Through thrilling lands of orange, lemon, grapefruit and walnut groves, we wended our weary but triumphant way to Los Angeles, the City of Angels. Los Angeles differed little from scores of other cities we had passed through. The streets were not paved with gold, neither were the boulevards lined with angels, but I had the feeling that here I would meet my destiny. Here was journey’s end.
Among the subscribers to my magazine was one family that resided in the city. Turning our car down the wide stretches of Washington Blvd., we approached the residence of Brother and Sister Blake. We paused before the widest gate I had ever seen and sounded our motor horn. God spoke to my heart, “I will open the heart of California to you as wide as this gate.” And bless the Lord, He did!
We had only two days to get the ache out of our arms before we opened our revival campaign in Los Angeles, after our long transcontinental gospel-auto trip with a car whose speedometer now registered more than 4,000 miles. Our campaign opened in Victoria Hall, a large upstairs auditorium having a seating capacity of about 1,000. From the first meeting, the crowds grew steadily. In a few days the people were not able to get into the hall.
Here in Los Angeles, where the Pentecostal power had so wonderfully fallen on Azusa Street, we learned that several doctrinal differences had gotten the eyes of many off the Lord. Hungry hearts were praying earnestly, however, and the Lord answered their prayer in a wonderful way. Those who had lost their first love caught the flame and reconsecrated their lives to His service.
The windows of heaven were opened, hundreds were saved, scores were healed, and large numbers received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. People complained that they could not get into the building, so the Philharmonic Auditorium, seating some 3,500, was engaged for the larger meetings.
All this time, the Lord had continued to assure me that He would provide for me a little home for my children. One Sunday night, when the auditorium was packed, a young lady sprang to her feet, saying: “The Lord showed me I am to give a lot to Mrs. McPherson. I have four lots of land and do not need them all.”
A brother sprang to his feet, saying: “I will help lay the foundation.” Others offered: “I will do the lathing,” and “I will do the plastering,” and “I will furnish the dining room.” On it went.
When all was arranged, a day of dedication and earth-turning was set. After singing and prayer, the saints formed a long line and marched around the lot, single file, asking the Lord for the needed means with which to erect the little home.
In the past, when out of the will of God, how I had struggled to get a little rented flat furnished, and what misery I had gone through! But now God Himself was planning a home that would be our own, a home given and built by the saints, where every hammer drove nails of love into the building and into our hearts.
Just three months from the date the lot was donated, the “little gray home in the West” was finished, and my mother, the children and myself were in it. Each blow of the hammer, each smoothing of the trowel, was done by Spirit-filled brethren who sang as they worked, while consecrated sisters cooked for them and sang in the garage, which had been built first.
What a little haven of rest it proved to be, that little home, a gift from the Father of love. But I was not to tarry there long. The gospel call summoned me to meetings in other parts of the United States.
Adapted from Aimee: The Life Story of Aimee Semple McPherson by Aimee Semple McPherson, copyright 1979. Published by the International Church of the Foursquare Gospel.