Copyright © 2010 David Marshall

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-0808-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-0809-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-0807-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010940628

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/19/2010

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Preface

Chapter 1.

Childhood Challenges

Chapter 2.

Commitments

Chapter 3.

Off to Africa

Chapter 4.

Arriving in Africa

PRE-TIMBUKTU

Chapter 5.

To Timbuktu

Chapter 6.

Our Life in Timbuktu

Chapter 7.

Establishing Our Ministry

Chapter 8.

First Furlough

Chapter 9.

Back Home in Timbuktu

TIMBUKTU

Chapter 10.

Building the Mission Station

Chapter 11.

The Niger Gospel Boat

Chapter 12.

The Bookstore Ministry

Chapter 13.

Our Children’s Education

Chapter 14.

Serving By Leading

POST-TIMBUKTU

Chapter 15.

Romania

Chapter 16.

Living Water Project

Chapter 17.

Retirement and Reflections

About the Authors

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Elaine, my wonderful wife of over sixty two years, with whom I shared these experiences and many others; some very difficult, but most joyful, exciting and fun; and also to our three wonderful children each born on a different continent, but all having exciting and fun childhood’s growing up in Timbuktu.

Foreword

I have a special place in my heart for great stories, particularly stories about people who have had an impact on my life. So, when I heard that Dave Marshall was chronicling his life journey I was delighted knowing that many would be blessed. Dave and Elaine are special people in many ways. At first meeting they seem thoughtful, quiet and unassuming. They are kind and gracious, down home sort of folk. They are the kind of people that you immediately feel you can trust and hope that they like you enough to let you into their friendship. And when they do you become aware that you are sharing life and ministry with ‘a cut above’ caliber people. I have had the pleasure of being their pastor, working with Dave on the board of Evangelical Baptist Missions when he was the president and have visited the field in Mali where they served as missionaries. Knowing them through the years has convinced me that their steady undaunted and strong commitment to Jesus and his cause is the real deal.

As you read through these pages you will be inspired by the evident hand of God in their lives. I’ve always felt that you can see God’s hand in life best through the rear view mirror. Dave has graciously let us look in that mirror with him and with transparent candor has reflected on his struggles and successes as he has sought to live and work to advance the work of Christ. I like biographies because I am always challenged to greater heights of living and leadership as I see the strengths of the subject of the book in action. There is a magnetic dynamic about the stimulating reality of a life well lived that moves all of us forward and upward in our own lives. This book will do that for you.

I am proud to be known as Dave and Elaine Marshalls friend. I trust that the story of their lives will be as helpful to you as their friendship has been to me.

Joseph M. Stowell

President, Cornerstone University and Strength for the Journey web ministry, author of numerous books including The Trouble with Jesus, Following Christ, Simply Jesus and You, and Radical Reliance and former President of Moody Bible Institute

Acknowledgements

I want to thank the many people who have encouraged me to share with you the very special privilege God gave to Elaine and me to take the gospel to The end of the earth and preach to wonderful people of Timbuktu who we came to know and love. I would also like to thank my son-in-law Ted Cable for the hours of editing and coordinating with the publishers, Ron and Barb Pierre for their support of this book, and to Elaine for typing the manuscript. Finally, I would like to thank all of the individuals and churches who have shared in and supported our ministry over the past sixty years.

Preface

Many people encouraged me to write my memoirs. I have been hesitant, because I did not believe there was anything important to write about myself. I was a poor student as a child and even at a Bible school. When I first applied to be a missionary, I was turned down. What could I write about that is noteworthy? Then it occurred to me that my story is not about me; rather, it is about how the hand of Lord used me with all of my failures to His glory. Therefore, this book is not meant to be merely a history or a biography but a testimony. After more than sixty years of missionary service and seeing the hand of God work miracle after miracle, I feel an obligation to share with you what God has done and His mighty works that I witnessed over six wonderful decades of serving Him. I trust that through this book you will be encouraged in your service to God, whatever and wherever that might be.

Chapter 1.

Childhood Challenges

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6

I don’t know whether my mother delivered me at Montgomery Hospital or at home at 1332 Markley Street in Norristown, Pennsylvania, but on March 14, 1928, I weighed in at an even ten pounds. I was the third son of James Earl and Emily S. (Furlong) Marshall. My older brothers were Gordon Kenneth and James Donald, and my younger brother was Frank Howard. The last three of us were born within three years and one day.

I assume that my folks were fairly well-to-do, or at least had a good line of credit, as they had nice furniture, and in1929, my father bought a brand-new Pontiac sedan. They had a new beautiful home on the drawing board that was to be built on the corner of Markley and Brown streets. Brown Street ended at Markley, which had a quaint round pond with a fountain in the middle, shooting water into the air.

Down the center of Markley Street, trolley tracks connected Norristown with Allentown. At the terminus on Main Street, the Lehigh Valley Transit Company connected with the P & W (Philadelphia and Western), which was a bullet-shaped high-speed trolley that went to 69th Street in Philadelphia and from there connected to the city’s elevated and subway system.

Our new home had a laundry chute that went from the second floor to the basement. In the basement, my mother had a mangler that she used to iron flat pieces, like sheets, towels, socks, and undershirts. My mother ironed everything until we all got married. Her daughters-in-law finally convinced her that you did not have to iron Turkish towels, underwear, and sheets. We had a wonderful maid, Mattie. We four boys kept her busy.

I was a mischievous kid, and by age four, I was already in trouble. I picked up a rock one day and placed it on the trolley tracks and then sat down on the terrace, patiently waiting for the next trolley to come to see if it would crush the stone. It didn’t—but what it did was derail the trolley. After a couple of hours, a crane was brought to the rescue and lifted it back on the tracks, and it continued on its way. I don’t remember the licking that I received, but it did the trick and I never did that again.

But I did do other things. When I was five years old, I was convinced I could show one of my brothers a new game. Our next-door neighbor had a two-car garage where the doors opened onto an alley. The doors had about forty glass windowpanes, and the alley was gravel. The game we played was to see who could break the most windows. We could not even count yet, and I don’t remember who was winning when Mattie came around the corner and began to chase after us. We ran as hard as we could to a field about two long blocks away, and we lay down in the tall grass, but Mattie prevailed, and I think within a day or so, our bottoms were as dark as Mattie’s. She did the right thing, and we never played that game again. Mattie was part of the family, and while she was the maid, my mother treated her like one of the family, and I’m sure she taught my mother many things as well.

In 1932, we all piled into the Pontiac to go to the Norris Theater to see Shirley Temple in The Good Ship Lollypop. That was the only time I ever remember my folks taking us to see the movies. If my memory serves me right, it was while we were at the movies that it began to rain so hard that it created a huge flood. Norristown has two creeks that run through it, Sawmill Run and Stony Creek, both of which empty into the Schuylkill River, which separates Norristown from Bridgeport. Stony Creek runs through Elmwood Park, on the north end of which was the zoo, which was well-populated with animals—bears, lions, tigers, geese, parrots, deer, and who knows what else. The park flooded that night, and all the animals escaped. A field just across Markley Street separated our house from the zoo. Fortunately, the field was much higher than the creek and the zoo, so we got a chance to see all the animals in the wild until they were captured and the water receded, when they were all put back behind bars in cages. By now I think I should have been put behind bars.

The Crash

I was not aware of the Depression until we had to move from our lovely home on Markley Street into a duplex on Pine and Roberts Street, directly across from the Rittenhouse Junior High School. I was too young to understand what was going on. Dad was out of work, and money was scarce. We had lost our home and now rented. With the house was a two-car garage, which stored the Pontiac and my grandfather Marshall’s Studebaker. (I never knew my grandparents on my mother’s side, as they both had died before I was one year old.) My dad tried his luck as a salesman. I don’t know how he got money to buy the soap, string, cord, wire, and other household products he sold. Perhaps it was given to him on consignment.

Mattie was gone but remained a good friend. Her husband, Virgil Sims, was the custodian at the Norris Theater, and they kept the six of us supplied with the handkerchiefs that people would leave at the theater after wiping their eyes and noses from sad scenes. Mattie always made sure they were washed and ironed and perfectly clean. I can remember more than once our former maid sending us food.

To help put food on the table, we took in boarders. One was Miss Black, a schoolteacher who taught across the street. Another was my mother’s nephew. He was a prominent magician and also taught magic and sold magic equipment in Philadelphia. His name was Andrew Furlong. One of his slickest tricks was that after he owed us for six months’ room and board, he came downstairs to ask my mother for some clothesline, as he was practicing a new trick. Later that evening, he used the rope to lower his suitcases from his upstairs window, and he never returned again. He was thoughtful and left the rope.

I began first grade at Roosevelt Elementary School, also on Markley Street. First grade was only half a day. Before the school year ended, we moved again. This move took us to live with my grandparents at 203 Summit Street. I assume it was because my parents could not pay their rent. I continued walking a mile and half to Roosevelt School to finish out the school year.

Grandpop and Grandmom were courageous to take in a family of six. Grandpop had owned a textile or wool mill in Norristown, but I assume he lost it in the early years of the Depression. They previously had a home in Fairview Village where he raised rabbits in a one hundred-foot-long cage. But because of a serious asthmatic condition and allergies to the rabbit fur, he had to give it up and move back to town. It was there that they were invaded by four boys ages six to twelve.

To relieve his asthma, Grandpop sat on the front porch with a pot of what looked like sulfur. He would burn it with his face bent down so he could breathe the yellow smoke coming from the pot. The ceiling over the covered porch was yellow from the smoke. Alongside the pot was the spittoon, as coughing went along with the disease. It was horrible listening to him coughing and gasping for breath. Shortly thereafter he succumbed to the illness and he died. This was my first experience with death and in the funeral home looking on a corpse I was horrified when I saw my father bend over the casket and kiss my granddad goodbye. I was also trying to make the connection between the undertaker and his name which was Homer Dunaway. Being very young I believe, only seven, I never heard anyone ever mention whether or not he was a believer although I do have assurance that my grandmother who lived to be ninety-three had trusted Christ as her Savior. At age seven death was a scary thing to me, but as a believing adult, I would learn not to fear death even as I came close to dying.

Chapter 2.

Commitments

Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass. Psalms 37:5

Conversion

Bob and Dick DeWees lived down the street and around the corner from us. They were twins whose mother died in childbirth. An uncle and aunt took them in and raised them the best they could, but the boys had such a bad reputation that we were not supposed to hang out with them. I’m not sure if the bad influence was them or me. During the summer of 1936, the twins arrived at our door with an invitation to go with them to a vacation Bible school. We were encouraged to go with the bad boys to church. We were Methodist, but the Bible school was being held at the Bible Testimony Church, and on the marquee it said, Nondenominational, Independent, Fundamental. We had no idea what all that meant but eventually would find out.

We memorized Bible verses and had handwork, story time, snacks, playtime, and singing. On the last Friday, our parents were invited to come in the evening for our closing exercises. I attended, along with my brothers, Gordon and Frank. Don was home with a badly infected hand from a stab wound with a cuticle knife that he had inflicted upon himself while carving a piece of wood. Dad went to the closing exercises, while Mom took care of Don. He was impressed with all we had learned and with the people. The impression was so strong that our family began attending the church. Our pastor was Ben Male, a student at Westminster Seminary. He and his wife, Mary, had a great love for people. Pastor had a big LaSalle roadster, and at one time they had eighteen kids in it going to a special meeting. The church met in a small, former Quaker meeting house. Pastor Male was from Colorado, and to us kids, he was a cowboy just off of the ranch. We could imagine where he came from because five days a week we listened to the radio between five and six o’clock to fifteen minutes of Tom Mix, The Lone Ranger, Terry and the Pirates, and Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy. These radio dramatizations held us spellbound and exercised our imaginations far more than television would ever do.

At church, we had special evangelistic meetings and Bible conferences. They would run from Sunday through Sunday and occasionally for two weeks. The League of Nations from Practical Bible Training School in Binghamton, New York, visited the church. This student group represented many different countries, with the students dressed in native garb. I can still visualize the Dutch girl and Abou Sabadas Nelson from India. He told a story about arriving in New York from India and going to the station to go to Chicago. He said the agent told him he would have to go via Buffalo and he responded that he did not want to go by buffalo but by train. He stayed overnight with us, and we had a ball entertaining this Indian student.

Sunday became a day we looked forward to as we went to Sunday school, followed by church and again church that evening. We lived a couple miles from the church. We did not have a car, so we walked and always hoped we were going on the same street that Mr. and Mrs. Mayberry drove on. They lived just a few doors from the twins, and it was a treat when they would stop and offer us a ride.

During the course of a year, Mother, Dad, and us four boys all trusted Christ as our Savior. I vividly remember one Sunday night going to bed and laying there thinking as a nine-year-old boy about my sin. No one had to convince me that I was a sinner. I knew it, and so did everyone else. By now I had memorized John 1:1–12, John 3:16, Romans 3:23, Romans 6:23, and others. Through the hearing of the preaching of the word of God and the verses I had memorized, I remember making the decision to crawl out of bed and kneel down, asking God’s forgiveness. My bedroom was on the third floor in a partially finished attic. I don’t remember the date, but I do remember that my burden of sin was lifted and Christ took that load from me. Many, many times I’ve had to go back and confess sin in my life, but He has always been faithful to forgive and cleanse me from all unrighteousness.

My dad later became the church janitor, earning a couple dollars a week. One Sunday night, a huge man who weighed more than three hundred pounds (everyone called him Tiny) offered to drive my mother and brothers home. He was a bachelor and took care of his elderly mother, who lived near us. Dad closed up the church and walked home, and when he opened the front door, Mom said, Where‘s David?

I thought he was with you, replied Dad.

No, I left him with you!

So, Dad made the long walk back to the church, where he found me asleep on the pew. That was a relief both for him and for me.

On the front wall behind the pulpit was a large sign painted in the shape of a scroll. On it was Isaiah 55:11, My word shall not return unto me void. Truly, it did accomplish its purpose in the hearts and lives of the Marshalls. Ben Male completed his seminary work at Westminster and returned to Colorado, but not before the orthodox Presbyterian baptized by immersion my oldest brother, Gordon. Our church didn’t have a baptismal pool, so we went to an old country church. I don’t remember whether it had a pool or whether it was done in a nearby creek. Some problems apparently developed at the church after the Males left, and our family began going across the river to Bridgeport Baptist Church. On Easter Sunday 1940, Mom and Dad, along with Don, Frank, and I, were baptized and became members of the church. That same day, Elaine Beswick was baptized. Elaine Beswick would become Elaine Marshall eight years later. Our pastor, William Francis, was a faithful servant. I never saw Pastor Francis after he resigned to take another pastorate, but we did receive a letter from him after he turned one hundred years old, and he still had excellent handwriting.

Companionship

Our church was located in an industrial section of Bridgeport, directly across the street from the Summaril Tubing Company where my father worked during World War II. They manufactured hypodermic needles as well as steel tubing, and throughout the war, they worked seven days a week and twenty-four hours a day.

I met Elaine at Happy Hour in 1940. No, not that kind of happy hour! We were both twelve years old. Happy Hour was a Bible club that Pastor Francis had every Friday afternoon after school. I remember being outside the church and writing with a pencil on a Ping-Pong ball, I love you and giving it to a girl named Maude Hess to give to Elaine. I was so shy that I don’t think I even watched her expression. Toward the end of the school year, I wanted to ask her for a date. I was too timid to ask her at church but got courage to call her on the phone.

I said, Hi, Elaine, our high school is putting on a circus in our gym, and I was wondering if you would like to go with me.

There was a brief pause and then an, Okay. We decided she could come from Bridgeport on the bus to Main and Swede streets in Norristown, where I would meet her. She would get a transfer, and I would board the bus with her to the closest bus stop near Norristown High School, which would be Powell and Brown. That would leave us about four and a half blocks to walk together. What I did not expect was that she would bring her girlfriend, Maude Hess, with her. It was a rainy, cold spring day. After the performance, we walked back to the bus stop, where I put the girls back on the bus and said good-bye. What a relief my first date was over! There were no hugs or kisses, but it was a start. The next few years brought a couple of more dates. Once we went to Riverview Beach in Delaware. We would take the high-speed trolley from Bridgeport to Sixty-ninth Street in Philadelphia and then the el and subway to Market Street where we would board the Wilson Line, a riverboat that ran up and down the Delaware River. It left near the Ben Franklin Bridge, and it was a scenic ride past the navy yard at the mouth of the Schuylkill River. We would pass the Scott Paper Company