Editors Note: This is the last writing Norma Gillming provided to the Baptist Bible Tribune. It is a reflection on the life of her husband, Ken Gillming. It was originally published in April 2014.
Peace.
Room 101 in Boca Hospice by the Sea was serene, and the patient in the bed occasionally opened his eyes, and when he did, he smiled. I knew where he was going, and this was one time in 65 years I could not go with him. Kenneth Gillming, tired and fatigued, was reaching the shore of heaven.
But I remember when fatigue had no part of him. He was a farm boy, up at dawn. He and his dad had a large farm, planted with wheat, corn, barley, and oats. One day an evangelist came to a small country church and preached a message of salvation by grace alone, and half the congregation was saved, including Ken and his whole family.
I met him at a district youth rally. They were organizing a new group, and we were both nominated for vice president and were sent into the foyer while the vote was taken. I won. We often met at subsequent rallies, and — finally — he asked me for a date.
One night, after we had been going out regularly, he said he had something important to talk about. Not marriage. It was about his call to the ministry. He was sure that would put an end to our dating, but I had been asking God to show me His plan for my life, and I knew that this was it.
We were married, and after graduating from college, we went to Texas and Ken enrolled in Dallas Theological Seminary. We had noticed Dallas was full of seminary graduates who had never left town. Ken determined that as soon as he finished his degree we were headed into full-time ministry. Our Fellowship pastor suggested we apply to teach at Baptist Bible College. We went to the May fellowship meeting and met with Dr. Vick, but there was no opening. We went back to Dallas.
We were frantic. June turned into August, and still no open doors. Finally, a friend wrote telling us churches in Canada needed pastors. It really wasn’t an open door, just slightly ajar, but we packed up and headed north.
Ken preached every week in different churches in Ontario. They were all very nice, but no call was extended. Since we were not permanent residents in Canada, we could not get jobs, and after six weeks the money was getting dangerously low. Our prayers became more fervent. And then, one Wednesday night, four churches asked Ken to become their pastor!
Ken’s first day on the job he went visiting, a thing unheard of in Canada, and he came home rather discouraged because he had found only two people who promised to come on Sunday. However, come Sunday they were both there with their families. Word got out around the community that things were happening at Bethel, and a year later we built a new building and became the largest church in town.
One Friday morning, R.O. Woodworth, in Springfield, phoned and asked us to go to Detroit to talk with Dr. Vick, who offered us both teaching positions, and we went home to think about it. I wanted to stay at the church, but Ken said it was not about our happiness — it was about the ministry. Where could we do the most for the Lord? The chance to multiply the work through thousands of missionaries, pastors, and pastor’s wives made the decision easy. We moved to Springfield in 1959.
We had been at the college about a year when a senior student stopped by to tell us he was closing the little church he had been trying to start. The church was in our neighborhood. I knew Ken had something on his mind when he said very casually, “It seems a pity to let a church fold right in our community.” He worked weekends to build a church out of a two-car garage. Ken loved to teach, but he loved the pastoral side as well, and so began the odyssey that led to Cherry Street Baptist Church.
Some things about Ken made me love him more every day we spent together. First, there was his utter fidelity. We were there for each other, and though we disagreed many times, we worked it out.
We were there for each other, and though we disagreed many times, we worked it out. Click To TweetSecond, he was the go-to guy in an emergency. He never got rattled but set about solving the problem. It used to drive me crazy when I would complain about something and he would tell me how to fix it. I really did not want it fixed; I just wanted to gripe.
Third, he was tenacious. He never gave up. If he was sure something was right, he was going to keep on. In his ministry, he took part in nine building programs, and he always carried his share of the load. Hard work was no stranger to him.
Fourth, he had a sense of humor. April Fool’s Day was particularly dangerous if you were around him. A grandchild once told her grandpa that she had no sense of humor, to which he quickly replied, “Then I guess you are not in this family, for one requirement is that you have to have a sense of humor.”
Everyone always said he was humble, but what did he have to be proud about? Only that God would use him, and He did until Ken breathed his last on that Thursday evening. The life had been difficult at times, but the leaving was easy.
Peace.
