Not long ago I took our daughter Debbie and two of our grown grandchildren on a memory trip to places in Canada where I grew up.

One special spot we visited was on Lake Rosseau in the Muskoka lakes region. It was once the site of a Bible conference, long since defunct, where my mother took me many summers of my early life.

As we cruised by boat along the rocky shore, I could see the old buildings derelict and deserted, but the memories stayed with me. I recalled the children’s meetings where a retired missionary woman and a college student told us about Jesus, and how at the end of that week I put up my hand to say I wanted to know and follow him.

The leaders said I was too young. But after I lifted my hand three times they realized I knew what I wanted, at least as much as a child could take in.

I was five then. Now, eighty plus years later, I can barely recall the voices and faces of that missionary lady and that college student, but I know that through them I heard another Voice calling me, a voice I have been listening for ever since.