Proof The Bible Is True

That spring, for the first time in years, Mother couldn’t go mushrooming. After surgery, she was recuperating at our home. No scurrying off to the moist Hoosier woodlands. No hunting for morels, the rare cone-shaped mushrooms that grow for a short time every spring.

 

For Mother that was a real hardship; mushrooming was her gift. Every year we kids would go into the woods with her; we’d fan out in different directions, searching in proven morel breeding grounds such as patches of mayapple, rotting stumps and fallen elm trees. But it was always Mother who would call out suddenly, “Come quick! Look what I’ve found.” And there, in an unpromising pile of decaying leaves, half-hidden, would be the precious honeycomb spikes of morels we’d been seeking.

 

Read More: Mysterious Ways: The Gift in the Garden – Guideposts