By Della Ruth

"There are four Auntie Ruth’s in Gbabo," I announced with the indisputable authority of a six year-old. "There’s Auntie Ruth Barram and Auntie Ruth-Ann Peterson and Auntie Ruth Burkett and my Auntie Ruth."

On the mission field in Congo, all of the adults were our "aunts or uncles." But Auntie Ruth Ericson was mine--she was my mother’s sister--and because I knew I was her special girl. I had no doubt on this point, even though when we children were farmed out for a month while our parents took a course at Coquilhatville, it was my sister who got to stay with her. And when our parents returned, and I watched as my three year-old sister sat on my auntie’s lap singing "Precious Jewels," I still knew that I was one of those bright gems in Auntie Ruth’s eyes--possible, I imagined in my heart of hearts, the brightest one.

But I can’t deny the twinge of envy I felt as I stood there, wishing it had been me learning that song at my auntie’s knee. As I grew older, it didn’t seem to matter much that other children had this same proprietary attitude toward Aunt Ruth. Since we were all unique, we were all uniquely special to her. Still I chose to believe I was her special girl. After all, I was born two days after her dedication for missionary service in Congo, she always reminded me of that. How can I forget? My middle name is Ruth.

And who wouldn’t want to belong to her? With her, the extraordinary became commonplace, the commonplace, extraordinary. To the first category belong the stories of her achievement. To the second category, the stories of the way she welcomed the companions, old and young, who accompanied her journey.

Ruth never shut herself off from people. Well, almost never. There was that Christmas in Norquay, Saskatchewan, when Ruth was 17. A young man came on Christmas Eve to put a gift of chocolates for her under the tree. Two days later, on Boxing Day, he came to call again. When she saw him approaching, Ruth locked herself in her father’s study. My mother remembers the spurned suitor knocking patiently at the door. Perhaps she relented, perhaps Ruth spoke with him for awhile—no one can be sure.

What is certain is that she did not remain single for a lack of candidates. One of these, she had, God willing, accepted. At Gbado, she spent a good deal of time with Clyde Carlson, who visited almost daily and took her for rides on his motorcycle. It was only years later that Aunt Ruth revealed to the family that she and Clyde were to announce their engagement the week he died of a stroke. For years she carried the secret sorrow alone. But for Ruth, this loss confirmed her vocation to serve as a single woman, and serve she did.

She was a missionary from the very beginning. Her brother Dan remembers a time walking beside her on a wooden sidewalk in Whitemouth, Manitoba, on the way to Sunday School when Ruth was about seven years old to Dan’s three years. Ruth was telling Dan about Paul’s missionary vision. "Come over to Macedonia and help us." Already nurturing her own sense of vocation, Ruth stirred her small brother to share the vision.

The second oldest of nine children, Ruth early assumed some responsibility for the running of the household. She took an active interest in tending her younger siblings, ensuring that they developed a love of God, a respect for each other, and a proper sense of dignity. Although she came to cherish her large family, as a teenager Ruth was a little self-conscious about this abundant blessing. When the family piled into the old Ford—four in the front, five in the back—she would tell the younger children to duck down to avoid the stares of townsfolk as they rumbled past in the car.

In 1935, she spent 10 days in the hospital for an appendectomy. Watching the nurses in their rounds of duty, Ruth knew this was the work she wanted to do. She finished grade twelve in Norquay, then joined her family who had moved earlier in the year to serve churches in Alberta. There she applied to study nursing at the Royal Alexandra Hospital in Edmonton. Her application was received in good order and her academic aptitude was more than adequate, but she was rejected in the preliminary interview because at just more than five feet tall, she did not meet the criteria of a nurse who would have the stamina and strength to move heavy patients. The interviewer scrutinized the diminutive figure standing before her and shook her head no. Ruth was too small and frail to be a candidate in such a program.

This setback nearly broke Ruth’s heart. For a time, she worked as a housekeeper. Then, after completing normal school in Edmonton, she taught for three years. A teaching career seemed to offer a stable income and a promising future, so many people were surprised when, after attending the annual conference in Hyas, Saskatchewan, Ruth announced her plans to go to the Covenant Bible School that fall. She wanted to prepare to answer God’s call to serve as a missionary in Africa. In what capacity, she did not know. Shortly after she began Bible School, Ruth received word that she had been accepted into the nursing program at Swedish Covenant Hospital in Chicago. Now her course was clear. She would happily begin the nursing program as soon as she completed her three-year Bible School program.

In the fall of 1945, Ruth secured a student visa and made her way to Chicago where she joined her brother Dan, a student at North Park. Finally, eight years after she had first decided to go into nursing, Ruth was able to pursue her dream. Although she managed her daily expenses on what money she had, she had nothing to spare. In one of her classes, students were told that for the next class they would need a watch with second hand to learn to take a pulse. Ruth had neither the watch she needed nor the money to buy one. She told her brother of her terrible predicament. Together they went to the First Covenant Church, climbed the stairs to the small alcove in the bell tower, and offered the problem to God. The next day Dan received a letter from David Larson, a farmer in Norquay, asking Dan to purchase a specific book at Covenant Press for him. The money enclosed was far more than was needed to buy the book with the instructions that "the rest of the money is yours to spend as you see fit." Dan immediately discharged the errand and took the remaining money to Erickson Jewelers on Clark Street where he bought the perfect watch for Ruth.

While in training in Chicago, Ruth applied for missionary service in Congo. Immediately after graduation from one program, she entered another, a missions course at North Park. When this was completed, she returned to Canada as a graduate nurse to write her nursing exams in Alberta. She was dedicated for services at Malmo Covenant Church on July 3, 1949. "What a commission and privilege," she wrote. "I experienced the presence of God in a real and precious way."

It only remained for her to go to Belgium for a year to take the courses in French and tropical medicine required by the Belgian government for medical practice in Congo. Finally, after nine years of post-secondary education and preparation, Ruth was ready to get to work. She boarded the Leopoldville on October 31, 1950, and set sail for Congo. On the morning of November 15, the shores of Congo were visible. Ruth disembarked at Maradi that afternoon and soon after gazed in wonder at the unspeakable beauty of flamboyant palms silhouetted against a vibrant tropical sunset. She immediately fell in love with a country that would be home to her for the better part of four decades. She gratefully took it all in—the mosquito nets, the graceful women carrying heavy loads on their heads, the rows of enthusiastic African nurses singing and waving palm branches as a greeting when she arrived weeks later at Gbado.

At Gbado, she ran the dispensary and clinic. This was her domain for several years. I remember when my family came to stay with her, she sometimes took my small hand in hers and led me down the narrow path from her door to the dispensary at the bottom of the hill. From my perch in the corner of the room, I watched her administer medications, dress wounds, and inspect and treat infections. I marveled at her willingness to touch people whose festering sores and gaping wounds made them repugnant to me, untouchable to my childish and fastidious sensibilities.

After Congolese independence, as the only medical presence at Gbado and a five-hour drive over unforgiving roads to the Karawa hospital, Ruth consulted regularly with doctors by radio to address the infinite variety of medical problems presented to her. At times, a doctor would come to the station to deal with serious cases, or as often as not, critically ill patients were transported by truck to the Karawa hospital. For some emergencies, the delay meant almost certain death, so Ruth regularly resorted to textbooks to guide her through emergency medical procedures, things like tracheotomies and managing hemorrhage. She also told of the time she successfully operated on a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, a condition that, when left untreated, is usually fatal. She radioed my father, the doctor at Karawa, and, step by step, she completed the necessary procedure via the airwaves.

Still, Ruth had not desire to play doctor, nor was she inclined to take on any task beyond her expertise. Nevertheless, over the years she worked full-time as a nurse in Congo, Chicago, and even Alaska. She trained African nurses, taught primary grades in the mission school, trained Africans in accounting for local budgets, served as bookkeeper for the entire mission, and served as liaison to the head office in Chicago. And she did it all well.

At the age of 72, Ruth returned to Africa for the last time to serve at the mission guest house in Bangui. Shortly after her arrival, civil strife in Congo sent mission personnel streaming across the border to relative safety. The foodstuffs and supplies she had packed to last her a year were gone in weeks. No sooner would one group of guests arrive, get settled, and served, then another carload would arrive. From early in the morning until late at night, Ruth administered her best remedies to the missions exiles—good food, good company, and good will—until all were safely on their way home.

When she finally retired, Ruth returned to Alberta and to active involvement in the church at Malmo where she had been dedicated for missionary service so many years before.

When friends remember Ruth, the achievements in her several vocations, however valuable or remarkable, are not usually the things they talk about. Instead, everyone has a story about her wonderful hospitality. It will be hard for people in North America to imagine how unusual it was to be served a glass of Coca-Cola in Congo in the 1950s and 60s, but for us it was an exotic pleasure. We had ordinary pleasures: swimming in tropical lakes, keeping company with African gray parrots and a variety of primates, papayas with breakfast, and bunches of bananas hanging from hooks on the veranda. What we didn’t often have was Coca-Cola and pizza—that is, except at Aunt Ruth’s. It wasn’t that other people didn’t make fudge or Swedish pancakes or homemade ice cream for special occasions (although it would be hard to find any of a quality to surpass hers). Somehow a visit to Aunt Ruth was an occasion in itself.

She had a peculiar joy about her. Having set her soul at peace, she embraced her life as a single servant of God and celebrated it in communion with others. Recently, my cousin Judy traveled to Congo. When a woman she met at Gemena discovered that Judy was Ruth’s niece, she exclaimed, "Oh! Your aunt loved me! I was sick and she took care of me and loved me."

Even when her illness demanded that Ruth accept care from others, she continued to care for people, including fellow patients. While she was in the hospital, a young woman came to thank her for the times Ruth invited her over for coffee and prayer when problems overwhelmed her.

This, finally, was her greatest gift. Radiating the love of God, she made each of us feel important and special and loved in her presence. In her eyes we were all God’s precious jewels. She communicated this time and again to the many people she met in her wide and varied career. As she lay dying, Aunt Ruth asked to have "Precious Jewels" sung at her funeral. My sister had learned it first, certainly, but I had had a lifetime of love from Aunt Ruth to teach me the song. At her funeral, I gratefully sang along:

When he cometh, when he cometh to make up his jewels,
All his jewels, precious jewels, his loved and his own.
Like the stars of the morning, his bright crown adorning,
They shall shine in their beauty, bright gems for his crown.