A Grain of Mustard – Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

You may get the impression from my frequent references to God and from the fact that I am involved in the erection of a religious center that I am deeply religious. 

In the traditional sense, believe me, I am not.

I changed churches as often as homes and there were long intervals when I didn’t attend church at all. 

Yet I know from the experiences I have had that God’s presence is everywhere and that, as the popular song tells us ‘He’s got the whole world in His hand’.

A Grain of Mustard – by Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

painting by Fernand Knopff

I was born May 11, 1930, to Daisy Elizabeth Hanger Francis and Thurmond Sherwood Francis in the bedroom of my Grandmother Hanger's house in Elkins, West Virginia. It was Mother's Day, and a miraculous day for my mother and for me because I was one of the few surviving blue babies of that era. The important thing is that I did live and that I believe I was destined by God to live for a very special reason.
My mother had married my father on impulse when she was seventeen years old. I was born eleven months later before they had really adjusted to each other. Neither was ready for marriage nor for the responsibilities of parenthood.
When I was three months old, we moved to the home of my father's parents, in Henrietta, Oklahoma. I do not recall what the household situation was at that time, because I was too young. But I have been told that my parent’s marriage came to an end when I was eighteen months old. The separation followed a year of bitter arguments that stemmed from my father's drinking and endless affairs with other women.
Grandma and Grandpa Francis tried in every way to convince my mother to remain in Oklahoma because they loved her and me, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. She packed our few belongings and brought me back to Elkins to the home of her parents. My grandmother's house was a typical country frame house and was painted yellow. Today, with an ache in my heart, I hear some of our townspeople refer to it as "the old yellow house."
The ache is in my heart because I have a lifetime of memories in that house, some good, some bad, but to me, that "old yellow house" is the reason for my existence and for my purpose. Grandma's house was a haven for all of her children and their offspring. There were usually more people staying there than the house could comfortably hold, but they always welcome.
At the time my mother brought me to Grandma's in 1932, my bachelor uncle, Mike, was living there, as well as two of my mother's sisters, Aunt Laura and Aunt Bess. Life was far from easy. My grandfather was a carpenter who worked long hours under the most difficult conditions for very little pay. He never complained, however, and even expressed his gratitude for the privilege of being able to keep his brood together. Jobs for women during those Depression days were out of the question, and jobs for men were few and far between.
When I was two years old, my grandfather died, and the burden of responsibility fell on the shoulders of my Uncle Mike. Since Mike earned only seventeen dollars every two weeks, those of us who "boarded" at Grandma's were often dependent upon kind neighbours who shared their food with us. Mama, who had taken to the road to find work sent Grandma whatever change she had left from her pay, but it was pitifully little.
How many times I sat down to stew and gingerbread during my first five years I cannot say. But whenever I would look pleadingly at my grandmother for more food, she always had the same comment:
"Let us thank God we have this."

A Grain of Mustard – Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

 

I believe now that it was through His divine intervention that my mother met Paul Bernard, a railroad stockman.  Paul was considerably older than mama, with a quiet unassuming manner that was as comfortable as an old shoe.  He had never been married and still lived at home with his parents, who treated him as their little boy.  But he was completely smitten by my mother’s good looks, her beautiful red hair and her disarming personality, and after a very brief courtship they were married.  At last I thought, I would have a home.
Unfortunately the arrangement was short lived.
Paul was good to me and welcomed me with the same affection he would have given his own child.  But whilst his devotion to my mother was unfailing, he couldn’t sever the old family ties.  His mother, father, and sisters wanted him at their house every night.  These demands on his time and their criticism of my mother’s domestic abilities soon became a point of contention between Paul and Mama.  Mama sought an outlet by taking a job at the depot news-stand.  The job meant they could spend even less time together, and Mama in her old irresponsible fashion made matters worse by stopping at a club with friends on her way home from the depot.  Her absences from home became more frequent until Paul told her that he couldn’t continue with the marriage.
This put Mama and me right back where we’d started, with no home and no money.  Instead of going to Grandma’s this time we took a small apartment in Elkins.
I was not yet twelve, too young to work and the jobs that my mother could handle were scarce.
There were many nights when we went to bed hungry.

A Grain of Mustard – by Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

One Sunday I joined a group of friends for a swimming party at the State park. While we were there, we met other people our own age, and among them was a young man by the name of Harold Gardner. I remembered him from school, although he had been a couple of grades ahead of me.

 

His nickname was "Spider," and he had been a high school hero, a basketball star who made the All-State championship team. Spider had just returned from military service and hadn't been back in Elkins very long.
Before the day ended, he had invited me to a dance the following Saturday. Torn between my desire to see him again and the pact I had made with myself, I told him I'd think about it. A few days later he telephoned me at the drugstore, and I enthusiastically agreed to attend the dance.

That was the beginning of our two-year courtship, and on March 26, 1948, we were married in a service at the Evangelistical United Brethren Church.
The church made no real difference to me. I had been born to Presbyterians, christened in the Baptist church, had attended the Church of God with my grandmother, and had been bounced from one creed to another. The important thing to me was being married in the sight of God and making my husband happy.

Can you imagine what this union meant? Jeanne Francis, who had never known the feeling of belonging to one person, was at last going to be united with one special being who loved her. Jeanne Francis, who had never known the feeling of real roots, was at last going to have a place to call home.

A Grain of Mustard – by Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

 

I cannot tell you why my mother and I were chosen for this work. My mother was a rolling stone who married three times. She had no fixed religion, no constant faith.
And who am I, Jeanne Gardner, daughter of this rolling stone mother and a father whom I wouldn't know if our paths were to cross today? Jeanne Gardner, to the city-bred a hillbilly, to the people of my town an ordinary housewife and mother of three.
I have seen very little of the world, yet through my visions and the Voice I have been able to prophesy Khrushchev's downfall and Mikoyan's rise to power, the assassination of President Kennedy and later of his brother Robert.
I have been able to help patients declared hopeless by their doctors and to save people who, if they had carried out their plans, would have died accidental deaths. The details surrounding these events will be spelled out as my story unfolds.
I know that I am a very small instrument in a blueprint that was drawn long before my time and that my responsibility to build a Cathedral for all faiths was predestined. My mother told me in 1960, a year before she died, that I would one day have our story published. I am not well educated, I am not a writer, and I could not believe then that my mother knew what she was saying. Yet here I am, having been moved by that unexplainable force to set down the experiences that led to this project.

A Grain of Mustard – by Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

Since I had an Rh factor, there was ever-present concern for my life and for the life of the child I was carrying. Toward the end of the pregnancy I was prepared for the fact that the baby would probably be stillborn; there had been no evidence of heartbeat for several days. However, on August 26, 1956, my precious Barry saw the light of day, and we took comfort with each other.