Cottonwood Point

Papa Yarbrough with his mule, Jackie.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from a writing assignment I did in seminary class. I thought you might enjoy reading it.

By Tim Yarbrough

My spiritual journey and ministry – perhaps like a lot of people – had a very unlikely start. As I reflect on my life and how God has used situations, circumstances and experiences, I see some patterns emerging that He used to mold and shape me into the man I am today. There have been twists, turns and events along the way that, at the time, I did not understand. As I grow older and look in the rearview mirror, God’s hand on my life, His steady guidance, and protection has been unmistakable.

Growing Up on a Farm and Spiritual Influences

My earthy journey started rather humbly in a rural hospital in extreme Southeast Missouri (known by many as simply as the “Bootheel”), near the Arkansas state line. The hospital at Kennett, Missouri, in Stoddard County was one of the closest to the home of my parents near Parma in New Madrid County. It is near Parma there where my father farmed about 300 rented acres of land at the time I was born.

The shaping influences in my life were culture and community. Customs and practices of farmers, and the Southern culture in general, helped shape my view of God, country and Americans. Adults – or “your elders” as they were called – were to be addressed with the respect, using “Yes Sir, No Sir” and “Yes Ma'am, No Ma'am.” Church was to be attended a minimum of three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. If visitation was held on Monday or Tuesday nights, you were expected to be there. Every few months, a church fellowship “potluck” was held that always featured fried chicken, lots of casseroles and everyone’s favorite desserts. Revival services were held annually with an evangelist and music leader coming from a sister Baptist church not more than 50 miles away. And almost without fail during those revival meetings, the town drunk or another local “sinner” came forward – many times only to disappear from the church body within a matter of weeks or months.

My grandfather, Russell Yarbrough, a farmer who never farmed large acreage of land compared to today's standards, was a powerful influence in my life; teaching me spiritual truths, a respect for nature, about God and the workings of the church. Having lost his father at an early age due to a logging accident, Russell had to quit school and go to work to support the family. While he may not have had a lot of formal education, he remains one of the smartest people I have every known. Everyone in my family was expected to work hard and have a strong work ethic.

In many ways, these culture and community shaping influences played a big part in guiding me following my profession of faith in Jesus Christ at age 11; and throughout my teen-age years and on to college and a professional career. Choices I made in my life were greatly influenced by the simple farm culture and rural community of faith. Because of my upbringing, I was expected to know the difference between “right” or “wrong” and make the right choice through the leadership and guidance of the Holy Spirit. There was simply no middle ground. God used these humble culture and community influences to guide my professional career and call to ministry.

Moving to Arkansas and Starting School

Jonesboro, Arkansas, holds many pleasant memories for me, I guess because I lived there during some of my “formative” years, between the age of 7 and 14. I had a hard transition moving in first grade. We didn’t have kindergarten in Risco, so I started first grade in Jonesboro a bit behind the other kids in school. That, coupled with totally new surroundings, impacted my “settling in” greatly. There were several days my stomach hurt prompting me to want to stay home and not go to school. Mom made me go anyway, but I did go to the nurse often and had my mother called several times to the nurse’s office that first year in Jonesboro.

As my grandparents aged, it became increasingly apparent they would need help in getting along. Although he had a mild heart attack when I was a small boy, my grandfather was always the picture of health. Russell was a sturdy-looking man even into his 70s. Standing at 6 feet, I considered “Papa” – as his grandchildren called him – to be a giant. He met his match, however, when my grandmother’s health began to fail. Back in Jonesboro, the moving business our family was involved in wasn’t going so great anyway, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to sell out, return to familiar territory, and start anew. Dad always seemed to have a fondness for the Southeast Missouri area, having been born and reared in the small town of Kewanee near New Madrid on the Mississippi River.

The move back to Missouri in 1973 was particularly hard. Earlier that year, I started junior high in the seventh grade at the historic Annie Camp Junior High School in Jonesboro. The school had probably 500 students at the time I attended it, which was in sharp contrast to the school in the town of Risco, which had 300 students in grades kindergarten through 12th grade.

After returning, I never really felt like I fit in with other students at Risco. Most kids were tied to farming in some way, which at that time still provided a rather nice living for many farmers. While my dad planned to farm my grandfather’s 80-acre farm at some point, his main source of income was driving a truck for Arkansas Best Freight (ABF), a firm from which he would eventually retire.

Age 13 is awkward for all kids I guess. Your body is changing. You’re growing at a rapid pace. Generally, you are gaining more understanding of the world around you. You are seeking independence. Moving to a new school at such an awkward age isn’t fun, but I made the most of it. Fortunately, there was another new kid at the school the year I started. His name was Marty. We soon became friends and stayed close throughout high school.

One of the best parts about moving back to Risco was being around my best friend, Papa. While he was up in years – 78 when we moved there – we were always close. In spite of my awkward age, we would have long conversations about life and God. My grandfather was a very spiritual man. He referred to God as “The Good Lord” and told me to always keep my eyes on Him. I know my grandfather wasn’t faultless during the years I knew him, but I truly believe he had grown to an age of understanding about what life was all about: Living for God.

After we returned to Risco to take care of my ailing grandmother and to help my grandfather, it wasn’t long before things took a dramatic turn. Granny died in the hospital after suffering a stroke and Papa was never again the same. Depressed, he moped around his house, called my parents often and never was the same again. We watched as he went down month after month. Not long after my grandmother died – about 10 months later in the same year – my grandfather died in a Memphis hospital after having kidney stones, with which he had a long ailment, removed. To this day I believe he died of a broken heart. He just didn’t want to go on without my grandmother.