Illiterate and knowing little more than farming, they were like scared, lost children. Our upstairs apartment was always in use by these friends.
In August of 1945 the war was over and there were headlines in the paper saying that 22,500 blacks had lost war jobs. We trusted the Lord this far to take care of us, and we would continue to trust Him. As in the Depression, the streets were lined with more and more unemployed men and women.
Many colored boys fought in the war and died for their country, but many of those who returned were refused jobs because of the color of their skin.
“My black body was good enough for that U.S. uniform,” one soldier named Bill told me bitterly, “but I better not put it on a stool in a white lunch counter in Alabama! I just gave three years of my life so the white man could keep the war going.”
I had begun to feel a real burden in my heart to serve the Lord in a deeper way. I was restless, uneasy. I sometimes stayed up all night praying and writing in my journal. My job did not satisfy me any longer.
I often went to the train depot to talk about a loving God to the men who inhabited the benches. The cavernous depot, bustling with activity, was filled with people with no place to go. They sat staring at the passersby or sleeping in corners. They were worn out, hungry, and without homes. I sat with them and tried to tell them about a Savior who cared for them, who wanted them to know Him.
In those days after the war ended, there was little money around. One bleak morning I went to work to find that I didn’t have a job anymore. I had been laid off, too. Times got pretty rough for us then, and many days saw us without bread on the table. Jackie and I went across the river to Canada to buy meat. A chicken cost us $4.50. Eggs were 25¢ apiece. We were forced to eat the way I had eaten in my days as a slave—corn bread, grits, salt pork, chitlins.
Somehow I just couldn’t get despondent. I was quite sure now that God was calling me to serve Him as a minister.
If there was any sadness in my heart, it was because of the way the churches were milking the people for money. Some churches were taking as many as five offerings during the service. And the pastors weren’t taking care of their people. Widows who had given money to the church all their lives were going hungry and had nobody looking out for them. I shed many tears over the state of the church as I saw it. It hurt me deeply to see the people so badly neglected.
There was an unused piano downstairs and now without a job I’d go down and try to teach myself to play. I wasn’t exactly popular in the neighborhood, but I had an urge to play music for the Lord.
In 1947 the Lord began to speak to me about leaving Detroit. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Jackie. She had long ago decorated our place with nice furniture, and she was proud of the fine things we owned and the fine home we had.
I was worried about my lack of education, and I wasn’t sure if I was capable of serving the Lord as a minister. One afternoon when I was painting a neighbor’s garage, a sudden terrible pain threw me to the ground. The pain was so awful I couldn’t move. I was taken to the hospital and the doctors said it was a sprained back and they put me in traction. Then one afternoon when I was alone in the room, I felt the Lord’s presence and He began to talk to me. He said, “Why don’t you want to do what I have asked you to do?”
He continued, “I will give you the words to speak and the works to work. I will direct your way.”
I decided there in that hospital bed to place all my lacks in Jesus’ hands. The reverence I had for education, credentials, and personal talents was His, too. If the Lord could use this poor, half-deaf man with a speech problem who wasn’t too smart, that was His business, not mine.
Jackie came to see me that evening and I told her, “I’m healed. I’m going home tomorrow morning.” She thought I was crazy. But the next morning when the doctors came around, they examined me and said, “We can’t figure it out, but there’s nothing wrong with you.” I was taken out of traction. The inflammation and pain were completely gone, and the doctors told me I was well and could go home.
A few days later we went to Lima, Ohio, to a revival meeting. Some sisters were talking after the meeting, and I overheard them mention a place called Bucyrus, Ohio. The name of that town kept going over and over in my mind. I could hardly sleep that night.
Back in Detroit, I told Jackie not to wait up for me and I went to the ticket office in the bus depot and bought a ticket to Bucyrus, Ohio.
I got off the bus at the square in the small town of Bucyrus. It was a cold afternoon, and the wind was blowing down the quiet, clean main street of the town. I saw no black faces. As I walked around, I noticed many shops selling something called bratwurst. I went into a sandwich shop on Sandusky Street and ordered bratwurst and coffee. I discovered it was a delicious German sausage. The people in the restaurant stared at me strangely. I wondered if they had ever seen a black man before. By nightfall I was back on the bus heading for Detroit.
There was certainly nothing momentous about the trip. In fact, there was not a thing special about it. Maybe I had expected God to open the earth or appear in the treetops, or maybe I had expected a welcoming committee of holy angels. By the end of the day I think I would have settled for a friendly hello from any old stranger. There were no signs from God, however, and no indications of any kind that the Lord even knew I was there. Still, I felt this was the town He wanted us to move to.
“Jackie, sit down, honey.” The house was quiet, and outside in the darkness of the night there was a light snowfall spreading across the city. Jackie wrapped her bathrobe around her and sat down at the kitchen table. I poured hot coffee and smiled at her. She had a look on her face that said, “OK, what’s the bad news?”
“We’re leavin Detroit,” I said. “I believe we’ll be movin to Bucyrus, Ohio.”
Jackie was still for a moment. “Robert Sadler, whey your mind is?”
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In February of 1947 I left Detroit for Bucyrus, Ohio. I rented a room, had a telephone put in, and took out an ad in the newspaper to clean carpets and upholstery. I received so many calls I could hardly handle the work. In three months’ time Jackie was able to join me.
I tried to get a job as a machinist but I was always turned down, even though I was qualified and had plenty of experience. One day a white man and I were in the employment office at Swan Rubber. We got to talking and discovered we were both applying for machinist work. When I went in for the interview the personnel manager told me the jobs were filled and there were none left. The white man who went in after me got the job and was told they were still hiring.
I tried to get a job at Timken Ball Bearing when they advertised for men, but when I applied they said there were no jobs. The same happened at Ohio Crane. The only jobs I could get were cleaning toilets or pushing a broom. Finally I g
ot my gumption up and carried myself to the office of the vice president at Swan Rubber. I told him I needed a job and I gave him my qualifications. I told him if they was hiring whites, they must have openings. The vice president sat in his big chair listening to me and then he went to the personnel office and insisted they hire me at the plant.
I stayed on that job and years later a new white personnel manager was hired at Swan Rubber and he was sympathetic toward Blacks. He told me that he would hire any Negro I sent to him. I traveled to the neighboring towns of Crestline, Marion, Fostoria, Wyandot, Galion, Mansfield, and Tiffin with the news, and the man kept his word and hired the men I sent.
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We stayed in Bucyrus for four years and in August of 1951 we packed the car with our belongings and moved to Clemson, South Carolina.
I got a job as a baker in the kitchen of Clemson College, even though I didn’t know a lot about baking. Jackie worked in the college laundry.
Jackie and I loved children and we had none of our own. We began a children’s Bible class and thirty children came every week to these meetings. Then we were invited to have a children’s radio program, so each week we brought a group of children to the radio station for our program. We sang mostly, and Jackie told a Bible story in her sweet, gentle voice.
Jackie wanted the Lord to help her be a blessing to others and she complained to me one morning before going to her job, “Honey, I’d sure like to lead someone to the Lord. Seem like I just never get the opportunity.” You see, Jackie and I knew that the only way to live a life worthwhile or in any way with hope and dignity was to have a deep relationship with God. I nearly died without Him, and Jackie’s good and decent life was without the fire of love. What I called love before I gave my life to God was more like need.
———
That morning at the laundry Jackie was praying with a lady friend and she prayed for people who were lost without God. A man was walking by the laundry door and he heard her praying. He began to cry. Minutes later, he walked into the laundry and turned his life over to the Lord.
I took Jackie to nearby Anderson for a visit. This was the last time I saw my father. He died a few months later.
Buck and Corrie Moore were living in Anderson, not far from Margie. They lived in a run-down shack just like everybody else in the neighborhood. There was an arbor of ivy over their walk leading to the broken wooden steps, and along it grew honeysuckle and roses. I couldn’t wait to see them again. I ran into Buck’s arms, and we rocked, embraced, and carried on, promising we’d never lose touch again.
Things in Anderson were not good. Many of our people couldn’t get jobs. The good jobs went to the white men, and the Negroes had to take the lowest and dirtiest jobs for the least pay. Many black men worked two and three jobs just to put enough food on the table.
Very upsetting to me was the number of cults that black people were trapped in. Charlatans who professed to be God, or God’s “prophet,” were exploiting the people. One such man was Daddy Grace. They even worshiped his picture and forked over their money to his cult in hopes of receiving his blessing. Witchcraft, voodoo, and Satanism were very dominant among the black people of the South. Sound Bible teaching was needed because the devils behind the cults kept people in bondage, kept them sick, poor, and miserable.
I wanted so much to help my people. I cried out to God night and day for them. I wasn’t afraid of the white man. I refused to bow and say, “Yes, Cap’n. No, Cap’n.” But many of the people in Anderson were still doing it. They didn’t know they were supposed to be free.
Someday, Lord, I prayed, I’ll see black people and white people living together and worshiping a wise and good God as His children. Someday I’ll see us sharing the world and respecting each other. Someday, Lord, there’ll be an end to the wars in men’s hearts. . . . Oh, someday, someday, Lord, it won’t be like this no more.
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“Do you love me, Robert?”
“Yes, Lord!”
“Will you help my people, Robert?”
“Yes, Lord!”
“Will you feed the poor, clothe the naked, comfort the mourning—?”
“Yes, yes, Lord!”
“Will you go without food? Without a place to sleep? Will you be content with want as well as abundance?”
“Oh, I will, Lord!”
“Will you trust me?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll trust you, Lord!”
“Robert, go. Minister in my name. I am with you.”
It was many hours before I stumbled out of the living room that afternoon in Clemson. I had been praying, asking God to use me in a greater way, and God had spoken to me. I knew in the deepest part of me that He had called me as a minister even with no education and no formal training. I had a big love in my heart and soul for Him and I was willing to do anything and go anywhere for Him.
I was forty-one years old, and it was nearing Christmastime of 1952. I was laid off at the bakery and looking for work again. I strolled along the Clemson College campus, passed Tillman Hall with its big clock tower, and I prayed to the Lord. Here I is, out of work again, Lord. Where shall I go? Where shall I go? I met one of the men who worked with me in the bakery, and we walked together under the broad arms of the oak and white cedar trees. He told me they were hiring in Birmingham, Alabama. I went home, packed a grip, kissed Jackie good-bye, and drove to Birmingham, singing “Thank you, Jesus” all the way.
I got a job working on the railroad on a tie gang, and when that ended I found work painting houses. One day coming home from work, I saw two scrubby little boys standing at the edge of the road. They were dirty, needed haircuts, and wore shoes without socks or laces.
The Spirit of the Lord spoke to me and told me to talk to them. “Why don’t you put some laces in those shoes?” I asked them.
“Because we don’t got no money,” they told me. I took them to the store and bought them some shoelaces and told them to ask their father if I could give them a haircut.
That night the pastor of the church I was attending told me to stay away from this family. “The father is an evil man,” he said. “He hates preachers, and he’ll stick a knife to you just as soon as look at you.”
“Well, praise the Lord,” I said. “I’m going over there first thing tomorrow.”
And I did. “I’m a minister of the Lord,” I announced when a surly looking black man opened the door. “I’m the one who bought your boys shoelaces.” He said nothing. “I told them to tell you that I’d like to cut their hair.” I smiled at him. “For free.”
He stepped back, squinting, and said, “Come on in.” I walked into a dark, cluttered room with beer cans, dirty clothes, papers, dishes, and toys piled everywhere. He closed the door behind us.
“You a minister, hunh?” I nodded, still smiling. “Hold it right there then. Before you cut my boys’ hair . . .”
My heart began to pump faster. What was he going to do? He had the most evil look about him.
“Before you cut their hair, would you—would you—?” He fidgeted and lowered his eyes. “Would you—pray for me?”
If my jaw fell and my eyes bugged out, the man didn’t seem to mind. “Of course I’ll pray for you,” I said.
I didn’t cut just one boy’s hair, I cut the hair of everyone in the family. That family bowed their heads and let me pray for them. I explained how Jesus loved each of them and wanted to give them strength and wisdom and an overcoming life. They each prayed and gave their hearts to the Lord that afternoon. Later I stayed and helped the mother clean the living room and wash the dishes. We had a song and prayer meeting there that lasted most of the night.
I stayed in Birmingham a couple of months, and then when work ran out, I went back home. Jackie and I had a couple of weeks together, and news came that there was work in Asheville, North Carolina. I packed my grip and traveled to Asheville.
The only work I could find in Asheville was shining shoes in a hotel. In a couple of weeks I found extra work do
ing gardening, painting houses, and then digging ditches. I knew that God was fully aware of my situation; He saw that I couldn’t get skilled work even though I was qualified. He saw me shining shoes hundreds of miles away from home in order to be a man and support my wife. Nothing escaped His eye.
I knew that I would be of no use to the Lord if I allowed myself to be bitter. “I trust you, Lord; I know you’re with me.” I told myself to start being grateful and to enjoy the hilly, beautiful town and its people.
I stayed in Asheville a couple of months, and then the Lord told me to return to Bucyrus. Happily driving along the highway, I could see the Paris Mountains, splendid and dusty in the distance, and I saw glassy lakes, streams, lush forests, and rolling hills.
The wisdom of the Lord in placing us in northern Ohio was geographically perfect and a blessing to us and to my ministry. I arrived in time to receive a job offer that would allow me the freedom to travel and minister.
The job for us in Bucyrus was on a large farm just outside of town. We were provided with a little house to live in and a small salary for cleaning the big house, keeping the yard, and doing general handyman jobs. We stayed there until 1955.
I started getting calls to come minister in town and in other towns nearby, and even some far away. The Lord usually sent me to small groups—home meetings, struggling churches, hospitals, and prisons. Many times He would send me several miles away for just one or two people who were in need. I ministered to as many white folk as black folk.
Often while working in the yard or painting a house I would hear the Spirit of the Lord tell to me to go somewhere or to help someone in need. I would try to get alone as soon as possible so I could pray, be quiet, and wait on Him for direction. Many times I had to wait for a day or two. I fasted, prayed, and read the Bible, listening for Him to tell me where He wanted me to go. Then when I knew He had spoken, I would prepare to leave.
In 1954 I was asked to hold some meetings in St. Louis and Potosi, Missouri. The Lord had blessed me with a portable pump organ, and I took it with me to Missouri.
The Emancipation of Robert Sadler Page 22
