Called! Step by Step

2015 June Hall McNeely. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse -04/21/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0746-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0745-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Preface

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Appendix 1   Names And Honorifics

Appendix 2   June’s Recipe for Brownies

Appendix 3   A Brief Account of the Acquisition of the Property in Denia

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

To Gerald – partner in life, partner in ministry –

and to

our daughters and their husbands:

Linda and Rusty,

Marsha and David

FOREWORD

I became acquainted with the legacy of June and Gerald McNeely in the early 1980s when I was a seminarian working for the Western Recorder , the newspaper for the Kentucky Baptist Convention, and became engaged to their youngest daughter, Marsha. As I was covering a Kentucky Baptist event, Chauncey Daley, who was editor of the Western Recorder, introduced me to a group of prominent Kentucky Baptist pastors by saying, He’s engaged to the McNeely girl. They beamed approvingly, giving me instant (though unjustified) celebrity.

When I met June and Gerald a few months later, I found they pretty much lived up to the legacy.

The McNeelys, of course, never intended to be legends. They simply intended to be faithful to take the next step in God’s plan. Over the course of their lives, sometimes the step was a small one, taking a pastorate, learning and implementing lessons along the way. Other steps were bigger – even ocean’s length – to tell the Gospel’s story to people who had access only to state-sponsored religion.

While through the years I’ve heard most of the stories in this book, I’ve never heard them in context as June narrates them here. The episodes of persecution, disappointment, small and then larger victories are so much more vivid, moving, and inspiring when set against the backdrop of a dictatorial regime fixated on eradicating dissention. This book often moved me to goose bumps and even tears. Honestly, if I weren’t already appointed, I think I’d become a missionary. I was truly sad when I got to the end, feeling that I had lost something.

This is an inspiring, vital, and instructive work. While many of us look at the enormity of the task and are overwhelmed by it, the McNeelys exemplify being faithful to do the next right thing, surmount the upcoming obstacle, and take the next step.

Gerald and June are the missionaries all newly minted missionaries think they will be on the night they are appointed.

David Smith

Missionary

PREFACE

A stroke? I’ve had a stroke? Then that must be why I can’t move my right hand and arm, or my right leg."

I didn’t know where I was or how I had gotten there. I did remember that I had fallen at home and I did remember hearing a key in the lock. I remember being lifted from an ambulance and thinking that several other patients were on gurneys behind me.

I stayed in the hospital for five days, but I have no memory of that. Then I was transferred to a rehab facility. I remember hearing someone say, That one won’t leave here alive. I remember thinking that one was the person on the gurney following mine. (Later, I was told that I was the one the nurse had been talking about and there was no gurney following mine.) My family rallied around me and provided loving support. I am especially gratefully for my brother, Keith, who regularly drove almost sixty miles to sit with me and feed me.

The rehab facility had excellent physical therapists. To them, I wasn’t just a patient. I was a person with feelings. I will always think of those therapists with gratitude. They helped me regain the use of my right hand and my right side. (A previous stroke had left damage, so that was not my first experience with the humbling feeling of helplessness.)

My therapists encouraged me to write as a way of retraining my right hand. My family encouraged me to think of memories that I might want to share with them. They felt that would give me something concrete to focus on. And they were correct.

And so, four years ago, that is how this book began. Over these last four years, as I was writing I thought I was recording events and stories to be read only by my family about my growing-up years in Stanford, Kentucky; my college years; my years as a pastor’s wife; and my thirty-three years with Gerald as a Southern Baptist missionary in Spain. And so, with that in mind, I wrote and wrote, eventually filling more than 120 pages with my handwritten remembrances.

Then something happened. My family began to tell me that my story needed a wider audience than just my family. They began to tell me that my story could help young men and women who are struggling with God’s claim on their lives. They told me that how I had responded to God’s call to international missions would inspire other believers to follow God wherever He leads.

My random memories first recorded as therapy became the basis for CALLED! Step by Step. My prayer is that God will use this book to bring glory to Him. To that end, I give it to Him and I leave how He will use it in His hands.

June Hall McNeely

Age 90

Louisville, Kentucky

April 2015

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

And lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

and He will direct your paths.

Proverbs 3: 5-6

ONE

W hy did you go to Spain? Over the last fifty-eight years, Gerald and I have been asked that question dozens of times and we’ve always given the same answer: The decision was easy. God called us there." We’ve never doubted our call, our preparation, or serving the Lord so far away from family.

For many people, the concept of a call from God to spend one’s life in another country and in an unfamiliar culture is baffling. But for those who have experienced that call, it is simply reassuring; it’s not a call to hardship, rather it’s a tender call to something that is a perfect fit. For Gerald and me, throughout our years in Spain – in times of frustration and discouragement as well as in times when we saw ministry dreams fulfilled – we could always return to the certainty that we were exactly where God wanted us, doing exactly what He wanted us to do. Many times over the years we thanked God for His call to us to serve Him in Spain.

I REMEMBER THE exact spot where I was sitting when I first felt that call to be a missionary. I was about twelve years old and was attending a missions meeting for girls (Girls Auxiliary) in our leader’s home in Stanford, Kentucky. As I sat on a hassock near the fireplace and our leader prayed, I felt a strong sense of that’s for me and this is right. Looking back, I don’t think I realized it was a call; rather, I thought of it as a special something.

At my church, Stanford Baptist, in my childhood, loving members had helped me to learn that God loves us so much that He sent Jesus to die for us and show us how we can serve Him. They had taught me that as Christians we are to show love to and share love with others. They had provided many opportunities to study about missions and missionaries in our mission organizations, which I loved. Indeed, they had prepared the way for God to speak to a twelve-year-old girl such as myself. In many ways, members of Stanford Baptist were like extended family. They were strong examples of how to live as Christians.

My mother, Nancy Ratliff Hall, was my most important example and mentor. She was a beautiful Christian who wanted each one of her five children to know Christ and serve Him. Mother was a wise woman who loved her children dearly, and we were secure in her love. To us, she was our angel whom we adored. She not only set an example for us but also often sacrificed so we could have things we needed or wanted. She was a humble woman who was always ready to help others. I grew up with the belief that life is about serving God.

Indeed, Mother had a tender spot for people in need. Because I was born in 1924 and grew up in the middle of the Great Depression, I often saw needy people in our town. Men often came to our front porch asking for food and Mother never refused them. She would tell them to wait while she prepared something for them. She would then serve them on the porch. Mother always served them hearty meals and never let anyone go away hungry. Because Mother grew a large vegetable garden and canned/preserved everything she could, our family always had food to eat and share. We also had our own chickens – which provided eggs and meat – and Daddy raised and butchered two hogs each year. And like most people in our community, we ate lots of pinto beans and cornbread.

One day we saw a strange marking on our front gate. We soon found out it was a mark to tell men – tramps, as they were called – who had lost their jobs during the Depression that they could always find food at our home.

My father, John M. Hall, had a heart as tender as Mother’s where hungry people were concerned. One day he told Mother about an elderly black man who lived in a shack near the railroad tracks and suggested that Mother prepare some food he could take to him. She not only prepared food for the man that day but also many times after that. Later Daddy asked if Mother had an extra blanket he could take to the man. Mother gave him a double blanket, which was twice as long as a regular blanket and would have made a very warm covering. (Daddy didn’t attend church with us and didn’t become a Christian until later in his life, but we children knew he loved us and had high standards for all of us. Most often, he didn’t tell us what to do or not to do but he would tell Mother to tell us. Plus, she was the parent who meted out punishment.)

Looking back, I think Daddy had developed a tender heart early in his life. When his mother was dying of breast cancer at about age forty, she had asked him – as the oldest of eight children – to take care of his father and his siblings. Even though he was only sixteen years old, Daddy promised her that he would. Over the next years, he kept his promise, often in remarkable and strange ways. Daddy followed his father to several places around Pikeville, Kentucky, to live and work that he never would have considered if not for the promise he’d made to his mother. Later, he tried to teach his father how to drive but soon gave up and hired a driver for him. At the time, his father owned a hotel in Pikeville and relied totally on his eldest son to help him. He also bought a restaurant near the hotel and depended on Daddy to run it. Daddy was a good cook – and true to his nature – never complained.

IT WAS MY MOTHER’S father, my Grandfather Henry Ratliff, who introduced me to the Bible. When he and Grandmother Mary Hughes Ratliff made their annual visit from their home in Eastern Kentucky, I dearly loved sitting on his lap while he read the Bible to me. I’m sure I didn’t understand what he was reading, but I did understand that what he was doing was important to him and, thus, it should be important to me. His love for Scripture helped me to love the Bible, too. I can still hear him saying, Now, little daughter, this means…. Plus, I knew he loved me.

Many years later, Grandpa went blind. One day I saw Grandmother Ratliff standing outside their bedroom door watching him as he sat by the window, seemingly talking aloud to no one. Oh, Grandmother, he’s talking, I said. He must want something. No, Honey, she replied, He’s just ‘reading’ his Bible. You see, he’d read his Bible so often that in his blindness he could still read it. That put me to shame as I wondered how I could have failed to memorize Scripture as my grandfather had done. (Interestingly, my sister Edna had a similar experience with watching him read" his Bible and hearing Grandmother’s response.)

LOOKING BACK, what I would later understand as the call to be a missionary when I was twelve set the course of my life. At the time I didn’t tell anyone, much less know what its import would be. I thought of it as something very private to be kept in my heart. It never even occurred to me share it with anyone. When I was fourteen, I attended a youth missions (Girls Auxiliary) camp and made a public profession of faith in Jesus as my Savior and Lord. At that camp, I met a real live missionary who was serving in Japan. I was deeply impressed as she told of her life in Japan and talked about the need for the Gospel there. Still, I told no one about the nudging toward missions that I was experiencing.

It wasn’t until about sixteen years after that moment in Stanford that God confirmed my call to missions. I no longer merely had a sense that God had something special for me to do with my life; I had a definite call to foreign/international missions. Between my twelfth year and my twenty-eighth year, God prepared me for what only He knew lay ahead.

For it is by grace that you have been saved though faith –

And this is not from yourself.

It is the gift of God – not by works

so no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship,

created in Christ Jesus to do good works.

Ephesians 2: 8-9

TWO

F amily, church, and school were the three intertwining threads around which life in the Hall family revolved. And in each of those realms, God gave me exceptional mentors – people who helped me see and begin to realize my possibilities.

First and foremost among those mentors was my mother. As I wrote in chapter one, she was an example of Christian love and sacrifice. Many times she reminded me that doctors had told her that she would never have children, but after she and Daddy had been married five years, I was born on Dec. 20, 1924. Mother wanted to name me Beverly after the heroine in a book she’d been reading, but Daddy didn’t like that name and insisted on a shorter name to go with Beverly. Since his name is John, I became June. I didn’t know my first name is Beverly until I started first grade.

I wasn’t to be an only child, for two years later along came Ernestine, followed by Edna one year later, and then Mary Catherine three years after her. Then, after four girls, three years later came a boy – our baby brother, Keith. I was ten years old when Keith was born.

Mother enjoyed listening to Christian programs on the radio and also enjoyed listening to opera on Saturday afternoons. In fact, she usually saved her ironing to do then; she didn’t like to waste time even if it was to listen to something she enjoyed. She was a multi-tasker long before the word was in vogue. When she wasn’t listening to the radio, she often sang the hymn In the Garden as she worked.

Mother loved to read and she encouraged us children to read, too. She also liked to tell us how much she’d enjoyed the spelling bees when she was growing up in rural Pike County, Kentucky, in the heart of Appalachia. Daddy grew up in the same community, and they both attended the same two-room school that housed grades one through eight. Because Daddy was two years older than Mother and was an excellent speller, he thought he was entitled to win all the spelling contests. Mother, however, wasn’t going to let that tall, handsome boy win all of them, and so she – a short, diminutive girl – made sure she won as many as he did. You can imagine how proud they both were when I – their eldest child – began spelling out words and reading advertisements.

Both Mother and Daddy always took an active interest in all their children’s education. When I started first grade, they were almost as excited as I was. Daddy had lots of advice for me, as his oldest child. He showed me how to hold my hands just so on my desk. He told me that when