It was April 8, 1877, when I left
Columbia for Elyria, having received from President Grow the necessary
permission. Arriving at my destination, I walked three miles into the country,
to the farm where dwelt the Franks. They were not aware of my coming, but had
been praying that an Elder of the Church might be led that way, several of
their neighbors, with whom Sister Frink had conversed, having expressed a
desire to hear more of the Gospel, and hear it with from the lips of a
"Mormon" missionary. I was the only one in that part of the country.
No sooner had I arrived than
Sister Frink, with characteristic zeal, proposed a meeting at her home, a
meeting to which she would invite all the neighbors, that I might preach to
them. Remembering my wretched failure at Strasburg, and fearing a possible
repetition of that humiliating experience, I was anything but delighted with
her suggestion. I fear, I was almost terrified. Never had I addressed an
audience for more than five or ten minutes at a time, and then only in the way
of "breaking ice" for the principal speaker or testifying to what he
had told. How was I to fill up a whole evening, all by myself?
In my extreme anxiety I proposed
sending for Brother Musser, who was then in Philadelphia. But this, of course,
was impracticable, and Sister Frink soon shamed me out of the notion. Laughing
heartily—almost heartlessly, I thought—she said: "You're a pretty
missionary—sent out to preach, and afraid to open your mouth!" Again I was
stung, and again benefited by the stinging. I resolved to trust in the Lord and
do my little best.
The Lord did not forsake me. What
I said that that meeting, which was duly held, I hardly know. I have a dim
recollection of presenting the first principles of the Gospel, and testifying
and blessings. I was wonderfully helped this time. My thoughts came like a
flood, almost faster than I could utter them, and the Holy Spirit, which I had
humbly invoked, gave me a freedom and a fluency as surprising to me as it was
to my friends.
But the climax was not complete. On
the other side of the country road passing the farm-house where I was staying,
stood the residence of Truman Frink's brother, a bitter
anti-"Mormon," who had been heard to say that if one of our Elders
crossed his threshold he would kick him into the street. Being crippled with
rheumatism, he might have found it difficult to do much kicking; but that he
had all the will to carry out his threat, I did not doubt. His wife, Margaret
Frink, was an excellent woman, childless by him, but by a former husband the
mother of several daughters, all married. The eldest, a widow with one child,
shared her mother's home.
Mrs. Frink had been confined to
her room with an attack of neuralgia, which for many weeks had caused her
intense pain. Her daughter had learned, through Sister Frink, that
faith-healing was practiced by the Latter-day Saints, and had heard me testify
that the miraculous "signs" promised by the Savior to "follow
them that believe," were manifested now the same as in days of old. She,
therefore invited me to come and bless her mother, that she might be healed.
Sister "Angie" seconded the suggestion—if, indeed, she did not
originate it—and again I was all but paralyzed at the prospect.
Eli Frank's ugly threat, of which
I had been told, did not figure very much in my calculations. Rather was it the
fear, that notwithstanding my recent success in speaking, there might be
another "notable exception" in "the case of Elder Whitney,"
were he to have the temerity to attempt the working of a miracle. That the sick
were healed by faith, I verily believed, but I had never seen it done. Would
the necessary faith be present, doubting as I did my worthiness to be an
instrument of Providence in such a case? That was the problem. The possible
consequences of a failure, as imagination pictured them—the probability of
being mobbed and driven from the neighborhood as an impostor, if the healing
were attempted and not consummated, came vividly, fearsomely before me.
Never did I feel so helpless—or so
humble. I besought the Lord with all my soul to stand by me in this critical
hour, to perfect my faith, and use me, if He could consistently, as an
instrument for showing forth his merciful power upon the afflicted one. I then consecrated,
as best I could, some olive oil provided by Sister Frink, and went with her and
her husband to Mrs. Frink's abode.
It was evening and the family were
all at home. The daughter met us at the door, and ushered us into her mother's
apartment, on the right of a hall-way leading through the house, with rooms on
either side. We had heard, as we entered, men's gruff voices and loud laughter
in a room to the left; and presently Eli Frink thrust his head through a rear
doorway, glanced around suspiciously, and then retired without uttering a word.
Mrs. Frink, with her head
bandaged, was sitting up, but still suffering much pain. Laying my hands upon
her head, which I had previously anointed, I proceeded to bless her. Scarcely
had I begun, when a power fell upon me that I had never felt before, nor gave I
ever felt it since in the same degree. It was a warm glow in my thread and
breast—not painful, but powerful, almost preventing utterance, and it rain like
liquid flame to the very tips of my fingers. The effect was instant. "Thank
God!" said the sufferer, "the pain has gone." Sister Angie almost
shouted, "Glory to God!" As for me, I was so overcome by a sense of
gratitude for this signal manifestation of divine favor, that I sank into a
chair and burst into tears. The date of this incident was the 24th of April. (Orson
F. Whitney, Through Memory's Halls: The Life Story of Orson F. Whitney As
Told By Himself [Independence, Miss.: Zion's Printing and Publishing
Company, 1930], 85-87)