In the Power of His Spirit

by Neale C. Young

Louisville lay under a blanket of snow, and outside it was very cold, but inside House Beautiful there was warmth, and every young woman along the corridors and in the sun-parlors seemed to glow with radiant happiness. I was the exception, for I was cold and hard as a rock.

I entered the Training School in Louisville in 1918. I had not the slightest idea of becoming a foreign missionary. But I had not been there very long until I became painfully conscious of a “still small voice” speaking to me daily.

It was during World War I, and many missionaries were at home on furlough. Quite a few of these came to the Seminary and Training School and spoke. Each time I listened to one of them speak, that “Voice” and the power of the Holy Spirit grew stronger and stronger, and I was so disturbed by it that I stopped attending the meetings when missionaries spoke. The same was true in my Seminary classes and in the church services, so I left off attending church services.

One Sunday night I was alone in the Training School so far as other people were concerned. I opened my Bible and it turned to Peter’s denial of Jesus, Luke’s account of it. It could not have been more real to me had I been right there.

“So they seized Jesus and led Him away, and brought Him into the High Priest’s house. Peter followed a long way off. When they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard, and were sitting together, Peter sat in the midst of them.” There he denied his Lord thrice. “And immediately—while he was yet speaking—a cock crew, and the Lord turned and looked at Peter.” But the Lord was not looking at Peter that night. He was looking straight into my eyes. Peter went out and wept bitterly. He was sorry. He repented completely.

But I made excuses. I said, “Lord, I am willing to go to Africa—no other field ever presented itself to me in any way—but I cannot go as long as my mother lives.” The matter seemed settled so far as I was concerned, and I slept that night.

The next day, in New Testament class, in studying Matthew 8:21–22 under Dr. Robertson, we read, “And another one of His disciples said unto Him, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father. But Jesus said unto him, ‘Follow Me, let the dead bury their dead.’” I felt that Dr. Robertson was looking straight at me when he said, “Likely that man’s father was not dead at all. It was an excuse not to follow Jesus.” That was exactly what I was doing—making excuses—but I did not change my decision.

It was January 1, 1919, and for weeks the great battle had continued inside of me—a real tug-of-war with the Holy Spirit. Prayer, much prayer, had not availed. It was Missionary Day at the Seminary and wonderful messages had been brought. The Holy Spirit was still knocking at my heart’s door.

On the evening of Missionary Day a praise service was held in the lovely chapel of the Training School. All students, dressed in white, met in the sun parlor for a prayer service before going into chapel. All prayed except me. I could not pray.

But as we lined up to walk down the aisle of the Fannie Heck Chapel, Valeria Green (later Mrs. Theron Rankin) was at the piano, and with the sound of that music my whole nature changed. One of the students led the service, but as I listened to her the Great Power of the Holy Spirit was moving me. He said clearly that God wanted me in Africa. I complained that I could not leave my mother, but He made me feel that I could leave her. As cold as it was outside, I was drenched with perspiration, so great was my battle with the Holy Spirit. Finally I said I was willing to go to Africa, but I was unwilling for anyone else to know it. I was satisfied with that, but the Power of the Holy Spirit would not permit that, and He was so strong that He helped me in that meeting to stand up and say that the Holy Spirit had spoken to me with such convincing power that I had made a full surrender of my life, and had committed my life, my ambition, my future plans, and my all for Him to use me in His service in Africa where I had been so unwilling to go.

I am a member of a little country church named Ebenezer. Each Thanksgiving night a service was held and thank offerings were brought in the old-fashioned way and laid on the table. This service was not held Thanksgiving 1918 because of the influenza epidemic, but was held January 1, 1919.

The gifts were more that night—enough to support two missionaries on the foreign field. My brother stood in our little church saying, “We have money enough to send two missionaries to the foreign field, but we are not satisfied. Let us pray that those two will come from our own membership.” As he spoke, I was likely standing in the chapel of the Training School offering my life to God for His service. That year Ruth Pettigrew was appointed to serve in China, and I went to Africa.

From that day to this the Holy Spirit has been my constant companion. Across the forty-one years that I served in Nigeria I was always sensitive to the leadership of the Holy Spirit. In the long, tiring walks in the heat of the African sun He made it possible for me to reach my destination; in times of danger He gave me courage. When circumstances seemed too difficult to bear He helped me be able to laugh and be happy. It was the power of the Holy Spirit in the hearts of the African women that made them able to say, “I count a day lost when I have failed to help someone know Jesus a little better.”

It was the Holy Spirit within me who has given me humility, happiness, and power to accomplish things in His name.

Neale C. Young
P.S. This testimony was written by my beloved great-aunt, Neale C. Young. She is the reason I carry the name Rebecca Neale, and the reason my daughter carries the name Neale Covington. My grandfather, Fred Young—her brother—was the one she mentions raising money in their little church for missionaries. He had no idea that the very sister he loved would be one of the missionaries God would call.