Gospel Story Finder

We asked a few youth to take on this same experiment to read as much as they possibly could about the Savior in the scriptures for one week. We then asked them what they learned. Here’s what they said.

“As Jesus Christ walked the earth, He was intentional with the people He blessed and healed. As I read and pondered about the Savior, I felt a strong sense of peace. I was able to take a step back from the stresses and anxieties of life and see things from a different perspective. With my new knowledge of the Savior, I’m going to pray to find the people Jesus needs me to help and serve them as He would.”
Josh H., 16, Florida, USA

A mother, carrying the weight of providing both spiritually and temporally for her family, sensitively explained that calling her home teachers to bless one of her children requires her humility. But she insightfully added that it requires no more humility than that of her home teachers as they prepare to bless her child.

“He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him. (To be continued.)

After studying the book, Dale Cook, president of the Syracuse Utah Bluff Stake, said it will be an important resource to help not only the women of the Church to understand their roles as disciples of Christ but the men as well. “You read and see how it [the Relief Society] is intertwined and connected to the priesthood,” President Cook said. “It has helped me realize the power within my spouse and [how] to [better] love her and to help her and to support her.”

Sister Ivy Morris, Corporal Morris’ wife, submitted a series of her husband’s letters to The Millennial Star for publication. He relates how happy the Norwegians are “to be free from Nazi control. Branch President Strang has told me of the imprisonments, ’grilling’ and punishments that he and his sons have had to endure and I know that the others have also had to suffer much. Yet all seemed to want to say: God had cared for us here in Norway.”
The Church members did not wallow in their recent sorrows. In fact, Alex Morris declares, “I have just had one of the outstanding experiences of my army career here in Oslo, Norway … To just sit in an LDS meeting and not understand a word of what is being spoken and yet be thrilled by the power of the spirit in the building.” He speaks highly of the members in the Oslo Branch who treated him well and who wanted to hear all about the British Mission. He asks his wife if she could send him something that he could give to the children of the kind members who gave him respite in their home. He suggests, “Do you think you could send a little cake or something, soap would be very useful, in fact any small thing like that, a tin of Ovaltine or anything for a treat for them. You should have seen their eyes when they tasted chocolate for the first time. My it’s good to meet so many Saints, they are just the same, stand around the aisle talking before and after the meeting shaking hands all round.”

Agents of God
President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, related the story of a man who had no money to buy his father a Christmas gift during the Great Depression, so he gave him a diary in which he had recorded a good deed he had done every day that year.
“We are each the agents of our Father in Heaven to do Christlike deeds for [the] Father’s children, even as [the Savior] offered to do in the grand premortal council when He said, ‘Here am I, send me’ (Abr. 3:27). ‘Father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine forever’ (Moses 4:2).”

A young woman playing a game on her phone. The rest of the story: This sister combats her social anxiety by quietly playing games on her phone. In fact, she is better able to reverently listen and receive the speakers’ messages because her anxiety is focused elsewhere.

David Campbell, a priest in the Medicine Hat Second Ward, Taber Alberta Stake, is a member of the Canadian debating team that won the world debating championships held in Australia.
David served a student-body president at his high school during his senior year. He credits his parents, teachers, and church leaders at the top of his list of those who helped him achieve success as a debater.

Whether it’s sitting together in white as they wait to be baptized and confirmed, reading the scriptures together under the statue of the angel Moroni high atop the temple’s spire, or pulling weeds together on the temple grounds, these youth pull together. Paige Payne, 13, of the Aberdeen Ward remembers one activity that not only brought them closer together but also got them all soaking wet: “We were pulling weeds. They were growing around some sort of plant, and we had to clear all the weeds—and there were millions. It was pouring rain, so we got all muddy. And we were on a slope, so every time you tried to walk, you would slip. It was really fun. The temple workers couldn’t believe we kept working. Since we were all doing it together, it sort of strengthened us all.”

Time passes. The hand of a bride becomes the hand of a mother. Ever so gently she cares for her precious child. Bathing, dressing, feeding, comforting—there is no hand like mother’s. Nor does its tender care diminish through the years. Ever shall I remember the hand of one mother—the mother of a missionary. Some years ago at a worldwide seminar for mission presidents, the parents of missionaries were invited to meet and visit briefly with each mission president. Forgotten are the names of each who extended a greeting and exchanged a friendly handshake. Remembered are the feelings which welled up within me as I took in my hand the calloused hand of one mother from Star Valley, Wyoming. “Please excuse the roughness of my hand,” she apologized. “Since my husband has been ill, the work of the farm has been mine to do, that our boy may, as a missionary, serve the Lord.”
Tears could not be restrained, nor should they have been. Such tears produce a certain cleansing of the soul. A mother’s labor sanctified a son’s service. Loved are the hands of a mother.

Brett was getting ready for bed when Dad knocked on his door.
“Is everything all right?” Dad asked. “You seemed a little sad at dinner.”
Brett plopped down on his bed. “I guess I’m just nervous about all the tests I have at school this week. We didn’t have this many in elementary school.”
“Middle school is a change, isn’t it?” Dad asked, sitting down by Brett. “I guess they want to challenge you more.”
Brett sighed and fell back on his pillow. “It’s definitely a challenge.”
Dad smiled. “Just do your best. Mom and I are here for you. And Heavenly Father is always ready to help. Why don’t we pray about it?”
After the prayer, Dad left and Brett crawled into bed. He felt peaceful. He knew Heavenly Father would help him do his best.
A couple weeks later, Brett’s little sister, Julie, came into the kitchen with the mail—including two envelopes. Report cards! Brett gulped.
“Here’s yours,” she said, holding it out to Brett.
“Thanks.” Brett took the envelope and stared at it. His heart beat a little faster. Slowly he opened the envelope. He unfolded the paper. Then his heart sank.
His grades could have been worse. But they definitely could’ve been better. He had tried hard and done his best. But he still felt pretty lousy.
“I got all As!” Julie told Mom and Dad, waving her report card. “I’ll be on the honor roll!”
Brett felt like crying. He knew he wouldn’t be on the honor roll.
“Way to go!” Mom gave Julie a high five. Julie turned to Brett, hand up.
Brett tried to smile. “Good job, Julie. That’s awesome,” he said, giving her a high five.
“Thanks,” said Julie. She grabbed her backpack and ran upstairs.
“How about you, Brett?” Dad asked. “How are your grades?”
Brett handed over the report card without looking up.
Dad was quiet for a second as he and Mom looked at it. “Not what you were hoping for, huh?” Dad said.
Brett shook his head.
“That’s OK,” Mom said, putting her arm around his shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “We know how hard you worked. And there’s always next time. Middle school is harder, but you’ll get the hang of it.”
“But Julie gets As every time!” Brett blurted out.
“Well, it’s not a competition,” Dad said. “Plus school grades aren’t the most important grades in life.”
“What do you mean?”
Dad smiled. “You said ‘good job’ to Julie and gave her a high five, even when you were feeling sad about your own grades. I think that was an A+ choice.”
Brett smiled. He couldn’t always control his grades. But he could control how hard he tried. And how he treated his sister. He’d keep working on his grades. And he’d keep making good choices. He wanted to be an A+ kid!

This light will keep the kittens warm tonight. It’s bedtime for everyone!
You can play with the kittens tomorrow.
Go check the kittens.
Where did that thought come from?
Go check the kittens!
Oh no!
Daddy, the kittens’ box almost caught on fire!
How did you know to check on the kittens?
I kept having a thought, kind of like a voice. I think it was the Holy Ghost.
I think you’re right. I’m glad you listened.
Me too! I’m glad the Holy Ghost helped us.
See Come, Follow Me for Enos–Words of Mormon.

I backpacked with my dad and granddad. We hiked to the top of a mountain. One of the mountain peaks I could see looked like a temple. I love Heavenly Father’s creations and being in them.
Charlie M., age 7, Oregon, USA

When I was a boy, 12 years of age, and was about to be ordained a deacon, my father challenged me to memorize those words. I did so, and they have remained with me throughout my life. …
I urge you to open the Doctrine and Covenants … and to read these words and memorize them. They are the charter of the priesthood you hold. They are evidence that this priesthood is valid and genuine in every respect (from Ensign, Nov. 1982, 44).

Before Elder M. Russell Ballard was an Apostle, he had an unusual experience on an airplane. He was flying to Salt Lake City on a very foggy day. The small plane held only four people. When they got close to the airport, the pilot radioed the control tower.
“We’re about to close the runway because the fog is so thick,” the air traffic controller told the pilot. “But I can talk you through the landing.”
The pilot asked Brother Ballard and the other passengers, “What do you want to do? The controller can guide us down. Or we can turn back and wait for the weather to clear in a day or two.” They decided to try to land in Salt Lake.
The controller could see the plane on his radar. He told the pilot when to lower the plane and when to turn. The pilot watched the plane’s controls carefully. He followed the controller’s directions exactly.
Finally the man in the front seat shouted, “I see the runway!”
They looked out the window. The runway was directly ahead. The nose of the plane was right on the centerline! They were so grateful that the controller guided them safely to the ground.
Brother Ballard thought about how this flight was like our lives. We can’t see or understand everything, so Heavenly Father has given us ways to get help. The prophet is like an air traffic controller. He gives us directions to return safely to Heavenly Father. We also have the Holy Ghost, the scriptures, and leaders and parents to guide us safely home.

“It was a good message, boy,” Bill called to me as I climbed out of his ancient, army-green Plymouth and pulled my coat more tightly around me to protect me from the icy night. Bill stared down the street into the darkness, his cracked, calloused, grease-stained hands clasping the steering wheel. It was always hard for me to know what Bill was thinking. All his secrets were locked behind the wide, leathery face topped by his graying, short-cropped hair.
“I’d sure like to know the scriptures like you, boy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But,” he added with resignation, “I figure I’m too old for all that now.” He cleared his throat, and a hoarse chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I could tell you plenty about diesel engines—I’ve worked on them for over fifty years—but I never had much time for the Bible and that sort of thing. Yeah,” he added with a sigh, “it was a mighty fine message, boy.”
I coughed nervously into my fist and muttered a short good night. I didn’t ever know what to say around Bill. I had known him all my life—at least I had lived down the street from him—and yet, I still felt uncomfortable when he was around.
Slamming the car door, I started up the front walk. I glanced about me. The porch light was encased in a misty haze of snow. I ducked my head further into my collar and leaned against the white wintery onslaught.
“Well, Daniel, you’re back early,” Dad greeted me. I pulled my coat off and shook the melting snow from it. “How did it go?” Dad asked.
I shrugged. “Same as usual,” I grumbled, dropping down on the sofa and closing my eyes.
“How’s Sister Rencher?”
“She says she feels a lot better. At least she can get up and around with her walker.” For a while both of us were quiet, and then I said, as much to myself as to Dad, “Well, there’s one advantage of home teaching with Bill. When he’s not in a talkative mood, which is most of the time, we can visit all three widows in about thirty minutes. That must be some kind of record.”
There was a rustle of paper and I opened my eyes. Dad had dropped the newspaper he had been reading into his lap and was staring at me. “What’s wrong with Bill?” he asked.
I heaved a sigh. “Nothing. I guess. That is if you don’t mind doing everything yourself,” I added sarcastically. “All he ever does is show up and beep his horn. The second Wednesday of every month. There are some things that never change: Bill’s beeping horn is one of them. No appointment. We’re just supposed to know that he’s coming. But all the rest is my job. I do the talking, give the lesson, everything.
“Why does Bill home teach anyway?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
I shrugged and shifted my weight. “Well, ever since the bishop assigned me to Bill three months ago, I’ve wondered why he even goes. Has Bill ever gone to church?”
Dad dropped his paper on the floor. “He used to go some. Before his wife, Tillie, had her stroke. But even then he always seemed more at home in his garage dressed in a pair of dirty coveralls with grease to his elbows.”
“I can believe it,” I grinned. “He always smells like an old engine. He’s never able to get all the grease off his hands.” I hesitated. “Bill smokes, doesn’t he?”
Dad looked over at me and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him.”
“You don’t have to see him. All you have to do is look at his yellow-stained fingers. And he sucks those awful green lozenges to kill the tobacco smell. That’s why I can’t understand Bishop Clark letting him be a home teacher.”
“Those three widows never complain,” Dad said.
“But a home teacher is supposed to set an example. And don’t tell me this is my chance to get Bill to come to church. You and I both know that’s not ever going to happen.”
“I suppose the Lord knows that home teaching is one place where Bill can do some good,” Dad answered somberly.
“Do some good?” I gasped. “But he’s totally inactive!”
“You can learn something from Bill.”
“I don’t want to be a diesel mechanic.”
“Maybe you can learn something about the gospel.”
“From Bill?” I asked incredulously. “I’ll bet he has never read a scripture in his life!”
“I don’t think you know Bill. When he stands before the Lord, I doubt the Lord will be looking at his greasy hands and tobacco-stained fingers.” Dad cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Can you deliver newspapers for your brother again in the morning? He still has that bad sore throat and cough.”
The next morning I was up a little before five o’clock, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped, and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people, I didn’t make the effort to set the newspaper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were shoveled completely clean of snow. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold ninety minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off our walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were completely clean.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”
The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month! You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ‘63 green Plymouth was ancient, but his black Ford truck was an antique, something from the early ‘50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late!”
“Just tell him,” she said. “Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we had planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went to get my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat, and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully. “I wondered if you would come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together, and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I had given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency Message that month, I had emphasized it pretty heavily. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright red with embarrassment. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?” he asked.
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much anyway. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth. …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I’ve got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood! Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I would never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t have forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need to be taken care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later, all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Then we drove to Sister Hatch’s home. She seemed to be waiting for us and opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These are for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly, and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again, and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock, and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more, Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson, and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me.
Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back, and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard, glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into it and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment, she sat very still. Then she began to rock, ever so slowly. And as she rocked, a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too,” said Bill.
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads. As Sister Rencher prayed, I understood why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” Sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he has pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story—at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands.
They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray, and the Pharisee …” (See Luke 18:10–14.)
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t recall ever hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s—you know, about the two fellows going to the temple.”
He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to him and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

An immersion
And I
Beneath the worthy hands
Of the priesthood
Fulfilled a principle
Of God.
But not for me—
For someone who
Has waited long
For someone to help them
Unlock the gate
Into eternity.

Danny found his mother’s best shoes all caked with mud and dirt after a rainstorm. He cleaned, polished, and shined them. Then he polished and shined them again. Finally, when they looked like new, he took them to his mother. She was very surprised and very pleased. She hugged him, then took some money from her purse and put it into his hand. Later, when she put on those newly polished shoes, she felt something in the toe of one of them. It was the money she had given Danny. It was wrapped in a small note that said, “Mother, I did it for love.”

I can sincerely say that Jennifer and I had a blast together. We used to run down the church halls, laughing as hard as we could, our main goal to see who could make the most noise. Even when we were scolded, we couldn’t stop laughing.
The other people in the ward probably didn’t appreciate the friendship as much as we did. But it certainly helped me. When I was 12 years old, my mother told me she had decided not to go to church anymore, but I still could if I wanted to. I never did like getting up on Sunday mornings and listening to lessons, so I decided not to go anymore either.
When I told Jennifer of my mom’s decision, she offered to have her mom start swinging by my house to pick me up for church. I loved the fellowship and fun, and their family picked me up faithfully. I was sorely disappointed a few years later when they moved away.

Last spring my husband and I attended a soccer game of our four-year-old grandson. You could feel the excitement on the field as the players ran in every direction chasing the soccer ball. When the final whistle blew, the players were unaware of who won or who lost. They had simply played the game. The coaches directed the players to shake hands with the opposing team members. Then I observed something quite remarkable. The coach called for a victory tunnel. All the parents, grandparents, and any spectators who had come to observe the game stood up and formed two lines facing each other, and by raising their arms they formed an arch. The children squealed as they ran through the cheering adults and down the path formed by the spectators. Soon the children from the opposing team joined the fun as all the players—the winners and the losers—were cheered on by the adults as they ran the path of the victory tunnel.