As far back in childhood as I can remember, I had a longing to know about God. Rather than play and romp as other children, I found happiness in reading the Bible to the old negroes on the plantation, and telling them all I could about the beautiful things recorded therein. At every ailment that came to me they would prophesy to my parents “You'll neber raise dat 'ar chile, she's born for dem heabenly mansions.... It takes dat 'ar chile to make everybody t'ink de black negro'll go to heaben if he behave himself properly — as God be no respecter of persons.'' Fear of death was continually held before me, by both white and black, because of a delicate appearance and frequent illness.
My parents were members of the old school Baptist church; and, our home being considered a hospitable roof for one and all of the ministers and church people, the subject of religion discussed with and by them became a familiar theme. I myself often questioned my father about the prophecies in Isaiah, Ezekiel and other books, but his reply was: "The deep mysteries of Godliness are hidden from us, and you are too young a child to inquire into these profound things." Yet the longing to know kept forcing its way; and many a night I lay awake praying to God to show me the way, to give me a right heart and a true understanding, — above all, to keep me from saying or doing any evil thing.
A happy childhood was followed by a social young-ladyhood, and yet there was an unsatisfied desire for something better, higher; something that the world could not give. Sometimes also there was a striving to hush these vain longings, to smother thoughts about God; because I did not know of any one who could wisely answer the many questions arising, and thus satisfy the deep yearnings. I now know it was the vain search for the real, the unsatisfied desire for Truth, that often made me ill.
