My parents had not given their hearts to God, yet they taught us to live
right. The only religious services we ever attended were those held once a
month in a country chapel. Other Sundays we would sing together in our home
and father would read a sermon to us out of a book.

We would then repeat the Lord's prayer and sing another song.

One afternoon, when I was two and a half years old, a number of we children
were invited to a neighbor's for lunch and play. As we passed the pantry
window on our way in, we saw a number of dishes filled with nice red
berries. One youngster suggested that we help ourselves to the berries, and
this we did. After a few mouthfuls I began to scream and ran home. Mother,
hearing my screams, rushed out to meet me and, picking me up in her arms,
asked me where I was hurt. I couldn't tell her but kept screaming. Finally
mother began to chide and shaking me, said, "Tell me where you are hurt."
Still I could not speak, then mother fell upon her knees and cried, "Lord,
my child is dying in my arms and I cannot find what is the matter with
him." I was then able to speak and tell her the cause of my trouble.
Putting my hand over my heart I said that I was having pain there and not
in my stomach. Mother questioned me as to whether the lady had given us the
berries, and I told her, "No," that we had helped ourselves to them. She
said, "I will tell you how to get rid of your pain: Go and tell the lady
what you have done and giving her your hand ask her to forgive you, and I
am sure the pain will leave you." Mother went with me and when I confessed
to the lady she took me up in her arms and wept with me. After confessing
the pain all disappeared.

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