Allison Speer

When thinking about having a new biography written, the question of who to write it always stumps me. Answering someone’s questions about who you are has always seemed a strange way to approach the task of telling others about yourself and your life’s mission. Because who knows you better than you do? In order to alleviate that emotion of seeming vanity, I decided to take on the job myself. I was raised by people who found life hard and wonderful at the same time. A farm in central Kentucky is what I call my homeland. The tender shoots that sprang from my grandfather’s carefully plowed rows were lessons about life. Planting, reaping, seedtime, and harvest, these are the bases of all of our existence, really. We planted each spring to make sure we survived the winter’s dark days. Spiritually we are nothing if we are not farmers planting seeds for the Master’s great wedding day harvest. We celebrated the rain after weeks of drought, always decidedly giving glory to God for His provision. We fed and housed ornery old Angus and Herford cows as if they were better than we were. We sweated through the heat of tobacco season and we prayed before every meal. We were fed on the baby food of “every good gift comes from the Father.” As we matured, we graduated to the meat of “though He slay me, yet, I will praise Him.” Surprisingly, no one has ever asked me how I came to follow Jesus. Of course my parents and grandparents held my feet to each precept of Christianity, but just because that is so does not mean salvation for me. Actually, I was wooed. For years, I sat and listened to the congregational songs, and their gospel plucked strings in my heart. It was not until I went to youth camp that it became clear that I had to take part in my Savior’s death by repentance. After camp, I did just that. There was not a parade. There were no fireworks. There were no flaming tongues falling at the front pew where I knelt. It was just Mrs. Davenport and me kneeling there. She praye