Missionary Journal July 1965

Driving to an appointment there was this one big field of wheat that I could look across to the left and the right and could not see its boundaries. The field went for miles. It was as an ocean of wheat, the wind gently moves the colors of yellow through the green and brown heads of grain. I knew it was planted by the labors of faith that rains would come just at the right time to germinate the seeds. It was amazing that one seed would turn into eleven to eighteen heads of grain. As I looked across this field, it was as if looking across rippling water at sunrise in the early morning. Above, my eyes would see angels of white, flying on puffs of clouds raising their wings of exhilarating beauty, proclaiming the wonderment of this land. Along with this, the blue sky seemed to be moving deeper into the heavens. A Montana treat for those long drives during the warm summer afternoons, with those endless fields of grain.

Cut Bank, Montana, at the top of the state, where you could stand on a bible and see tomorrow coming. The people are as wonderful as the fields of wheat, sustaining the missionaries in their work. The area, 130 miles east and 130 miles south. We would carry coat hangers and a pair of pliers in the trunk of our 1961 Rambler. It happened more than once, the gas tank falling off in the middle of the road. Times were that when we ran out of gas we would open the trunk, the two doors, and let the wind plow us into the next gas station miles off.

We belonged here. The people, kind but hesitant to have us in their home. Trusting in faith, the seed is planted. The search for truth, the testimonies that grew from prayer and study. The harvester looking across the field ready to do the work. For the field is ripe and ready. In two's, we labored working with love in the Lord, We thrust the sickle in for the harvest. The fields of Montana are fertile with blessing from a loving Father, the blessing of a bountiful harvest.