He was a wise young man—a coal miner who became a lawyer by studying at night school. First he learned shorthand. Then he found work in a law office. Later, when his shorthand improved, he became a court reporter. He attended law school at night and passed his bar exams. Then he received a call from God for missionary service. He even knew the place—Burma.

The view was breathtaking. Lush pine forests covered the mountainsides and disappeared into distant valleys below. A sheer rock face of reddish hue stretched upward toward snow-capped peaks that glistened in a sunny, cobalt-blue sky. It was a beautiful but treacherous route, and I fixed my attention on the road as we inched our way through Red Mountain Pass between Durango and Grand Junction, Colorado. Around hairpin curves, down steep grades, we finally had to stop our 40-foot touring bus so the brakes could cool. We still had a long distance to cover before we would reach safer terrain.

My grandparents, Esther and Joseph, immigrated to America from Lithuania in 1905. My grandfather, a tinsmith, had earned a livelihood in the old country with his horse and wagon. After a fire destroyed their village on the outskirts of Vilna province, Esther and Joseph packed their few possessions onto a wagon and left the country with their daughter Sarah, the only one of their six children who had survived childhood illness. They stayed for a few months in Iran, where strangers gave them blankets and food. In a few months Joseph obtained the necessary papers to take his family to America by ship.

I can't believe they want me to sing.…I can't believe they expect me to sing.…I can't believe I'm singing!"