W. B. Godbey - Enter His Rest

1. CHILDHOOD
I was born June 3, 1833, by the waters of Clifty Creek, in Pulaski County, Kentucky. During my infancy my
parents migrated six miles east and settled on a farm which they had purchased by the waters of Pitman's Creek,
four and one-half miles north of Somerset, the county seat. There, in the providence of God, I lived until I was
twenty years old, the family remaining a number of years afterwards. There were ten of us children, five sons
and five daughters; one of the former having gone to Heaven in his infancy. The other nine all reached maturity.
The four surviving sons all became preachers, but the daughters, by reason of the prevailing dogma against
woman's ministry, were unfortunately withheld from the privilege which I am satisfied they would have
participated in with great delight. Half of our number – three sisters and two brothers – are now in Glory. My
youngest brother, Martin Adams, was very suddenly called to his heavenly home at the early age of twentyeight.
He went around and paid off all of his little debts and settled up everything, telling the family and friends
that he was near the end of his life, whereas he was enjoying perfect health and bidding fair to live long. The
day was bright and fair, and the family, at that time consisting of father, mother and elder brother Josiah, were
all at the house. The latter was leading his horse through the front yard, when Martin walked out after him, and
the animal, doubtless mistaking him for a dog or some other animal, kicked him in the breast with all its power,
the single stroke with the newly shod hoof proving his instantaneous release from his tenement of clay. His
brother darted back and caught him in his arms as he said his last words; “O Lord, I am dead,” and breathed no
more. He was a very sweet singer, as well as a teacher and preacher, being a collegiate graduate. He was nearly
always singing when He was walking about. On that occasion, when he walked out of the house for the last
time, he went singing these beautiful words: “Will any one be at the beautiful gate, watching and waiting for
me?” This took place in Pettis County, Mo., whither the family migrated after the close of the Confederate War.
My two surviving brothers, John K, and Josiah P., are both preaching in Missouri.
I above mentioned the fact of my father purchasing the farm to which we migrated when I was an infant. They
lived on that farm twenty-five years, till we children were all old enough to labor and take care of ourselves; my
three sisters older than myself having married and gone away. My father, having gone in debt for the farm, never
did succeed in fully paying for it. As the years rolled away, with creating new debts to pay old ones, and never
getting clear of financial encumbrance, finally the long-dreaded issue came and the farm had to be sold to pay
the debts. This was a sad epoch in the history of our family, as we never afterward owned a home. While it was
wrapped in darkness at that time, the cloud has long ago drifted away and been superseded by floods of light,
victory, honor and glory. When we lost our farm, having no land to cultivate, we all turned preachers, and have
been at it ever since. Perhaps, if we had never lost our home, some of us would be there to this day, digging on
those poor hills (as it was in a very sterile, rough country), instead of going out with the commission of our Lord
to the ends of the earth, preaching the everlasting Gospel.
During my babyhood, my mother went away, leaving me in the care of my three elder sisters.
They got hold of some jimson pods and gave them to me for toys in a broken skillet. As I played, some of them
broke open and the seeds dropped out. Babylike, I put them into my mouth and swallowed some of them. You
know the jimson is a narcotic poison. When mother got home I was in convulsions, cramping as if I would
surely die. She sent at once for the doctor, who labored hard to relieve me by emetics. Though I, in the
providence of God, survived the immediate effects of the poison, they always believed its after effects lingered
with me, stunting my growth, consequently I received notoriety as the dwarf of the family. Frequently when our
relatives were about and looked at all of us children in the home, my father said to them in reference to me that
he feared I was so stunted that I would never be any account. Though I remained reticent, my ambition arose
Napoleonically, soliloquizing, “I will let you and everybody else know about that in due time.
Doubtless the poison did stunt my growth, as I have never known one of our family, either paternal or maternal,
who is not much larger than myself. I have always been the physical dwarf of the family.
This dwarfhood is not much recognized since I reached maturity, but it gave me constant and universal notoriety
during my boyhood, as the people in that country were, many of them, physical giants. Therefore I was
constantly pronounced the runt, and my parents always referred to the poison of those jimson seeds as the cause.
My body continued to grow, however, till I was twenty-five years old, thus much relieving the dwarfhood which