Distant Fields Look Greener
Despite the heavy duties as Probation Officer, and all the responsibility and work connected with two churches and their on-going programmes, the Moyes’ last few years of ministry in North Melbourne were sweet with the taste of success.
Some of the young men on probation became Christians and deeply involved in youth work and church activities. The church buildings were debt free and in good condition and Gordon had successfully completed the extra courses he took at Melbourne University.
Beverley held a position as secretary to the manager of an importing firm and her income enabled them to gradually accumulate some household necessities. By the time baby Jenny arrived in 1962, the young Moyes were comfortably settled and life was good. So good, that Gordon decided now was the time for them to uproot.
“It’s about time we moved on, Bev,” he announced one day when they had a few free minutes together. “You know I’ve been wanting to go to America for post-graduate work on a Doctorate in Christian Education. I think now is the time.”
Beverley smiled and nodded toward the baby sleeping peacefully in her pink-lined bassinet. “I guess the longer you leave it the more expensive it will become. We won’t have to pay much for her now but later on—”
With his usual thorough attention to detail Gordon wrote to various colleges and universities in the United States. After weighing up all the information in their replies he decided to seek admission to the Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis, Indiana, and work at the University of Indiana toward his Doctorate.
The Church officials in Melbourne were not happy with Gordon’s decision. He had worked hard and earned a wide reputation as one of their brightest up-and-coming young ministers. They tried to dissuade him from going overseas.
“You have a good future here,” they said. “Don’t go chasing rainbows.”
Gordon listened politely but took no heed. He had set his mind on further study and ministerial experience in USA and it would take an act of God to change it.
Rev Dr Theo Fisher, an Australian and senior pastor of a large Church of Christ in Indianapolis, wrote and offered Gordon a part- time position so he could support his family while he completed his post graduate studies.
“Imagine working with such a great man,” Gordon waved the letter in front of Beverley. “He’s the great Theo Fisher, who worked with Martin Luther King toward the integration of black and white communities in Indianapolis and Alabama.”
Gordon’s excitement soared even higher when he was granted a post-graduate scholarship at the Christian Theological Seminary. He was advised to get a non-quota immigrant visa because he would be working as well as studying, and this entailed filling in endless forms and undergoing a long series of medical checks.
For seven months the preparations continued and finally the end was in sight. The excited couple made and re-made their lists of what to take and what to leave. They packed necessary items such as books and typewriter, winter clothes and some household furnishings, into a large wooden box and dispatched it ahead by freighter.
As the time of departure drew nearer they sold their furniture and slept on borrowed mattresses in the empty manse. They gave away most of their wedding gifts and household goods, retaining only the clothing and baby paraphernalia needed for the voyage. Last to go was their car. They planned to travel by plane to Sydney to board the S S ARCADIA bound for U S A.
Finally, with all that taken care of—with taxation clearance in hand, with church authorization reluctantly granted, with passage booked and paid for—the excited young couple were all set to sail away from Australia on Boxing Day. They had only to collect their visas which were at the American Consulate waiting for the consul’s signature.
The day of the final appointment came, November 22nd, 1963, and the Moyes family went to the American Consulate. It seemed that an inordinately large number of fellow Victorians were headed for U S A and the queues stretched endlessly. They waited for what seemed like hours trying to pacify a squirming toddler and keep their place in the line. Why did everything take so long?
American officials spoke in clipped sentences as they answered two telephones at the same time, shuffled through reams of paper tied with red tape, and displayed the clockwork efficiency for which their race is famous, but it didn’t seem to make the queues any shorter. An air-conditioner hummed incessantly and a radio, to which no one seemed to be actually listening, droned monotonously in the background.
Suddenly the radio music stopped and an agitated voice made an announcement. Moyes were too far away to hear what was said but the people behind the counter became agitated. Secretaries turned pale and leapt from their chairs, trembling hands gathering up papers as they whispered in urgent tones to the person next to them. Stricken-looking officials rushed around bumping into furniture and each other.
A couple of big fellows closed the front door so that no one else could be admitted. Some of the consulate staff disappeared into other rooms, others frantically shuffled and re-shuffled the papers on their desks. All totally ignored the crowd of people queued on the other side of the counter. Then someone turned up the radio and an expressionless voice said:
“I repeat, President John F. Kennedy has been shot. He has been assassinated in Dallas, Texas. No official news of his condition is yet available but it is believed that he is dead.”
For a moment shock rendered everyone speechless, then those waiting began to talk in hushed voices as though God Himself had been dethroned. An official came from an inner office and obviously striving to look composed, announced to the queues:
“The American president has been assassinated. This office is closing now. I do not know when it will re-open.”
The whole Consulate went into a tailspin and with it the Moyes’ little world. The Consul was recalled to Washington and minor details such as visa applications were literally wiped off his desk. Somewhere on the floor, or in a drawer, or in a waste-paper basket, went the Moyes’ visas with their photographs and every other requirement fulfilled—everything except the final official stamp.
About a week later the Consulate re-opened but no amount of searching found the Moyes’ visas. They would have to make new applications. Cables flew back and forth explaining the situation but officialdom would not budge. No visa, no entrance into USA. On Boxing day the SS ARCADIA sailed from Sydney Harbour with Gordon and Beverley and little Jenny still waiting disconsolately in Melbourne.
