The sun had sunk into the meadow, and that dry Idaho air turned, almost in an instant, to a goose-bumpy chill, as if some unseen angel opened the massive door to heaven’s ice box. The token Priesthood that accompanied us at our Girls Camp had prepared a fire while the sun still shone, in that blazing heat, knowing it should be trusty and radiant by dark. God bless devoted men.
I was serving as president of the Young Women’s group in our church, overseeing a few dozen girls between 12 and 18 years old, and we had spent four memorable days at Sheri Brown’s family cabin near Preston. We rode horses through the sagebrush, shot rifles at tin cans, floated lazily down the river on inflated tire inner tubes. We had gobbled up Suzi Ferg’s delicious culinary delights, had strummed tiny ukuleles, made unimportant crafts, and pondered important scripture together. We prayed daily, and sang nightly, and now, at the end of our adventure, we gathered around that well-tended fire and cinched our hearts to each other as we bound them to the Lord. Testimony meeting. It’s a long-honored tradition in church camps. I have participated in such circles since my youth.
There’s a safety in nature, and a freedom. When you have a group of gals around a campfire, and they’re tired - not sleepy, just tired - their defenses are down and their hearts are soft, it seems to allow shields to fall and tenderness to rise. This is the time we invite each other to share our faith, and to witness what we believe. But I knew there were girls among us who had within them unsprouted seeds of faith, and putting them on the spot about their testimonies was not what we wanted. So, after we played a couple songs on our ukuleles, singing slower than usual in order for everyone to switch their fingers between chords, I stood and spoke.
“We’ve had a great time up here. It’s been awesome…even getting up a couple hours after we went to bed in order to hike that mountain and watch the sun rise. Watching that light peek over the mountain, one tiny little ray, then a pink glow, then a full-on face-warming brilliance – I saw the hand of God in that. And I saw His hand in the way I watched you help each other climb, and how you linked arms on the water to keep from going down the wrong fork in the river. And I saw His hand in the bravery of one of you when your horse took off unexpectedly and you held on like crazy. And I saw His hand in the homesick tears of some of our Beehives and how some of you Laurels used humor to ease the ache of your sisters. I’ve seen His hand so much these past four days. The thing is, many people see such things and don’t recognize it as God’s hand. So, tonight I’m inviting each of you to tell us when you have seen God’s hand in your lives, in these last few days, or other times throughout your lives.”
One by one the girls stood, tucked their hands into the pockets of their sweatshirts, curled their shoulders in toward their hearts, and witnessed to each other and to their Lord that they had noticed Him. Even those who could not testify to their knowledge of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ could say they had seen God’s hand in their lives. It united all of us, and we left that circle enriched and enlightened. I carry that evening in the memory box I keep tucked under my heart.
When I pause to notice it, I see the hand of God pretty much everywhere. The trick is in making myself look for it. Whether massively life changing moments, or in tiny seemingly inconsequential snips of daily existence, the exercise of noticing His hand changes the way I approach each day. Like pretty much everything else,it begins with "desire". The desire is the lifting of the veil, the shifting of the blinds. From where I sit, I close my eyes and ponder my day, each little moment, and if I see clearly, I always see the hand of God.
I was serving as president of the Young Women’s group in our church, overseeing a few dozen girls between 12 and 18 years old, and we had spent four memorable days at Sheri Brown’s family cabin near Preston. We rode horses through the sagebrush, shot rifles at tin cans, floated lazily down the river on inflated tire inner tubes. We had gobbled up Suzi Ferg’s delicious culinary delights, had strummed tiny ukuleles, made unimportant crafts, and pondered important scripture together. We prayed daily, and sang nightly, and now, at the end of our adventure, we gathered around that well-tended fire and cinched our hearts to each other as we bound them to the Lord. Testimony meeting. It’s a long-honored tradition in church camps. I have participated in such circles since my youth.
There’s a safety in nature, and a freedom. When you have a group of gals around a campfire, and they’re tired - not sleepy, just tired - their defenses are down and their hearts are soft, it seems to allow shields to fall and tenderness to rise. This is the time we invite each other to share our faith, and to witness what we believe. But I knew there were girls among us who had within them unsprouted seeds of faith, and putting them on the spot about their testimonies was not what we wanted. So, after we played a couple songs on our ukuleles, singing slower than usual in order for everyone to switch their fingers between chords, I stood and spoke.
“We’ve had a great time up here. It’s been awesome…even getting up a couple hours after we went to bed in order to hike that mountain and watch the sun rise. Watching that light peek over the mountain, one tiny little ray, then a pink glow, then a full-on face-warming brilliance – I saw the hand of God in that. And I saw His hand in the way I watched you help each other climb, and how you linked arms on the water to keep from going down the wrong fork in the river. And I saw His hand in the bravery of one of you when your horse took off unexpectedly and you held on like crazy. And I saw His hand in the homesick tears of some of our Beehives and how some of you Laurels used humor to ease the ache of your sisters. I’ve seen His hand so much these past four days. The thing is, many people see such things and don’t recognize it as God’s hand. So, tonight I’m inviting each of you to tell us when you have seen God’s hand in your lives, in these last few days, or other times throughout your lives.”
One by one the girls stood, tucked their hands into the pockets of their sweatshirts, curled their shoulders in toward their hearts, and witnessed to each other and to their Lord that they had noticed Him. Even those who could not testify to their knowledge of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ could say they had seen God’s hand in their lives. It united all of us, and we left that circle enriched and enlightened. I carry that evening in the memory box I keep tucked under my heart.
When I pause to notice it, I see the hand of God pretty much everywhere. The trick is in making myself look for it. Whether massively life changing moments, or in tiny seemingly inconsequential snips of daily existence, the exercise of noticing His hand changes the way I approach each day. Like pretty much everything else,it begins with "desire". The desire is the lifting of the veil, the shifting of the blinds. From where I sit, I close my eyes and ponder my day, each little moment, and if I see clearly, I always see the hand of God.
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Because I am incapable of disposing anything of sentimental value, I happen to have saved some photos of that Girls Camp. See below.
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| Our motley crew of Young Women (some of us not-so-young) |
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| Dry. |
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| Wet. |
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| Our littlest YW, Stephanie. |
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| Mounting our trusty steeds. |
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| Unimportant, but fun, crafts |
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| Outside the Logan temple. |
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| They'll go inside sometday. (most of them already have now) |
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| Taking aim. |
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| We be jammin'. |
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| Rocking their ukuleles. |
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| Who ever wants to actually sleep at "camp"? |
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| Are they not just so beautiful? This seems a lifetime ago. Each of these girls has become a brilliant, radiant, accomplished woman now. |
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| The Harris sisters. |
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| Cassie leaves a love note. |
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| I love them still.
You may or may not know that, like in days of old, God has appointed a prophet to keep us on the path back home. It’s awesome to live in these times, when such a thing has been restored. Our prophet today is Russell M Nelson. He is world renowned as a pioneering heart surgeon.
 In this special year, as we commemorate the 200th anniversary of the First Vision (of Joseph Smith, Google it if you don’t know),I invite you to think deeply and often about this key question: How do you hear Him? I also invite you to take steps to hear Him better and more often.
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