My children and I are enjoying listening to Where the Red Fern Grows together. After the boy gets his puppies, he reflects on God’s providence:
Still mumbling names over and over, I glanced up. There, carved in the white bark of a sycamore tree, was a large heart. In the center of the heart were two names, “Dan” and “Ann.” The name Dan was a little larger than Ann. It was wide and bold. The scar stood out more. The name Ann was small, neat, and even. I stared unbelieving—for there were my names. They were perfect.
I walked over and picked up my pups. Looking at him, I said, “Your name is Dan. I’ll call you Old Dan.” Looking at her, I said, “Your name, little girl, is Ann. I’ll call you Little Ann.”
It was then I realized it was all too perfect. Here in this fishermen’s camp, I had found the magazine and the ad. I looked over at the old sycamore log. There I had asked God to help me get two hound pups. There were the pups, rolling and playing in the warm sand. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can, and the fishermen. How freely they had given their nickels and dimes.
I looked up again to the names carved in the tree. Yes, it was all there like a large puzzle. Piece by piece, each fit perfectly until the puzzle was complete. It could not have happened without the help of an unseen power.