Lester Sumrall - The Life Story of Lester Sumrall: The Man - The Ministry - The Vision

The Life Story of Lester Sumrall

The Man The Ministry The Vision

Lester Sumrall

Copyright Information

First printing: 1993

Paperback edition: March 2003

Copyright 1993, 2003 by LeSea, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews. For information write: New Leaf Press, Inc., P.O. Box 726, Green Forest, AR 72638.

ISBN: 0-89221-532-1

Library of Congress Catalog No. 2002116489

Cover by Bryan Miller

Edited and written by Rob Kerby and Val Cindric

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

Dedication

To Cliff Dudley, founder and CEO of New Leaf Press.

God spoke to him, and after personally visiting with me, he was accumulating the material for this book at the time of his death. This book was his personal project.

Tim Dudley, president of New Leaf Press, accepted the challenge of his fathers labor, and saw this book through its completion after his fathers passing.

To the entire Dudley family, thank you for your labor of love, and God bless you.

Lester Sumrall

Publishers Preface

While working on the book with Brother Sumrall, I heard him say he had never been out of the will of God in 63 years. He wasnt boasting; he was stating a fact. His ministry testified to his obedience to the Spirit of God and the call on his life.

In Romans, it says that because of the disobedience of one, we are all sinners, but because of the obedience of One, we are all made righteous.

One man obeying God can still result in thousands coming to Christ. Obedience is a powerful force, and Lester Sumralls life exemplified its effectiveness. Over the years, thousands, possibly a million, souls were touched one way or another by the obedience of this one man.

We consider it an honor and privilege to publish his life story. My prayer is that while you read this book, you will become even more willing to follow the call on your own life guided by the example of Lester Sumrall.

Tim Dudley,

Publisher

The Battle for My Young Heart

My mother had decided, even before I was born, that I was going to be a preacher. She had prayed for me fervently while I was in her womb back when I couldnt do anything about it, except kick a little!

Saved as a teenager and later baptized with the Holy Ghost at a tent revival, my mother had her heart set on being a missionary. Circumstances changed the direction of her life when her sister died, leaving behind a husband and three young children. Realizing her niece and nephews had no one to take care of them, my mother selflessly agreed to move in with the family.

However, her widowed brother-in-law immediately set his sights on marrying her his deceased wifes sister. In an effort to woo her he pretended to become a Christian. My mother, believing that he loved her and Jesus Christ, married him and gave up her dream of going to the mission field.

Conflict soon developed. My mother spent much of her time in Bible study and attending, what they called in those days, the Ladies Prayer Group. My father, however, scorned Mothers quiet devotion to the Lord.

Oh, hed go to church. Seventy-five years ago, everybody went to church. But during Sunday dinner, hed criticize the pastor and complain about his preaching. In spite of all the hell-fire and brimstone sermons he heard week after week, my father continued to smoke, drink, chew, and live a sinners life.

I was born at home, child number six and completely unplanned. My father, who had decided they should stop at five, always considered me an accident. Once he told me bluntly, "You werent supposed to be here."

My half-brothers Houston and Kerney, my half-sister Anna, my brother Ernest, and my sister Louise were all much older than I. Sister Leona, who was number seven, was born a few years later after we had moved back to Laurel, Mississippi. It was there my father found work in the railroad roundhouse.

All day he made things out of glowing steel, hammering molten metal on his iron anvil beside a raging blacksmiths forge. For a man who worked with his hands, he always made good wages and, as far back as I can remember, we always had an automobile. In fact, for many years we were the only family on the block that owned one.

With enormous muscles and a commanding voice, my father was a giant in my eyes. In fist fights, all he needed was one punch and the other man was finished. I once watched him lift a grown man, and the chair he was sitting in, into the air with one arm.

When he took me to the barber shop for my first haircut, the barber placed me on a small stool on the chair and wrapped a cloth around my neck. He asked, "Well, sonny, how do you want your hair cut?"

I looked up at him and said, in a proud, self-assured voice, "Just like Daddys." The men in the barber shop burst out laughing.

I was embarrassed, but what else could I say? I wanted to be just like my daddy.

When Daddy spanked me, he paddled the daylights out of me, but I only remember that happening two or three times. Mostly he just yelled at me; he wasnt abusive, but he did seem cold, demanding, and even mean at times.

On the playground, I was a pint-sized version of him. I fought every kid in the neighborhood, even taking on boys four inches taller than myself with little injury. Punching fast and furiously, I would beat the daylights out of them until they were bloody all over.

I also fought God, probably because I knew I had a choice to make.

My mother was a gentle, kind, and godly woman. I loved her and wanted to please her, but I didnt want to be like her because that meant I had to be good.

On the other hand, if I followed in my fathers footsteps, I could be my own boss and do whatever I pleased.

While the inner battle raged, I dug in my heels, determined to be like my daddy.

I worshiped him from afar, accepting his indifference toward me and modeling myself in his image. My feelings toward him were mixed, even confused at times. I dont recall him ever bouncing me in the air or holding me close. I dont remember him hugging me or saying, "I love you, Lester."

But my mother did, every day. She was the one who dried my tears and doctored my scrapes. When I rushed home with exciting tales that every little boy likes to tell, she was the one who listened. It must have grieved her sometimes to see the trouble I got into.

When I wasnt fighting, I was playing marbles, and nobody could beat me. From ten feet away, I could aim at a marble and hit it every time. This skill soon became very profitable since I would win everybodys marbles and then sell them back.

One morning I left home with a box of marbles and wandered around the neighborhood. A kid stopped me and said, "Ill trade you my knife for some marbles." So I traded him.

Another looked at the knife and said, "Id sure like to have that knife." So I traded it for something else.

Before three oclock I was back home with a billy goat and a beautiful billy goat wagon.

My father exclaimed, "Where did you get that?"

I said, "Well, Ive forgotten the address right now, but I traded it."

For the first time in my life, I saw Daddy nod his head in approval. For a brief moment, I felt he was proud of me.

Making money came naturally. On my way home from school, I would buy a hundred-pound sack of peanuts, roast 20 or 30 pounds, shaking them every minute or two so they were cooked all the way around. Then Id fill little bags with roasted peanuts and go to the nearby sawmill where Id sell them for five cents a bag. Id often come home with a dollar or two, which was more than some men were making in a day.