Children’s Story – Steps to Life

Story – Mother’s Hands

May 4, 2026 by Lynette Golia

A young mother laid her baby girl to sleep in her cradle. I’ll just go to the neighbor’s for a minute to visit, she thought to herself. I haven’t had time to talk to her for such a long time. But while she and the neighbor were chatting, the city fire alarm sent a chill through them both.

“Don’t worry,” said the neighbor. “Most likely it’s only a grass fire. There are lots of them at this time of year. I’m sure the fire isn’t anywhere near here.”

“But listen,” said the mother. “I think I hear the fire engine coming this way. Look! People are running down the street, running toward my house!”

Without another word she dashed into the street and ran with the gathering crowd. Then she saw it. Her own house was on fire! Smoke and flames were already pouring through the roof.

“My baby!” she cried frantically. “My baby!”

The crowd was thick around the house, but she pushed and shoved until she reached the door. A fireman stopped her and said, “You can’t go in there! You will be burned!”

But the mother cried, “Let me go! Let me go!” as she broke free and dashed into the flaming house.

She knew just where to go. Running through the smoke and flames, she seized her precious baby, then turned to make her way out. But by now the smoke made it very hard to see and breathe. Nearly overcome, she swayed and fell, and would not have made it out of the house safely if a fireman had not picked her up and carried her out.

What a cheer went up as they appeared! Baby Marjorie was not hurt at all! But the poor mother’s hands were badly burned. Kind friends took care of the baby while the ambulance took her to the hospital. The doctors did their best, but her hands were terribly scared.

Years later, when Marjorie had grown, she suddenly noticed something she had not noticed before. Her mother’s hands were so disfigured! “Why are your hands so ugly?” she asked her mother when they were alone.

Tears filled her mother’s eyes as she remembered how frightened she was the day the house burned with Marjorie asleep and unaware of the danger.

“Have I said something wrong?” Marjorie asked when she saw the tears.

“No, my dear,” replied her mother. “But there’s a story I need to tell you.”

Then she told Marjorie the story of the fire. She told how the people tried to hold her back, how the fireman tried to stop her, how she battled the flames to rescue her, how she fell, and how they were rescued. Then she held out her scared hands for Marjorie to see.

“They are ugly, in a way, aren’t they,” Mother said softly. “For me, the only thing that mattered was to save your life.”

Now it was Marjorie’s turn to shed a few tears. “Oh, Mother,” she cried, “You must love me so much! These are the most beautiful hands in all the world!”

Do you know there are hands that were hurt for you? The hands of Jesus.

Soldiers drove great nails through His hands and hung Him on a cross to die so you could go to heaven. Even when He comes again, the marks made by those nails will still be there. If you ask Him, He will show them to you. When you see them, you will know for sure how much Jesus loves you!

Story – Mike’s Mystery

May 4, 2026 by Lynette Golia

A snowstorm was blowing when Mike got out of school that afternoon. He jerked his collar up around his neck and dashed for the bus.

It was amazing how quiet everything sounded, and how slowly the traffic was moving. All the buses were late, but Mike didn’t realize that. He saw one that looked like his and climbed aboard.

After traveling several miles he glanced out the window and noticed that the streets didn’t look right. He was on the wrong bus!

He would have to get another bus and go back. Did he have enough money for the fare?

He felt in his pocket. Three nickels—fifteen cents. The bus fare back to the school would be ten cents. The fare from school to home would be another ten cents. He didn’t have enough!

Then another idea occurred to him, and he relaxed. He could get off the bus at the next stop and phone home and ask Mother to come to the school for him. That would cost a nickel—for this happened when phone calls cost only five cents. The bus fare back to the school would be ten cents. The total would be fifteen cents, exactly what he had.

He got off the next stop and walked to a drugstore on the corner. The building was crowded with people, mostly children from school trying to keep warm till their buses came. He pressed his way in. The place had a damp, close smell about it.

There was a public phone on the far wall.

Mike put a nickel in and dialed. Really, considering the problem, things were working out remarkably well. He heard the phone ring once on the other end. Then the line went dead.

Mike had never known a phone to act that way before. He hung up and looked for the nickel to come back, but it didn’t.

Better try again.

He put in another nickel and dialed. The phone rang once—and died.

He put in another nickel and dialed a third time. Again the phone rang once and died.

Mike suddenly realized that his money was gone. He was alone, miles from home, with night coming on and a storm blowing, and no one to help him.

Unless Jesus would.

Mike was sure Jesus could. The Bible tells of a thousand wonderful things Jesus did in days gone by. But would He? Would Jesus help a boy find a dime to get home with—in these days?

Mike had it figured out now that a dime would be enough. Ten cents would pay the bus fare back to school, and he had a friend who lived near the bus stop who had a phone he could use to call home.

He closed his eyes in the middle of that crowded store and prayed. “Dear Jesus, please help me get a dime. I’m here all alone by myself, and there isn’t anyone else to help me but You.”

He opened his eyes, and a very wonderful thing happened. A man walked into the store and looked all the boys over carefully. Then he said, “You, boy. Would you like to earn a dime?”

He was pointing at Mike!

“Yes, SIR!” Mike said.

“Then come with me,” the man said. “My car’s stalled outside and I need someone to help me push it. Will you do that?”

Mike pushed, the car started, and the man paid him the dime.

Mike was soon on his way home, sitting in the bus, wondering at the marvelous mystery of it all. Why did the man’s car stall when it did? Why did the man look the boys over so carefully? Why did he choose him? Why did he offer to pay exactly a dime?

“Dear Jesus,” Mike whispered. “Now I know You really do love me, not just because of what the Bible says, but because of what You have done for me today. Thank You so much.”

Story – What Ruined Him

February 25, 2026 by Lynette Golia

A young man, who was in prison awaiting his trial for a serious crime, was asked what ruined him.

“Sir,” he replied with tears in his eyes, “it was my street education that ruined me! I had a good home education, but I would slip out of the house and go off with the boys in the street. In the street, I learned to lounge. In the street, I learned to swear. In the street, I learned to smoke. In the street, I learned to gamble, In the street, I learned to steal.”

So you see, my dear children, the street ruined that youth. It seemed pleasant to him, as it does to some of you, to spend his hours abroad with idle, boisterous lads. No doubt he thought his father and mother were too strict, too particular, and notional, when they wished him not to frequent the street; and, thinking so, he chose to have his own way even at the price of disobeying his parents. He did have his own way, but to what did it lead him? To destruction! I think he paid too high a price altogether for having his own way. If you agree, beware how you imitate him, beware how you cherish a love for the street, and street companions. Find your enjoyment at home, especially in the evening.

You may depend upon it, boys and girls, that to pass safely along the ways of life, you must be careful of your steps. It will not do for you to tread a path merely because flowers grow in it and you feel a desire to pluck them. The most flowery paths often lead to the most dangerous places. You must seek, therefore, for the right rather than for the pleasant way. Indeed, the right path is always the most pleasant in the end.

To find the right way, and thus to avoid the dangers of the wrong one, you need a guide for your feet. I have read somewhere, that, on a part of the seashore in England, there are steep cliffs rising abruptly from the beach. To keep smugglers from landing foreign goods on which duties have not been paid, a guard is stationed to watch, night and day. The men composing this guard have to ascend and descend the cliffs in the night. Their path is very narrow, and it runs close to the edge of the cliff. A single misstep would cause a man to fall over on to the beach, and to be dashed in pieces.

How do you suppose the men of that guard find their way up and down those cliffs at night in safety? If you were to examine their path, you would see a row of very white stones set in it all the way up from the beach. These stones can be seen in the darkest night. The men look for them and thus traverse the giddy path with safety.

Now, my dear children, God meant His Holy Book to be to you, on your life journey, what those white stones are to the men who guard that cliff in England. It tells you where to go and where not to go, what to do and what to avoid. If you wish, then, for safety, you must both study and obey the Bible. If you will not, why, like the young man in prison, you must find pain, shame, and death in your pathway.

Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle, Vol. 1, ©1877, 328–330.

The Early Life of George Stephenson

January 28, 2026 by Lynette Golia

George Stephenson, the inventor of the locomotive engine, and the founder of the railway system of traveling, was born in 1781 in England. His parents were poor, honest, industrious people. His birthplace a cottage with a clay floor, bare rafters, and unplastered walls.

George was the second of six children, and his father’s earnings seldom exceeded twelve shillings a week. Little, therefore, was left for clothing, and nothing at all for school. As a child, George’s time was spent in running errands and playing about the cottage.

He often helped to care for the children, his special duty being to see that they were kept out of the way of the coal wagons that passed on the tramroad in front of the cottage. These wagons were drawn on wooden rails by horses. Who can tell to what extent the constant sight of this rude railway may have shaped the great work of George Stephenson’s later life? It is interesting to know that the first experiment of a locomotive steam engine was tried on this very tramroad.

When George was eight years old, he found his first employment. He was appointed to look after the cows belonging to a widow, and for this he received twopence (2.5 cents) a day. He had plenty of leisure, which he spent chiefly in company with a favorite playmate, erecting small mills in the little streams around, and making engines out of clay, with hemlock stalks for steam pipes.

George was soon promoted to hoe turnips and to lead horses in plowing, though he was barely big enough to stride across the furrows. For this work he received fourpence a day.

But his great desire was to be with his father and brother at the coal mine. His wish was granted, and his wages were raised, to sixpence and afterward to eightpence a day. This was his employment for several years.

The growing and thoughtful lad, however, never forgot his clay engines; and his great ambition was to have the management of a real engine. Great, therefore, was his delight when he was taken to be an assistant to his father in firing an engine.

At seventeen years of age, his youthful ambition was gratified by his appointment as engineer at the same coal mine where his father was employed as fireman. Here, at last, he was able to carefully study every part of the machinery and to become a thorough master of the construction of the steam engine, an opportunity he had so ardently longed for.

He was now eighteen years of age, but he had never learned to read. His parents could not afford to send him to school, but they had tried to train him to good habits at home. He had been taught to use every minute wisely, and now he determined to learn to read and write. At the age of nineteen, he was proud to be able to write his own name. Then he began the study of arithmetic, working out his problems upon a slate as he sat by his engine fire.

Industry, sobriety, and thrift were the true secret of George’s success as a young man, and these sterling qualities afterward made him useful, prosperous, and honored. Besides his work as engineer, he became an expert in mending and making shoes. He also became skillful in mending clocks.

A heavy trial awaited him in the early death of his wife, leaving one son, Robert. The next year after this sad event, his father was blinded by an accident and reduced to want. With part of the money he had so carefully saved, George at once paid his father’s debts and placed him and his mother in a comfortable cottage near his own home, where he supported them until their deaths.

A great triumph now awaited him, a fitting reward of his own close attention and perseverance. An engine of defective construction had been erected for the purpose of pumping the water from a neighboring pit. It proved utterly incapable of doing the work for which it had been erected. All the best engineers in the district had tried in vain to remedy its defects. George examined it and expressed his belief that he could make it efficient. He was asked to undertake the task, and very soon the pit was cleared of water.

It would be a pleasant task to follow the growing success of this noble young man step by step—to read of his resolve to give his son the best education he could, of his own unceasing efforts at self-improvement, of his ingenuity, his untiring industry, and his masculine vigor.

Amid difficulties of no ordinary kind, God was gradually preparing George Stephenson for his great and enduring work—the construction of the locomotive engine, and the introduction of the vast railway system—so that in this “time of the end” when “knowledge shall be increased” His truth might be carried to “every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people.” In the year 1825, this work was accomplished, and passengers and goods were first carried over a railway by a locomotive. This great achievement ranked among the highest of all the wonderful products of the industrial era.

A Story About Nothing

January 2, 2026 by Lynette Golia

This story is about nothing — nothing at all. That’s what you brought into the world with you when you were born. Just nothing. Zero.

There was a man in Italy who added a great deal of money to his first zero, and he became a rich man with a lot of zeros after the number one. He had an expensive car and much more. He also had in his car a little New Testament which he had stuffed out of sight in his glove compartment, because he didn’t know what to do with it.

Think of that! The eternal word of God, showing the way to everlasting joy with the answer to all the sins and sorrows of life and death, and he didn’t know what to do with it! He knew how to handle money and how to make more. He knew how to get a beautiful house and how to meet important people, but he didn’t know God’s simple way of salvation. How poor can a rich man be?

Then came the car accident. The ambulance was called, and there was nothing he could do but wait. His injuries were not severe, but he knew very well that he could have been killed. His hand reached for the ownership papers of his car, and his fingers came up with that little New Testament. For the first time, he opened it and read that verse about “nothing.”

“We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” 1 Timothy 6:7

“I felt as if I had been struck by lightning!” he said later. He realized that if he had been killed, all his possessions would be reduced to the original zero. Nothing would be left for eternity. Not a single penny of all his riches would be his the moment after his death.

But after death there is something that would still be his. His sins! These you cannot get rid of after death. They must be gotten rid of before death or they will stand against you in the last judgment. Will you please, at this moment, picture this awful truth—standing before God in your sins!

However, the awful debt of my sins has been paid by the One who loves me and died for me on Calvary. His blood cleanses and redeems me from all sin as I accept His gift of eternal life. When I choose salvation, as I live for Him I accept that I am His child.

“As many as received Him, to them He gave His power to become the sons [and daughters] of God to them that believe in His name.” John 1:12

The rich man in the car accident began to read the Bible earnestly, and he soon accepted the Lord Jesus as his Saviour and shortly afterwards was baptized. Will you also receive this loving Saviour as your own? “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.” 2 Corinthians 6:2

Messages of God’s Love, by Bible Truth Publishers, Addison, IL 60101

Story – A Cry for Help in the Jungle

November 30, 2025 by W. A. Spicer

William Butler, founder of the Methodist missions in India, was fleeing from Bareli, North India, with his wife and little ones. The terrifying news of the Sepoy mutiny at Meerut and then at Delhi had come, and no time was to be lost in getting to Naini Tal, a European hill station in the Himalaya Mountains. Native bearers were engaged to carry the doolies (palanquins). In these rode Mrs. Butler, whose health was precarious, and the two children, with the baggage.

They had entered the Terai, a jungle region at the foot of the mountains “reeking with malaria, and the haunt of tigers and elephants,” Dr. Butler, in his Land of the Vedas, says. “The rank vegetation stood in places like high walls on either side. At midnight we reached that part of it where the bearers are changed. The other palanquins had their full complement of men; but of the twenty-nine bearers for whom I paid, I could find only nine men and one torch-bearer; and this, too, in such a place!

“Darkness and tigers were around us; the other palanquins were starting one after another, each with its torch to frighten away the beasts, the bearers taking advantage of the rush to extort heavy baksheesh [a payment such as a bribe].”

Rendered desperate, Dr. Butler put the two children in one palanquin with Mrs. Butler. He ran after a man with a cart, who was disappearing up the road, and compelled him to turn his bullocks and take on board the servant Ann and the little baggage they were taking in their flight.

Then the doctor turned to watch the bearers start on with Mrs. Butler and the children. But not one stirred. “They were exhausted by extra work, and might have even fairly refused to carry two children with a lady; and to have taken either of them on the bullock cart was impossible. Delay seemed ruinous to the only plan by which I could get them on at all.

“If the two men refused the burden, and left, they would take with them, for their own protection, the only torch there was, which belonged to them, and we should have been left in darkness, exposed to the tigers and the deadly malaria. …

“It was an awful moment. For a few minutes my agony was unutterable; I thought I had done all I could, and now everything was on the brink of failure. I saw how ‘vain’ was ‘the help of man,’ and I turned aside into the dark jungle, took off my hat, and lifted my heart to God. If ever I prayed, I prayed then. I besought God in mercy to influence the hearts of these men, and decide for me in that solemn hour. I reminded Him of the mercies that had hitherto followed us, and implored His interference in this emergency. My prayer did not last two minutes, but how I prayed in that time!

“I put on my hat, returned to the light, and looked. I spoke not; I saw my men at once bend to the dooly; it rose, and off they went instantly, and they never stopped a moment, except kindly to push little Eddie in, when in his sleep he rolled so that his feet hung out.”

On they went through the dark night, and on through the jungle, and out at last into the safety of the mountain passes. Dr. Butler knew that it was the Lord’s own interference that had turned the hearts of those heathen coolies when he had exhausted every human resource in vain.

“God is the refuge of His saints,

When storms of sharp distress invade.”

Fighting the Good Fight

November 9, 2025 by Lynette Golia

A number of years ago, at an orphanage in a northern state, there lived a boy we shall call Will Jones. He was just an ordinary boy except in one respect, which I must point out, to his discredit. Will Jones had a temper that distinguished him from the general run of boys. Will’s temper might have been inherited from a Spanish pirate, and yet Will was a boy whom everyone loved; but this hair-trigger temper at times terribly spoiled things. It would be tedious to recount his uprisings of anger, and the dire consequences that often followed.

Mr. Custer, the superintendent of the orphanage, had worked to hopefully lead Will to the paths of right; but it was a difficult task.

Sometimes it needs but one small breach to begin the overthrow of a giant wall. One small key, if it is the right one, will open the most resisting door. One small phrase may start a germ of thought growing in a human mind which in after years may become a mighty oak of character. So, Will Jones the incorrigible fighter, was to demonstrate this principle, as we shall see.

On a Sabbath evening, as the hundred or more orphans met at vespers and sang, “Onward, Christian Soldiers!” they saw a stranger seated at the speaker’s desk in the home chapel. He was a venerable old man, straight and dignified, his grayish-white head a crown of honor; for he was all that he appeared—a father in Israel.

In a brief speech, he told the boys that he had once been a Union soldier, and had fought in the battles of his country. He told of the courage it required to face death upon the battlefield. He described the charges his company had made and met, the sieges and the marches, the sufferings they endured, and, lastly, the joys that victory and the end of the conflict brought.

Then, when the boys were at the height of interested expectancy, he skillfully drew the lesson he wanted them to learn. He told of a greater warfare, requiring a higher courage, and bringing as a reward a larger and more enduring victory. “Boys,” he said, “the real soldiers are the Christian soldiers; the real battle is the battle against sin; the real battleground is where that silent struggle is constantly waging within our minds.” Then he told of Paul, who said, “I have fought a good fight.” Did any of you boys ever fight a bad fight?” Every head but one turned to a common point at this juncture, and the eyes of only one boy remained upon the speaker. Will Jones had the record for bad fights, and that is why about 99 pairs of eyes had involuntarily sought him out when the speaker asked the question, which he hoped each would ask himself. And the reason Will Jones did not look around accusingly at any of the other boys was because he had taken to heart all that had been said; and, because of this, the turning point had come; his conversion had begun. Henceforth, he determined so to live that he could say with Paul, “I have fought a good fight.”

No sooner does a boy determine to fight the good fight than Satan accepts the challenge, and gives him a combat such as will seem like a “fiery trial” to try him. These struggles develop the moral backbone; and if a boy does not give in, he will find his moral courage increasing with each moral fight. Just let that thought stay in your mind, underscored in bold faced italics, and printed in indelible ink; and if you have a tendency to be a spiritual “jelly-back,” it will be like a rod of steel to your spine.

The fear of Will Jones’ knuckles had won a degree of peace for him. He had lived a sort of armed truce, so to speak. Now he was subjected to petty persecutions by mean boys who took advantage of his new stand. He did not put on the look of a martyr either, but remained good natured even when the old volcano within was rumbling and threatening to bury the tormentors in hot lava and ash. The old desire to fight the bad fight was turned into the new channel of determination to fight the good fight. Today, Will Jones is still a good fighter, and I hope he always will be, and someday be crowned with eternal victory; for he who fights the good fight is fighting for eternity.

Will you not try so to live each day, subduing every sinful thought, that at night when you kneel to pray you can say to the Lord, “I have fought a good fight today”?

Story – David Brainard

October 1, 2025 by Lynette Golia

Apostle to the American Indians

At the dawn of the seventeenth century, the memorable “Mayflower” brought to the shores of North America a man and a woman who were to be the grandparents of the great missionary.

Far up amidst a group of hills near Hartford, Connecticut, nestled the cottage where on April 20, 1718, this missionary was born. His name was David Brainard. When he was a mere youth, both his parents died. He did not attend school until he was past twenty years of age. Nevertheless, his education was not neglected. He loved to read the Bible, as is shown by the fact that one year he read the whole volume through twice.

At the age of twenty-four, Mr. Brainard received a license to preach. At this time, he responded to a call to labor among the North American Indians. Although it was in the dead of winter, he started to his field without delay. At that time the American continent was largely peopled by the red race. But few white people had ever gone west of New York, and but little was known of the Mississippi Valley.

The field assigned him was a region at that time inhabited solely by the Indians. On his journey he passed through New York City, then only a small town. After leaving New York he traversed the wilderness with his lone horse, depending entirely upon the hospitality of the Indians for his daily needs, crossing the mountains, facing bleak winds, struggling through deep drifts of snow, having nothing but the limitless blue tent of heaven for a shelter, yet regarding these afflictions lightly when compared with the bitter agony of the Saviour.

Immediately upon reaching his field he set to work to learn the language of the Iroquois, the difficulty of which can be inferred from the word “question,” which in the Indian language contains thirty-six letters. The work that John Eliot had done in reducing the Indian language to a written form, was of inestimable value to David Brainard.

The influence of this earnest Christian over the red man can be seen by the fact that he persuaded an entire tribe to emigrate so that his interpreter might work for them.

After several months of labor, he returned to New Jersey to be ordained, but upon returning to his mission field, he was met by the hostility of the traders. These unprincipled men, instead of trying to uplift their red brothers, carried to them that soul destroying enemy—strong drink. The gospel of Jesus brought to them by Mr. Brainard was having its influence to turn these deluded people away from this vice, and the traders felt as did those men from whom Paul took away “the hope of their gains,” by leading the people to turn away from the evils of divination and serve the true God.

Mr. Brainard heard of a great feast that was to be held the following day, and he knew it would be a time of drunkenness and crime for many of the Indians. What could he do to turn this tide of evil from them? Retiring to the quiet shadow of the woods, he prayed as so often our Saviour prayed, through the entire night, pleading for strength and wisdom to show the Indians their sin. The following day he was enabled by divine grace to break up the tumult, and to speak the word of life to interested listeners.

The Spirit of the Lord was working like leaven upon the hearts of the Indians, and soon there was a great revival. Entire tribes came scores of miles to hear the words of salvation. Ninety-five percent of his hearers were prostrated before the Lord. Their cry of anguish is touchingly expressed in this moving stanza [see in the image above].

This life of hardship and exposure proved too much for Mr. Brainard’s health, and it was at last discovered that he was a victim to that dread disease, tuberculosis. He suffered greatly, and was finally taken to his home and friends. For many weeks his life hung in the balance, and before he reached the age of thirty years his work on earth was finished.

His spirit always rose when it seemed that the end was near. The earnestness of his life is expressed in these words from his diary: “My heaven is to please God and glorify Him; to give all to Him, to be wholly devoted to His cause—that is the heaven I long for, that is my religion and happiness. There is nothing in this world worth living for but doing good, and finishing God’s work, doing the work that Christ did.”

Story – The Brown Towel

August 24, 2025 by Lynette Golia

“One who has nothing can give nothing,” said Mrs. Sayers, the sexton’s wife, as the ladies of the sewing society were busily engaged in packing the contents of a large box, destined for a Western missionary.

“A person who has nothing to give must be poor, indeed,” said Mrs. Bell, as she deposited a pair of warm blankets in the already well-filled box.

Mrs. Sayers looked at the last-named speaker with a glance which seemed to say, “You who have never known self-denial cannot feel for me,” and remarked, “You surely think one can be too poor to give?”

“I once thought so, but have learned from experience that no better investment can be made, even from the depths of poverty, than lending to the Lord.”

Seeing the ladies listening attentively to the conversation, Mrs. Bell continued: “Perhaps, as our work is finished, I can do no better than to give you my experience on the subject. It may be the means of showing you that God will reward the cheerful giver.

“During the first twenty-eight years of my life, I was surrounded with wealth; and not until I had been married nine years did I know a want which money could satisfy, or feel the necessity of exertion. Reverses came with fearful suddenness, and before I had recovered from the blow, I found myself the wife of a poor man, with five little children dependent upon our exertions.

“From that hour I lost all thought of anything but the care of my family. Late hours and hard work were my portion, and to my unskilled hands it seemed at first a bitter lot. My husband strove anxiously to gain a subsistence, and barely succeeded. We changed our place of residence several times, hoping to do better, but without improvement.

“Everything seemed against us. Our well-stocked wardrobe had become so exhausted that I felt justified in absenting myself from the house of God, with my children, for want of suitable apparel. While in this low condition, I went to church one evening, when my poverty-stricken appearance would escape notice, and took my seat near the door. An agent from the West preached, and begged contributions to the home missionary cause. His appeal brought tears to my eyes, and painfully reminded me of my past days of prosperity, when I could give of my abundance to all who called upon me. It never entered my mind that the appeal for assistance in any way concerned me, with my poor children banished from the house of God by poverty, while I could only venture out under the friendly protection of darkness.

“I left the church more submissive to my lot, with a prayer in my heart that those whose consciences had been addressed might respond. I tried in vain to sleep that night. The words of the text, ‘Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom,’ seemed continually sounding in my ears. The eloquent entreaty of the speaker to all, however poor, to give a mite to the Lord, and receive the promised blessing, seemed addressed to me. I rose early the next morning, and looked over all my worldly goods in search of something worth bestowing, but in vain; the promised blessing seemed beyond my reach.

“Hearing that the ladies of the church had filled a box for the missionary’s family, I made one more effort to spare something. All was poor and threadbare. What should I do? At last I thought of my towels. I had six, of coarse brown linen, but little worn. They seemed a scanty supply for a family of seven; and yet I took one from the number, and, putting it into my pocket, hastened to the house where the box was kept, and quietly slipped it in. I returned home with a light heart, feeling that my Saviour’s eye had seen my sacrifice, and would bless my effort.

“From that day success attended all my husband’s efforts in business. In a few months our means increased so that we were able to attend church and send our children to Sabbath school, and before ten years had passed, our former prosperity had returned fourfold. ‘Good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over,’ had been given us.

“It may seem superstitious to you, my dear friends, but we date all our success in life to God’s blessing, following that humble gift out of deep poverty. He may not always think best to reward so signally those who give to Him, but He is never unmindful of the humblest gift or giver. Wonder not that from that day I deem few too poor to give, and that I am a firm believer in God’s promise that He will repay with interest, even in this life, all we lend to Him.”

Glances of deep interest, unmixed with envy, were cast from the windows at Mrs. Bell, as, after bidding the ladies adieu, she stepped into her carriage. Her consistent benevolence had proved to all that in her prosperity she retained the same Christian spirit which, in her days of poverty, had led to the bestowal of the brown towel.

“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Sayers, “if we all had such a self-denying spirit, we might fill another box at once. I will never again think that I am too poor to give.”

Story – Saved from the Flood

July 30, 2025 by Lynette Golia

Night had fallen. Everybody in the little town was asleep. Everybody, that is, except the policeman, who was keeping his watch all alone in the police station.

Nobody dreamed that danger was near. No serious trouble had come to the town in years. There was no sign of trouble now, except that the level of the water in the river was a little higher than usual. But then, the water often rose and fell without anyone’s noticing it. Sometimes, especially in the hot dry summer, the river was merely a little trickle, way down at the bottom of its forty-foot-high banks.

The night wore on. There was no sound save the beating of the rain on the roofs and roadways, and the occasional barking of a dog.

Suddenly the telephone rang sharp and loud in the police station.

Startled a bit, the policeman picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said.

The words that came over the phone shocked him.

“Flood warning!” said a voice. “Lots of water rushing your way. Will reach you in thirty minutes. Get the people out of all houses on low-lying ground. There’s no time to lose.”

A flood! In thirty minutes! How little time to warn everybody! How quickly he must work!

The policeman sounded the alarm, and in an instant the whole town was alive. A few minutes later men were hurrying to the houses down by the river, waking the sleeping families and helping them move what they could of their goods to higher ground. There just wasn’t time to salvage many things.

Some of the people, just roused from sleep, didn’t want to move, especially in the middle of the night, with rain pouring down. They couldn’t believe that a flood was only a few minutes away. But the policeman and the fireman and other friends hurried them out to safety.

Then it came. About one o’clock in the morning, a wall of water, full of uprooted trees, broken houses, and dead animals, rushed by. On its churning surface were tables, chairs, pianos, oil drums, and even cars! It hit the bridge in the middle of town and carried it away as though it had been made of paper. It overflowed its banks and filled all the low-lying land nearby. Some of the houses which people had left but a few minutes before were lifted off their foundations and sent sailing downstream. Others simply collapsed, fell apart, and were carried away.

By this time hundreds of people were standing on high ground near the river, peering through the darkness at the terrible scene before them. How glad they were that nobody was in those houses that were being smashed and carried away by the flood!

Nobody?

“Look!” cried someone, pointing over the swirling water. “Surely that was a light! Over there; look!”

“It can’t be,” said others. “There’s nobody there. There’s no light.”

“But there it is again! It must be a candle. Somebody keeps lighting it, and it blows out.”

“So it is. Whose house is it?”

“That’s Mrs. Smith’s house. Her husband is in the Army, and she has four little children with her. Didn’t anybody warn them?”

Somehow in the darkness and the excitement that house had been missed. Now it was surrounded by wild, rushing water which threatened any moment to carry it away.

“Give me a rope!” cried some brave soul. “I’ll swim over there.”

They tied a rope around the man, and he set off. But he couldn’t get anywhere near. It was impossible. The swift current carried him away, and it was only with great difficulty that he was hauled back. Another man offered to go but he also failed. A third made the attempt, but exhausted, had to give up.

Meanwhile, out there in the darkness a brave mother was making a gallant fight for her life and for the lives of her children.

As no one had called to warn her of the coming flood, she and her children were all fast asleep when the first rush of water came sweeping into their house. Awakened by shouts and the roar of the flood waters going by, she jumped out of bed to find herself standing in two feet of water, which covered the bedroom floor and was fast rising. Suddenly realizing what had happened, she grabbed her four children and lifted them one by one onto the top of a large cupboard. Then as the water rose above the beds, the table, the chairs, she clambered up on top of the cupboard herself, taking with her a candle and matches, a dry blanket, a bottle of milk, a knife, an old chisel, and, of all things, a flatiron!

Now they were all huddled together on top of the cupboard, wondering just how high the water would rise. Then it was that this dear, brave mother began to pray that God would spare her and her children, and if not, let them die together.

An hour passed by. Two hours. It was now three o’clock in the morning. They could feel the water close to the top of the cupboard. Suddenly one of the inside walls of the house gave way and fell with a great splash.

“The end must be near now,” this brave mother said to herself. But she was not ready to give up yet.

Now it was that she made use of the tools she had so wisely brought with her, thinking that she might in some way need them.

Just over their heads was the ceiling, made of thin boards. “If I could just cut through it,” she said to herself, “we could climb up on the rafters. Then we would be another two feet above the water.”

Seizing the flatiron and the blunt chisel, she began chipping away at the board, splitting it off in little pieces until she had made a hole two feet long by nine inches wide. Through this tiny holy she pushed her children, one by one, telling each to sit astride a rafter. She was afraid they might fall through the frail board if they were to stand on it. Then she pulled herself up through the hole and sat with them there, waiting, wondering, praying, while below, the water swirled through the house.

Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Six o’clock. It was getting light now. And what a scene! The great brown torrent was still surging by, with bits of broken houses and furniture floating on its surface.

Hundreds of people who had watched all night were looking anxiously at the one little house still standing in the midst of the flood. Only its roof could be seen now, with the tops of some of its windows. Surely everybody in it must have drowned long ago!

But no! As they looked they could see that someone was cutting a hole in the roof!

The brave little mother was making her last attempt to save her children. She was lifting them out onto the roof!

A shout goes up from the people and tears come to many eyes. But the little family is still in grave danger. At any moment the house could begin to come apart under the pressure of the swirling water.

“Let me try again,” says a strong swimmer. “I think I can make it now.”

They tie a rope around his waist and he sets off through the raging waters. He is swept downstream, but fights his way up again. At last, after a mighty effort, he reaches the house. Another shout goes up from the people anxiously watching on the bank. He has gotten there in time! The family may yet be saved.

Tying the rope securely, he makes his way in through a window. The large cupboard, on which the family had waited so long, and by which they had climbed into the loft, is gone. He signals back for a ladder. Soon another swimmer, aided by the rope, is on his way with one. Another swimmer follows. Soon one of them is seen swimming from the house with a little girl on his shoulders.

Another mighty cheer rends the morning air. Then another and another as one by one the children are brought by strong hands along the rope, strained to the uttermost by the fury of the torrent.

Then, as all brave captains are last to leave a sinking ship, this dear mother is the last to leave her falling house. When all her four children have been taken to safety she comes herself and, with the help of her rescuers, makes her way to land. What a cheer the people give for her!

Her children won’t soon forget how they were saved from death that dreadful night. It was a mother’s faith against a flood.