Amanda Berry Smith: Faithful in Service
Editor’s Note: As we seek to grow in our application of the gospel, we can be inspired and shaped by faithful moms who have gone before us, like Amanda Berry Smith. For some additional biographies to check out, visit our church history page.
A middle-aged woman stood on the docks of an English harbor, gazing around in wonder. She had spent her entire adult life dreaming of the day when her passion for Christ would lead to this sea voyage. From a very young age, she had prayed for growth and sanctification—prayed to be used by God. And now, so many years later, she was finally here. A smile spread across her face as she stepped off of the gangplank in her simple Quaker garb, all six feet of her looking radiant and regal in the noonday sun.
It had been worth the wait.
Amanda Berry was one of Samuel and Miriam Berry’s fourteen children. Her father bought his freedom when Amanda was just a young child and worked tirelessly to purchase the freedom of all fifteen other members of his household. Amanda’s memories of childhood were peppered with the reading of the Word of God, both by her parents at the dinner table and during her family’s frequent visits to the Presbyterian church.
The first time Amanda went to church alone was with a wealthy employer, Mrs. Lattimer. Amanda was the only Black woman in attendance at the Methodist meeting, but she never forgot how one woman took her aside and prayed for her. From that moment on, Amanda was committed to serving God with her life.
Amanda could not have known the life that God would use in his service or how difficult those years of service would be. She endured two abusive marriages, buried two husbands, mourned the death of four of her children in infancy, and raised her daughter Mazie alone. While her heart was poised towards ministry, she spent most of her hours working as a washerwoman to provide for herself and her daughter, going to church when she could, and reading the Bible with her small spare hours.
In July of 1872, she attended a church missions day where missionaries from India, China, Japan, and South America shared their experiences overseas. Amanda started her ministry in America as an evangelist once her daughter Mazie was older, and by 1880, she had ministered in England, Scotland, India, and South Africa. In India and Africa, her ministry efforts focused on orphans—a calling that carried back into her life stateside.
She would found the Amanda Smith Orphanage and Industrial Home for Abandoned and Destitute Colored Children with funds from the autobiography she wrote about her life of ministry.
The parts of Amanda’s story for which she is remembered can feel so far from the day-to-day reality of a young mother. You might be reading about her journeys across Europe, Asia, and Africa while you take a break from changing a diaper, wiping up spit-up, or taking a pumping break at work. Missionary expeditions might be the last thing on your mind as you move through the beautiful mundanity of motherhood.
But the part of Amanda’s story that speaks to me in this harried season is that bit before she stepped onto the shore in England on her first missionary journey. Even before she took the stage at her first revival service.
Amanda spent the entire first half of her life as a washerwoman. This was, of course, before the dawn of washing machines, when the work of washing clothes was labor-intensive. She spent hours pulling sopping wet clothing out of tubs, hoisting the heavy garments with all of her might, and wringing them out with dish-worn hands. She likely hung things to dry in a squalid tenement, where four of her five children died of respiratory illnesses, presumably because of her difficult living conditions. She was paid a few coins for scrubbing intricate Victorian undergarments with lye.
Not only did she experience the loss of her children—and her marriages—but Amanda also grieved disappointed dreams again and again. One husband claimed he wanted to be a pastor but never spent a day of his life in ministry, spending every cent she made on his frivolous whims. The other drank heavily, yelled at her, and verbally abused her. And Amanda lived in a time where her options were severely limited because of her status as a Black woman.
And yet, this woman never stopped praying that her life would be a testament to God’s faithfulness. And yes, it was a testament in those big “missionary expeditions across the world” ways—but also in those smaller acts of faithfulness. It was a testament in that she never lost sight of the promises of God, even as she suffered.
Whatever your story as you read these words—whether you’re like me, and Amanda’s suffering humbles you because you have never gone through quite as much, or you relate all too well to Amanda’s struggles—her story is a whisper of hope to a mother’s exhausted heart. As we put ourselves aside for the good of our families—as we set dreams on the shelf because of the expediency of the moment—we serve a God who sees. We serve a God who never forgets. We serve a God who always has his eye on the faithful.
His promises are worth the wait.
