Trinidad My Home My People

woke up with a start. I had been sleeping in my duplex on the expansive gated property of the Texaco Oil Company in Trinidad, West Indies. A male intruder was shouting out his evil intentions, “I’m going to rape you! I’m going to rape you.” I tried desperately to fight him off. It was 3:30 a.m. but no one seemed to hear my cries for help.
My childhood dreams did not include this kind of struggle. Back then, and alone in the woods, I envisioned the day when I would take my little New Testament and tell dark-skinned boys and girls overseas about Jesus. I certainly never envisioned having to fight for my very life . . .

But first I really want to take you on a trip back to my childhood. So come with me as we visit Preston, a village in western Washington. Thirty miles east of Seattle, just off Interstate 90, Preston is one of those beautiful forested villages all but hidden from view of travelers zipping by. Each year Old Man Winter drapes his white mantle over the surrounding Cascade Mountains.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century this village came into being mainly through an influx of Swedish immigrants. Prominent at the edge of town in early years was the smokestack of Preston’s one sawmill, the main source of employment for the men of the district. Also in the early years the little Baptist Church poked its spire above homes that were nestled nearby. Built in the year 1900, this place of worship remains as the only church in Preston.
Respected and known by most of the community, my father, Ronald Johnson, was foreman of the mill and along with my hard-working mother, Mabel, they made a formidable team. My dad, with his handsome face and tall frame, was not only a man’s man, he had a wonderfully gentle nature and knew how to work. Mom was a devoted wife and homemaker, known for her Swedish breads and rolls. Dad always had a garden and Mom canned much of what he grew. Solid testimony was attributed by the townspeople to the faith of both Mom and Dad. One of the mill workers declared, “There is only one man who can talk to me about being a Christian. That man is Ronald Johnson because he lives what he preaches.” At Mom’s funeral several people voiced similar sentiments concerning mother’s simple trust in the Lord.
After three girls blessed the Johnson home, Dad prayed, “Heavenly Father, please grant this next little one to be a son to grow up with our three daughters.” The parents were a wee bit disappointed when I, the fourth member arrived that 25th day of August in 1928, but very quickly that disappointment was replaced with love and joy over this very active addition. Dad insisted that the new baby bear her mother’s name. Together they felt she should be called Edith Mabel. “Just maybe she might be our missionary,” they agreed. Little did they realize their fifth one would be a son and Earl would become the preacher of the family. So the Johnson roll call eventually numbered six children: Marjorie, June, Lois, Edith, Earl and Roger.
Growing up in Preston where people in the village knew each other, where doors didn’t get locked at night, and where many of the Scandinavian population spoke little English, there was a real sense of community—they all took part in raising us children. After supper the kids played on the street and were called in at dusk.