In
the early1970s I had the opportunity to serve two summers as a summer
missionary (aka volunteer, critter) at the Baptist Mission Centers in Houston,
Texas. The Director was Mildred
McWhorter (AD 1930-2018). My dad, Joe
Brumbelow, was pastor of Doverside Baptist Church, 619 Berry Road in
Houston. Joe and Bonnie Brumbelow had a
long friendship with Mildred McWhorter and their churches had occasionally
provided meals for the summer missionaries, often around 30 or more.
I
began preaching in my teen years and Miss McWhorter inquired whether I would be
interested in serving as a summer missionary.
She mentioned she usually did not allow summer missionaries to serve
until they were out of high school, but because she personally knew me and my
parents, she thought it might work out.
I felt the Lord leading and agreed.
I would live at home and just commute back and forth. I was paid the whopping sum of $45 a week the
first summer, and because of decreased available funds, $35 a week the next
summer. This was while I was a sophomore
and junior at Sam Houston High School. I
learned a tremendous amount from Miss McWhorter, the other summer missionaries,
and the ministry there.
I
heard of the time some classy ladies from an affluent church arrived and wanted
to help for the day. Dressed in their
best, Miss McWhorter directed them to a large, overflowing closet that needed emptied,
cleaned, and organized. It was dirty,
tough work. It did not take them long to
feel a calling elsewhere and to announce they could not stay any longer.
Though
there was mutual respect between my parents and Miss McWhorter, she did not go
easy on me. I don’t think she went easy
on anyone. It did not take her long to
find out if a summer missionary was going to work out. But she didn’t ask anyone to do work she was
not willing to do herself.
My
very first day Miss McWhorter took me to a large garbage bin. Not the kind we have that are picked up and
emptied by a truck. This large bin was
made out of plywood. She explained that
a truckload of watermelons had been donated to the Fletcher Street
Mission. They had a watermelon party a
week or two before and had thrown all the watermelon rinds in this outdoor
garbage bin. They were now rotten,
mushy, and smelled terrible. The garbage
truck would not pick them up unless they were put in garbage bags. She handed me a box of garbage bags. A lot of garbage bags. My first job as a missionary was to put the
rotten watermelon rinds in garbage bags, tie them, and place them on the
sidewalk for pickup. No one else to help
me, just me and the garbage bags. Oh,
and I had no gloves, though later I did get to wash my hands.
It
took a long, long while, but I bagged the rotten watermelon rinds without
objection; my parents had raised me right.
After that first day, I think Miss McWhorter decided I would work out just
fine.
I
later got to do other things, dirty and otherwise. I got to teach, preach a little, and do all
types of ministry. On one occasion I was
put in charge of teaching a group of about 55 or 60 kids in a two-week Vacation
Bible School at the Mission Centers. In
all the work we did, we shared the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I’ll always remember my first day and the
rotten watermelons. She had probably
saved them a couple of weeks just for me.
Compared
to what Jesus did for us, rotten watermelon rinds are nothing. If Jesus washed the disciples feet, if He died
for the world, then no job should be beneath us.
By
the way, others called her Miss Mac. I
didn’t. I was too scared. I always called her Miss McWhorter.
More
on Miss Mildred McWhorter
-David R. Brumbelow, Gulf Coast Pastor,
November 19, AD 2018.
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