Gospel Story Finder

Every summer, the Monson family spent two months at the family cabin on the Provo River. Tommy Monson learned to swim in the river’s swift currents. One warm afternoon when Tommy was about 13, he grabbed a big inflated inner tube and floated down the river.
That day a large group of people had gathered at a picnic area by the river to eat and play games. Tommy was about to float through the fastest part of the river when he heard the frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young girl had fallen into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the people on shore could swim to save her.
That’s when Tommy appeared on the scene and saw the girl’s head disappear under the water. Tommy stretched out his hand, grasped the girl by her hair, and then lifted her over the side of the inner tube. Then Tommy paddled to the riverbank. First the family threw their arms around the girl, kissing her and crying. Then they began hugging and kissing Tommy. He felt embarrassed by all the attention, and he quickly returned to his inner tube.
As Tommy continued his float down the river, he was filled with a warm feeling. He realized that he had helped save a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her!” He made it possible for Tommy to float by at exactly the time he was needed. That day Tommy learned that the sweetest feeling is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and allows us to help Him save others.

My family is your typical busy family, running around with a million things to do every day.
Last year, new schedules revealed that many of our activities would fall on Monday evenings. My younger sister had a dance class on Monday night; my younger brothers had soccer practice that night; and I had marching band. I loved being in marching band, and I had just received a solo part. That part was a particular joy because I love creating music.
When my mom and dad realized family home evening was in jeopardy, they decided that our other Monday night activities had to go—including marching band practice. I was very upset. I knew that not going to those practices meant my grade in band would suffer and that I might lose my solo part. I tried to explain my dilemma to my parents, but their answer was, “The prophet says we need to have family home evening,” and that was that, end of discussion.
I knew they were right, but I was still angry and upset over the loss of my practices. And it wasn’t just me. My brothers could no longer go to soccer practices; my sister had to change dance classes. It was inconvenient for all of us.
The first couple of Mondays, we complained about the things we were missing, but then we realized Mom and Dad weren’t going to give in on this one. Eventually, I started looking forward to free Monday nights and family time. I didn’t have to go back to school for more practice. I could just stay home and be with my family.
Then my fear happened: I lost the solo in the marching band show. How my heart ached. It was hard to give up something I loved so much. But a short while later, band practices were moved to Wednesdays. It’s nice that band doesn’t conflict with family home evening anymore.
Some people might say it was a coincidence that practices were moved, but to me it says that blessings come from keeping the commandments.

Brethren, during my Aaronic Priesthood years I was a swineherd! Way back then, by means of a 4-H Club project involving purebred Duroc pigs, I became familiar with work! As proof that what follows is not merely swollen memory, may I, with Elder Nelson’s help, display very briefly this blanket of nearly 100 ribbons won by my prize pigs at various fairs over several years.
Up near Elder Nelson’s hand is a pink ribbon, won 60 years ago. It was the very first ribbon I ever won. I think the judge had a tender eye, and the pig wasn’t really so choice, but he knew I needed encouragement and hence the fourth prize. The purple ribbons were for champions that were exhibited later on!
Thank you, Elder Nelson.
Brethren, I learned the hard way about the need to watch shifting pork prices at the local meat-packing plant. Careful records of profits and losses were kept with the help of my bookkeeper father. As in all things, my parents, so supportive, even ended up doing some of the perspiring themselves, including a special mother born 95 years ago today. She showed me how to work, and she loved me enough to correct me.
In order to obtain low-cost pig feed, I regularly bought dozens and dozens of three-day-old loaves of bread at a bakery for a mere penny a loaf. Additionally, if present at the right time at a local dairy, I could get about 70 gallons of skim milk free! Now I pay $2.50 a gallon—an amusing irony. By saving in these ways, I could buy the needed grain for the pigs with the little hard cash that I had.
There were many times when a pregnant sow would give birth to her litter after midnight. The resultant weariness of attending to all that, and more, was real. Yet through it all, there was a sense of some accomplishment, including contributing to our family menus. Most young men my age did similar work. Back then, brethren, we were all poor together, and we didn’t know it. Work was a given. Today, for some, receiving is a given.
However, there were real social downsides to raising pigs. Already shy, I remember vividly the principal of the junior high school coming into my class once and saying aloud in front of everybody: “Neal, your mother just called. Your pigs are out!” I felt like crawling under my desk but instead ran home to help round up the pigs.
My father was loving but exacting. He noted that while I worked hard, my work was often not carefully done. I was a stranger to excellence. One summer day I determined to please Dad by putting in a number of needed fence posts, firmly implanted and fully aligned. I worked hard all that day and then expectantly scanned the lane down which my father would walk home. When he arrived, I watched anxiously as he carefully inspected the fence posts, even checking them with a level bar before pronouncing them to be fully satisfactory. Then came his praise. My sweat of the brow had earned Dad’s commendation, which, in turn, melted my heart.
Please forgive this brief autobiographical note, which I have used to express my deep appreciation for learning to work at an early age. Even so, brethren, I certainly did not always put my shoulder to the wheel with “a heart full of song” (Hymns, no. 252), but I did learn about shoulders and wheels, which helped later in life when the wheels grew larger. Some of today’s otherwise good young men mistakenly think that putting their shoulders to the wheel is the same thing as putting their hands on a steering wheel!

When I was about six or seven years old, our family went to Kanab, Utah, to visit my aunt, who was married to a forest ranger. My uncle was in charge of the Kaibab Forest, one of the largest national forests in the United States. We arrived there late at night and went right to bed at their home.
The next morning I was awakened by my cousins, who were younger than I. They said, “There’re some deer out there. Come and look.” I jumped out of bed and got dressed and ran to the back door. Sure enough, within twenty yards of the house was a doe with her two little fawns. After we watched for a few minutes, I wanted to get closer and try to touch them.
My three cousins and I started walking toward them, but just as we got close to them, they moved away. They kept doing that, and we kept following them. All of a sudden, the mother deer decided that she’d had enough and bounded away, her little ones behind her.
My cousins and I turned around to go back to the house and realized that we were lost. In our minds it seemed easy to just turn around and go back, but we had gone much farther than we thought we had.
I had never been in a forest before. My cousins kept saying, “Let’s go this way.” “No, let’s go this way.” So we just wandered around, and pretty soon we started hearing sounds that we imagined were bears and cougars.
We called and whistled for our families to answer, but we didn’t hear a thing. We wandered around in the tall trees for maybe an hour and a half. Then the thought came to me that we should pray to Heavenly Father. We knelt in a circle, and I said a simple prayer. As we got up, I had the distinct impression that we should walk in a certain direction, which we did. We walked that way for another thirty minutes or so. The little ones were tired, and I had to carry the smallest one on my back.
When we heard a motor in the distance, we knew enough to walk toward the sound. All of a sudden, we broke into a clearing. We could see a road, and the motor we’d heard was in a road grader. We were really tired and upset, but we knew that we had to get over to the road grader before it went by the clearing, so we ran as fast as we could. When we got close enough, we waved, and the road-grader operator saw us and stopped. He put us in the cab and took us down to the forest rangers’ headquarters. By that time, my parents and aunt and uncle had all the forest rangers out looking for us, so they were glad to see us. That experience was a testimony to me that Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers.

I started doing drugs when I was 12. That was the same time the alcohol, tobacco, and social problems began as well. It led to a life that saw me lie, cheat, steal, and fight with people. I also got in trouble with the law, did poorly in school, and didn’t get along with my family and friends. I am now seeing a drug and alcohol abuse counselor, and I’m trying to quit smoking. One day when I was really down on myself, I got home and saw the New Era. Even though I felt like the stories didn’t relate to my life-style, when I finished I felt loved. I prayed to Heavenly Father for help, and asked for strength to lift me out of my depression. I don’t think I would be alive today if it wasn’t for the New Era and a close friend who has been supporting me through all this.
J. B.Canada

I have in mind today a blessing given to someone precious and close to me who was told by her physicians that the child she was to bear would unquestionably have Down’s syndrome; an abortion was recommended. She refused, and in the next few weeks calls from the hospital and others came encouraging that the little fetus be aborted. Finally, in desperation, she called her doctor and said, “Get those people off my back. This little child will have a right to life regardless of its condition.” She had been given a priesthood blessing by her father and had been promised that the little child would be normal and healthy. When the little child involved was born, so it was. Today she is an unusually beautiful, bright, charming child.
I have thought, how many times in her life she would have had cause to reflect had she followed that counsel which was contrary to that given her by her father.

A missionary assignment to Great Britain late last year allowed me to reflect on the precious spiritual events that were foundational to my decision to serve as a missionary. When I was 15 years old, my beloved older brother, Joe, was 20—the age of eligibility then to serve a mission. In the United States, because of the Korean conflict, very few were allowed to serve. Only one could be called from each ward per year. It was a surprise when our bishop asked Joe to explore this possibility with our father. Joe had been preparing applications for medical school. Our father, who was not active in the Church, had made financial preparations to help him and was not in favor of Joe going on a mission. Dad suggested that Joe could do more good by going to medical school. This was a huge issue in our family.
In a remarkable discussion with my wise and exemplary older brother, we concluded that his decision on whether to serve a mission and delay his education depended on three questions: (1) Is Jesus Christ divine? (2) Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? and (3) Is Joseph Smith the Prophet of the Restoration? If the answer to these questions was yes, it was clear that Joe could do more good taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the world than becoming a doctor at an earlier date.
That night I prayed fervently and with real intent. The Spirit, in an undeniably powerful way, confirmed to me that the answer to all three of these questions was yes. This was a seminal event for me. I realized that every decision I would make for the rest of my life would be influenced by these truths. I also knew that I would serve a mission if given the opportunity. Over a lifetime of service and spiritual experiences, I have come to understand that true conversion is the result of the conscious acceptance of the will of God and that we can be guided in our actions by the Holy Ghost.
I already had a testimony of the divinity of Jesus Christ as Savior of the world. That night I received a spiritual testimony of the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith.

Elder Neil L. Andersen and his wife, Kathy, visited the Democratic Republic of the Congo in Africa. They had a Church meeting outside under tents. Around the tents was a big fence. Elder Andersen could see children watching them from the other side of the fence. Kathy asked him, “Neil, do you think you might want to invite the children to come in?” Elder Andersen walked up to the man at the microphone. He asked the man to invite the children to come in and join them.
The children came running! They were all smiling and excited to be a part of the meeting.

Darcy jumped over a puddle. She giggled. Rainy days were fun. She and Mom raced leaf boats in the water. Darcy cheered as her leaf floated by.
She tiptoed between the puddles with colored chalk in each hand. She colored the sidewalk and even a big rock. The colors looked so pretty against the gray sky. Darcy didn’t mind the cold.
Darcy looked up at the cloudy sky.
“Mommy, can Heavenly Father see me right now?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Heavenly Father can see you right now,” said Mom.
Darcy thought for a moment. Then she held up her hand and waved.
“Hi!” she said, waving at the sky. Maybe Heavenly Father could see her waving to Him!
At last Darcy and Mom went inside to warm up.
Darcy grabbed some paper and painted a bright rainbow. She showed it to Daddy when he got home. She told him all about her rainy-day fun.
After dinner, the sun was setting. “Let’s go see the sunset,” Daddy said.
They walked outside. It smelled like the earth had a shower. The clouds were puffy and pink. And in the sky was the brightest, most beautiful rainbow!
“Do you remember who makes rainbows?” Mom asked.
“Heavenly Father makes them!” said Darcy.
Darcy wrapped her arms around herself like a hug. “I think He is saying ‘hi’ back to me!”

After coming back from my mission, I moved from my home in Guatemala and started going to school at Brigham Young University in Utah, USA. I was sad and a bit discouraged to move to a place where I seemingly wouldn’t have many opportunities to share the gospel. So I prayed earnestly to find someone who needed to hear the truth.
After a few weeks, I went on a walk after church and saw a tall man looking at posters on campus. I immediately felt that I should talk to him. I was nervous because I was still polishing my English and had no clue what to say. I walked past him but then turned around and introduced myself, trusting Heavenly Father to help me (see Doctrine and Covenants 100:5–6).
We had a nice conversation, and he told me that he wasn’t a member of the Church but he was a student and that he was amazed by the service the Church does for people. I could not believe that I was talking to a nonmember on BYU’s campus! We exchanged phone numbers, and eventually I introduced him to more members of the Church and helped him learn more about the gospel.
The man didn’t join the Church, but through that experience I learned that if we desire to bless other people’s lives, God will help us take the opportunities all around us (see Doctrine and Covenants 4:3). So now I don’t pray for missionary opportunities—I pray to have the eyes to see the missionary opportunities that are in front of me.

Every morning our walk to the work site at the end of the trench grew longer, and every day the Sundance Power Plant grew a little smaller on the horizon. For myself and the three young LDS men that I worked with that summer in northern Alberta, the construction work was temporary—our heads were filled with thoughts of college, dreams of careers in business, advertising, and biology. We counted the days until the two-mile-long trench (that would serve as a filter for the murky water that left the power plant) would be finished.
The fact I had found myself working with three Mormons in northern Alberta was a near miracle, if not a mathematical impossibility. Being a recent convert, I felt fortunate to be among others of my faith while I worked. The time went by quickly as they shared experiences from their missions, one even taking the time to teach me a little Japanese.
Norm was our patriarch, not in age as much as in patience and insight. He was a tall, lanky guy who was always the first with a practical joke or a one-liner, but also the type who seemed to know when understanding and empathy were in order. Perhaps Norm’s kindness was made even more apparent as it contrasted with the rough, seasoned construction workers we worked alongside—men who used four-letter words to replace any and every adjective possible, men who spent their paychecks on beer and little else. Three of us steered clear of the regulars, but Norm made an extra effort to spend at least a few minutes every day working in their group.
One morning, before we made our way down the twisting trench, Norm pulled a Book of Mormon out of his lunch box and walked over to one of the regulars.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the powerfully built construction worker as he pushed the book back at Norm. Norm took a short, nervous step back.
“Put the thing in my truck,” the man said in a hushed voice. “And put it under the seat so the guys don’t see it and give me a hard time.”
Norm walked over to the vehicle and called back to the man who was now surrounded by several of his fellow workers. “Hey, nice stereo. Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man called back.
Norm slipped the Book of Mormon under the driver’s seat, and we began our daily walk to the job site.
Norm answered our queries by telling us that he had struck up several conversations with the man while they worked. During one talk he discovered the man’s grandmother was an American Indian. “I listened to the stories his grandmother told him,” said Norm, “like the one where the continent is covered in darkness for three days [see 1 Ne. 19:10]. I told him, ‘Boy, do I have a book for you!’”
I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.

You, the children of the Lord’s church today, are following Jesus down into the waters of baptism and beyond. Nine-year-old Sandra Martinez of Lakeview, Oregon, says of her baptism: “My mom said that I should pray about whether or not to be baptized, so that night I prayed. The next day I got a warm feeling in my heart that I should be baptized. I felt very close to Jesus and felt that He wanted me to be baptized. The bishop baptized me in Spanish so that my family could understand.”

In October 2019, Abraham returned to the United States. One Sunday, he was teaching a lesson at church. There was a man in the class that got up and went out. Unknown to Abraham, this man was a doctor and had called an ambulance. He recognized that Abraham was exhibiting signs of a stroke. The family is so grateful their father went to church that day and that the doctor was there too. Even though he is currently down with a stroke and uses a wheelchair, he still sees himself as blessed and he’s forever grateful to Heavenly Father.

Toward the end of his high school career, Mike Schwartz of the Malad Idaho First Ward, Malad Idaho Stake, started having nightmares about people forcing him to stay home from school. There was nothing he could do but just give in and stay home.
Sound more like a dream come true to you? Well, Mike was working toward a goal very few people ever achieve. In all of his schooling, Mike has never missed a day of school. That’s right, beginning with his first day of finger painting, and ending with his high school commencement, Mike has had perfect attendance.
In order to be in school all 2,340 days, Mike relied on good luck, good health, and help from his family.
“My family never put pressure on me to miss school,” Mike told an Idaho newspaper reporter. “In fact, when I was going to miss a day for my grandpa’s funeral, they encouraged me, saying Grandpa would want me to keep my perfect attendance.” Mike went to the funeral, but only missed a few hours of school, instead of the whole day.
Mike’s determination and perseverance has also helped him be a leader in his Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in his high school sports endeavors. Mike is now using his time management skills and determination to help him on his mission in the Texas Houston Mission.

At this point, Henry interrupted his steeple-chasing to fulfill a mission to Brazil. He grew spiritually in the mission field, and to his chagrin he grew physically as well.

“For about 12 months in the middle of my two-year mission I didn’t run a step. I put on 20 pounds, and I was pretty out of shape. But the last six months I started running and trying to incorporate running with missionary work. I went to an athletic club, and we taught the people as we ran with them.”

Nevertheless, the Henry Marsh who returned home in August of 1975 struck no terror in the hearts of the world’s other steeplechasers.

Dad grew up in the eastern United States. Mom grew up in a Latter-day Saint home in Utah. They met while working in California and dated for several months. When Dad moved back to his parents’ home, he missed Mom and sent for her. Little did he realize how his decision to marry a Latter-day Saint would affect the rest of his life.
Because both Mom and Dad loved their families, it was hard for them to decide where to live. When my brother and I were young, our family moved back and forth between Utah and the East Coast several times. When we lived in the East, Dad would sometimes drive us to a nearby town so we could attend the LDS branch. He did not feel comfortable going in with us, so he waited in the car.
In good weather we would find a large shade tree to sit under after church, and Dad would get the picnic basket out of the car. As we ate, Mom would encourage my brother and me to tell Dad what we had learned in sacrament meeting.
When we moved west to live near Mom’s family, we went to church more often. Although we no longer had picnics, we enjoyed wonderful meals around the dinner table. Each Sunday we would tell Dad what we had learned in church.
Not until my brother and I were older did we realize how much we were missing because Dad did not come to church with us. We realized if we wanted him to go with us, he would need to be taught and baptized. Thus began our relentless efforts to share the gospel with Dad. But as the months stretched into years, we sometimes wondered if he would ever be baptized.
When I was nine, another brother was born into our family. Once again, Dad heard all the Primary lessons at the dinner table. By now, Dad was attending church with us once in a while. He would even invite the missionaries over for meals and listen to the discussions. But he would not commit to baptism.
When my older brother was called on a mission, we realized our little band of sibling missionaries would be sorely depleted. “Don’t worry,” my brother reassured us. “I’ll keep working on Dad from the mission field.” He was true to his word. In almost every letter he sent home, he was full of missionary zeal and would ask the golden question. “Dad,” he would write, “when are you going to be baptized?” But although Dad took the missionary discussions over and over, he still didn’t feel ready.
When I turned 21, I received a mission call to Uruguay. I wrote home every week, and I always included positive missionary experiences. Then I would talk about the baptisms we had had and ask, “Dad, when are you going to be baptized?”
On the day I turned 22, I received a birthday card with a message from Mom. “Your father is taking the missionary lessons again,” she wrote. “This time, he has committed to baptism!”
From then on, whenever a letter arrived from home, I fully expected to learn that Dad had been baptized. But the news did not come. And then I received a brief note from Mom: “Your father has decided not to be baptized at this time.” My heart sank. What had gone wrong? Had something in one of my letters caused Dad to back away? Over the next several months, I prayed a great deal for him. I kept writing, encouraging him to stay in contact with the missionaries.
Six months later, I received a startling message: “You are to call home immediately.” Alarmed, my companion and I ran all the way to the offices where international calls could be made. A telephone operator instructed me to wait in a phone booth while she placed the call for me.
When the phone rang, I picked it up. My mother was on the line. “What’s the matter?” I asked, panicked.
“Sheila,” she responded, in an excited and very happy voice, “your father was baptized today. He woke up this morning and said, ‘I want to be baptized. Will you call the bishop and ask him if it’s all right to do it today?’ So I called the bishop, and he arranged everything.” My older brother had performed the ordinance in the ward meetinghouse at noon.
As Mom spoke, my fear vanished and my heart filled with gratitude and joy. After all the years of working and waiting and praying, we were finally a complete member family.

I remember watching other kids reading with delight in class. Everyone in my family could read and did a lot of it. I once asked my brother, Rob, what was so great about reading. He smiled when he told me that when you read it’s like a whole new world opens.
I had heard the stories of Joseph Smith only being 14 when he received answers to his prayers. I wanted to experience this new world of reading. I was 13, living in Arizona with my dad. In early October, I prayed, sobbing into the sheets of my bed, begging the Lord to grant me the gift of reading. I promised that if he would grant me this great blessing, I would read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.
Amazingly, in less than 18 days, I jumped six reading levels and was up to the same grade level as others my age. Once I had been told that was impossible. The miracle happened. I struggled but kept my promise and read the whole Book of Mormon. I have since moved on to the other scriptures.
Now that I am 15, I bear my testimony that the scriptures are so important that Heavenly Father allowed a girl with a learning disability to read. I know it is important to him that all of his children read his sacred books. The scriptures have changed my life forever.

MICHAEL: I started with alcohol. I started just because of curiosity and a little peer pressure. I was popular and had a lot of friends at school who drank.

MICHAEL: I felt, “Hey, this isn’t bad.” My parents had put this big warning of doom over alcohol and drugs, like I was going to die or get some weird disease, and I was feeling just fine. I figured they didn’t know what they were talking about.

MICHAEL: I continued to use, and as time went on, I found that I started looking at things differently. My priorities changed. I was using more and more alcohol and running around with people I previously wouldn’t have hung out with. At age 16 I dropped out of school. I had really been into sports, but I stopped all that. I’d started smoking marijuana and had gone on to cocaine.

My parents put me into a drug treatment center. When I got out I went back to using and got heavy into cocaine, crank, and crack.

My Mormon values had gone right out the door. I kept running away, and I was stealing money. I was in trouble with the law. My relationship with my parents had gone downhill. They couldn’t trust me, and I was belligerent.

I’m lucky to be alive. I had friends who died.

The snow lay in a thick blanket all around our small farmhouse. Inside, the warm, cheery lights were a sharp contrast to the cold dreariness outside. It was the first Christmas Eve that our family had spent together in the last five years. My oldest brother had been away at college and hadn’t had the money to return for every Christmas. My older sister, who had been married for three years, was visiting with her husband. For the first time in a long time, our family felt complete.
That Christmas Eve was a special one and has given me many fond memories. Bright lights sparkled on the Christmas tree that blessed the room with its scent. Everywhere festive holly, garland, wreaths, or some other ornamentation decorated the house. The sounds of laughter mixed with the faint Christmas carols that came from my sisters singing to each other in the upstairs bedrooms. From the kitchen drifted the heavenly aromas of turkey, potatoes, and pumpkin pie.
It was in the midst of this happy scene that I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed myself up from the floor, where I had been sitting listening to one of my brother’s stories about college, and dragged myself into the kitchen.
My mother was wrapping up a beautiful golden pumpkin pie.
“James,” she said without looking up. “I need you to run this pie over to Clair. I promised him that I would bring it, but I just don’t have the time. Thank you!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she had already hustled me out the door so I had no chance to argue. I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve, all of my family was having a great time, and I was stuck driving alone in the snow to a strange old man’s house to deliver a pie.
It was barely noon, but already a gray dreariness hung in the sky. The icy wind had picked up and the dark clouds hung low, giving every indication of an impending snowstorm. With luck I wouldn’t be gone long, and I’d beat the storm back home. I climbed into the old pickup and started the engine.
Clair was our closest neighbor, but it still took a while to get to his house. I didn’t know much about him, not even his last name. His wife had died before I was born, and all of his children were grown, married, and lived far away. I supposed he was at least 80 years old, just a lonely old hermit. The rest of his farm had been sold a long time ago, but he still lived in the same house, the house he had built himself. My mom said he flatly refused to leave, even when his children begged him to move in with one of them. He even refused to go to visit them over Christmas. He would say, “I just can’t leave my home.” His home now was really little more than a two-room shack. It was old, weak, and run-down—much like the man who lived in it—but he loved it.
When I pulled up to the shack, I wasn’t surprised to see that all the lights were off. After all, I thought, it was the holidays and even Clair must have some friends to visit somewhere, right? Still, I had a pie to deliver, so I decided to make sure no one was home. I knocked lightly and waited. After a few minutes, I tried the door handle. The door opened easily.
“Who is it?” a voice growled.
“It’s James from down the road,” I answered above the rising wind.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“I brought you this pie …” I began.
“What kind of pie?” he demanded.
“I think it’s pumpkin.”
“Well bring it in and shut the door. It’s awfully cold outside.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, ducking inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. The small room was a far cry from the cheeriness of my own home. I shivered slightly.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said softly. “Is there a reason it’s so cold in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason,” he snapped. “Would I be sitting here in the blasted cold for no reason? I just don’t have the strength to build a fire, that’s all. And stop calling me ’sir.’ My name’s Clair.”
Without waiting for permission, I started building a fire in the cold fireplace. It wasn’t long before the light and warmth of the fire was spreading all about the small room.
“Much better,” I said.
The fire seemed to lift the old man’s spirits as well. Cheerfully, he demanded, “Well now, James. Let’s cut up that pumpkin pie, shall we?”
I really wanted to get back home and was tempted to excuse myself, but one look at the lonely man’s expectant face, and all I could do was ask where the forks and plates were. As I was serving large helpings for both of us, Clair said, “Of course I would be doing this if I had the strength, but since my illness, some days it’s just too hard.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even known he was sick.
When we had finished one piece of pie, and I was dishing up another, I finally asked him, “How could you raise five kids in a house like this?”
After I said it, I realized how rude it must have sounded, but he didn’t seem to notice. He thought a moment and said, “Well now, James, just because this house is small doesn’t mean it wasn’t big enough. There was plenty of room for love, and this house has seen a lot of it.”
“But why do you still live here all alone?”
“Oh, I’m not alone at all,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Sure I could go live with my children or grandchildren and be surrounded by people. But here I’m surrounded by memories. This house has seen better days, happy days full of laughter, love, and joy.
“Christmases were never this dull before. We’d have a large tree in that corner with all the children’s presents underneath it. Their stockings would hang above the fire, and in years when the farm was doing well, there would be twice as many presents and a big turkey dinner as well.”
Clair paused and leaned forward intently. “But it wasn’t the turkey, the presents, the tree, or anything else that made Christmas special, James. It was having our family together, sharing our lives and love. That is what made Christmas a happy time. The outside world could go on its merry way, or even end for all we cared. When we were close together nothing else mattered. And now that everyone close to me is gone, I can still sit alone remembering those happy times and it’s like they’re all here.
The silence that followed as I thought of what he had said was suddenly broken by a fierce howl of the wind. It startled both of us, and I hurried outside. The storm had hit suddenly and viciously. The snow swirled all around so that I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I walked a few feet away from the house and tripped over a large pine bough that had broken off in the wind. I ran back into the house with the branch in my hand.
Clair looked at me in puzzlement, but I didn’t say anything until I had the branch standing up in a corner, supported by some books.
“There!” I said with satisfaction.
“What is it?” Clair asked.
“It’s your Christmas tree, of course.”
Clair looked at it, frowning. Then he started to laugh. It was a wheezy, tired laugh; but it grew steadily stronger, as if he were just out of practice. I couldn’t help joining him.
And so, with the wind shrieking outside, the snow piling up deeper and the day growing later, Clair and I set about decorating the tree. Clair had given his decorations away to his children, so we cut paper snowflakes and strung popcorn. Then I draped them over the little branches according to Clair’s directions. I tried to get Clair to sing Christmas carols with me, but he protested, saying he was too old. No amount of coaxing seemed to work, so I sang twice as loud.
When we were finished, we sat in silence, admiring our work. The sorry little tree only stood three feet high. No fancy presents lay beneath it, and no lights shone from its branches. But we both agreed it was the prettiest Christmas tree we had ever seen. It was even more beautiful to me than the lavishly decorated tree at home.
That thought gave me an idea.
“Clair,” I asked, “how would you like to come home with me and spend Christmas with my family?”
Clair looked almost angry. “James, I already said that I didn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of people when I’m perfectly happy here.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not going to burden your folks when I’ve got my own home.”
“You won’t be a burden,” I said. “They’ll love it.” When I saw that he wasn’t going to budge, I added softly, “And besides, no amount of memories can replace the love of living human beings.”
Clair looked away in silence. For a few minutes he sat stubbornly still. Then I saw tears fill his eyes and he asked, “What about our tree?”
I grinned. “We’ll leave it here and it will be waiting when you get back.”
“All right, I’ll go, but just for an hour or so.” He sighed heavily, but I could see the twinkle in his eyes.
In the increasing dimness of the dying firelight I gathered a few things that Clair wanted to take so that he could still have his memories with him for Christmas. By now the snow was so bad I could hardly see my way to the truck and had to use the wall of the house to guide me. As we pulled away from Clair’s house, I looked in the rearview mirror. Through the snow, the house was just a dark form, a place where, minutes before, Clair and I had shared a pumpkin pie. The little house that had been built with such loving care was just a house, I realized.
But for some reason, I felt a strange sense of peace—glad that the little house could have had one more happy memory. Clair must have felt this same peace, for he began to sing softly, “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
All the way home we sang Christmas carols. Despite the slow treacherous drive, we were home sooner than I had expected. It was late and I knew my mom was worried, but I quickly explained what had happened. The family welcomed Clair as if he were one of us.
The next morning, Clair’s daughter arrived unexpectedly with her husband and children. They had come to surprise him for Christmas, and after a few days of pleading, he gave in and went to live with her family. Before he left he said something to me about thanks for showing him that love comes from people, not places. He telephoned Christmas Day every year until he passed away. And now, when I look back at my favorite Christmas memory, it is not one of a big Christmas feast, a bright Christmas tree, or even the beautiful sound of my sisters singing carols. Rather, it is the memory of eating pumpkin pie in a small, lonely shack, a humble three-foot branch decorated with paper and popcorn, and the memory of a lonely old man singing “Silent Night” that fills my heart with love.

Elder Perry: President, you’ve carried those scriptures around with you. Every time I’ve been with you, you’ve had those scriptures. You told us the story one time of how they were in the water, and that only helped them because you could turn to them faster.
President Packer: Well, I was studying outside on the lawn and was called away and left my scriptures open on the little table—I forgot them, as old men will do—and the sprinklers went on. I came out in the morning and thought, “Oh, my scriptures that I’ve marked up for 50 years are gone.” I found out it just loosened the pages. I think if I had to get new scriptures, I’d put them out in the rain before I started using them.