“In my early years of marriage when Matt was in seminary and our leisure time was devoted to reading, I devoured A Chance to Die, the story of Elisabeth’s own hero Amy Carmichael. Besides being challenged by Amy’s exemplary life, I was encouraged that my hero had a hero.”

I was 15 years old when a family friend gave me Elisabeth Elliot’s Passion and Purity.

Besides the practical help it gave me, I was completely drawn into the story of her and Jim Elliot’s courtship. Her description of Jim put a picture in my mind that shaped my expectation of a future husband. Six years later when my husband Matt and I were engaged, I eagerly read Let Me Be a Woman, a book written for Elisabeth’s daughter Valerie when Valerie was engaged to be married. My husband is grateful I read it and let it affect my thinking and practice as a wife.

In my early years of marriage when Matt was in seminary and our leisure time was devoted to reading, I devoured A Chance to Die, the story of Elisabeth’s own hero Amy Carmichael. Besides being challenged by Amy’s exemplary life, I was encouraged that my hero had a hero. Not long after this I found a copy of The Shaping of a Christian Family at a resale bookshop. Again I was struck by the practical help found in this book, but was also drawn into the compelling story of her own childhood. I didn’t have any children at the time, but was hoping this season was just ahead. The book meant so much to me that I decided to tell her in a letter how formative her books and ministry had been in my life. I told her she was my Amy Carmichael, my spiritual hero and godly example.

I didn’t expect a reply. Well, perhaps I hoped for one. When a plump package did arrive from Magnolia, MA, my heart caught in my throat. With wide eyes I turned to my husband, “Matt…I think this is from Elisabeth Elliot!” When I opened it I found a signed copy of her book Love Has a Price Tag with a handwritten note to my husband and I that felt like a blessing on our marriage. A “Ramblings from the Cove” newsletter was also included, and at the bottom I saw it: a type-written personal note to me. It was more than I could ask for or imagine. I still treasure these gifts.

Six years ago when my first child, Grace Elisabeth, was two weeks old the phone rang in our tiny apartment in Fort Worth. “Hello, is this Sarah Pitts? This is Lars Gren.” I stood, open-mouthed in the kitchen.

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