The following is a story from a President Ballantyne who told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. Ballantyne grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming, which is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill.

Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day. He earned little more than enough to take care of himself, with very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.

We had our family prayers around the table; and it was on one such night when Father was gone that we gathered and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. And I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, “Here, Mother. You drink mine.”

“No, Mother is not hungry tonight.”

It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed, but I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, in the middle of the floor, kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, “Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.”

When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, “Now, you run along, son. Everything will be all right.”

I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen and the aroma of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, “Mother, I thought you said there was no food.”

All she said to me was, “Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?” I received no further explanation than that.

Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, “My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly, I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”

“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice which spoke to me.”

“What did it say?” she asked.

“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”

“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.”

In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.