Gospel Story Finder

Leslie Williams, Jr. of Tallahassee, Florida, received the Disabled Citizens’ Community Service Award and was honored at their annual banquet.
In completing his Eagle project, Leslie surveyed Tallahassee restaurants to determine how accessible they were to wheelchair patrons and nonsighted or partially sighted customers. Leslie wrote letters and sent questionnaires to the restaurant managers and organized teams to visit restaurants. The completed report of his survey is on file with several government agencies and has been printed and distributed in chart form to the city’s handicapped citizens.
As a result of his efforts, the local food editor now reports on restaurant accessibility in the newspaper’s weekly restaurant review.
Leslie is a member of the Tallahassee Second Ward.

In 1832 Martin Harris’s older brother, Emer, who is my great-great-grandfather, was called on a mission from Ohio (see D&C 75:30). Emer spent a year preaching the gospel near his former home in northeastern Pennsylvania. During most of this time Emer’s companion was his brother Martin, whose zeal in preaching even caused him to be jailed for a few days. The Harris brothers baptized about 100 persons. Among those baptized was a family named Oaks, which included my great-great-grandfather. Thus, my middle name and my last name come from the grandfathers who met in that missionary encounter in Susquehanna County in 1832–33.

When I started reading the Fulfilling My Duty to God booklet, I felt that many duties were waiting for me. Although I only recently decided to read, apply, and share what is written in this booklet, it has already influenced my spirituality. Using Duty to God helps me grow and become a little better. Before using this booklet, I had never taught or testified of the gospel to my family. After reading and applying what was written in the booklet, I started finding opportunities to teach and testify to my family.

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

When I was a freshman at BYU, I had very little money and it was hard to think of a present for my bed-ridden grandmother. She had always been so good to us grandchildren.
I decided my gift would be a promise. I would write her a letter every week during the coming year. I kept my promise and, although she was unable to answer all my letters, she wrote when she could and our relationship grew even stronger.
She told me often how she enjoyed her Christmas present. It also was a great joy to give.
—Carol LowryMagrath, Alberta, Canada

As John’s condition worsened, he and I continued our practice of beginning and ending each day with prayers of gratitude. As we did so, we found that grief did not overwhelm us or our posterity. Each one had opportunities to hug Papa and express their love and gratitude for him. We found moments of joy. Peace seeped into the hearts of our posterity and others who visited, strengthening them and softening their grief too.
However, despite the peace that prevailed in our home, watching my vibrant, exceedingly active husband deteriorate and lose 50 pounds in a month was heart-wrenching. Late at night on April 21, John lay in bed. He was surrounded by his children and me. We sensed that his spirit would depart his body at any moment. I lay beside him, holding his hand and whispering words of love and gratitude for our life. I thanked him for the inspiring example he had set as he responded to his afflictions by turning to the Lord in faith and gratitude. I kissed him. Within seconds, he was gone.
After John’s body was taken away, our family sat together in our home. Tears fell from our eyes as we expressed thankfulness that John’s mortal suffering had ended. Words of gratitude spilled from my mouth as I thought of the many tender mercies Heavenly Father had given to us (see 1 Nephi 1:20). God had enabled me to care for John in our home, despite having physical issues myself (which actually necessitated multiple surgeries not long after John died).
As we talked, I was comforted as I expressed thanks for the eternal promises of our temple covenants (see Doctrine and Covenants 132:19–20). I told my children I felt like Johnny was hugging me, confirming what I was saying as I expressed gratitude. What a joyous feeling! I reminded my family of President Russell M. Nelson’s words in November 2020: “Practicing gratitude may not prevent us from experiencing sorrow, anger, or pain, but it can help us look forward with hope.”1
Suddenly, I felt a heavenly embrace so strongly that it filled me with awe. I also felt that John was well and happy and that I should be too. Right then, I promised myself—and my sweetheart—that I would be.

Most of the food boxes and gifts were delivered by hospice employees, but a few were given to the youth to deliver on Mutual night. Bundled in coats and singing carols, they carried food boxes, trees, and cards to a few of the people they had been able to serve in July. Of course it was a lot colder that night than it had been during the summer, but the warm feelings that come with service are the same no matter what time of year it is.

“Delivering the gifts and seeing how happy it made people was a lot of fun,” says Joe Jones, a priest. “It was also great to see how our service during youth conference really paid off.”

Armed with cleaning rags, needed supplies, and lots of heart, more than 400 youth in Nampa, Idaho, set out to do some good in their community. In a citywide effort that included 20 wards and 1 branch in the 2 Nampa stakes, the youth committed a Saturday to serving. But they also spent weeks in preparation: making quilts, practicing programs, and organizing food, clothing, and toy drives. On the day of the project they did everything from stacking firewood for the elderly in their wards to filling the supply closets at shelters. Following all their service the youth got a much-deserved rest, including a testimony meeting, dinner, and a dance.

That night at the priesthood session, the Chile stadium was full. Young Mario and I were seated just forty meters from the prophet. The spirit of the occasion was so wonderful that tears again filled my eyes to think of the great blessings our sacrifice had brought. I was contemplating our marvelous experience when I noticed that Mario was missing. I looked quickly around, but young Mario was nowhere to be found.
Very frightened, I turned toward the prophet, as if seeking comfort. There was Mario, greeting the prophet and shaking his hand in a gesture of love. Then Mario ran toward me, weeping for joy. “Look at my hand,” he said. “It touched the prophet of God.” He had slipped past the guards protecting President Kimball.
Today, eight years later, Mario is an engineering student at the university. He is a leader in the Church and is preparing to serve a mission. “As long as I live, I will remember that I shook the prophet’s hand,” he says. “It is the love of our Heavenly Father for all of us, especially our family, that gives me the courage to serve the Lord full-time.”

I constantly pray for my family’s success and well-being. But some things haven’t yet worked out how I’d hoped. I started to wonder if God was hearing my prayers. As my uncertainty worsened, I prayed less often. I thought, “Why should I pray when I don’t feel anything?”

But then one day, I realized that I was doubting God. He has always been my Father in Heaven, my greatest support and strength. I started crying. When I got home that day, I knelt to pray because I felt spiritually and emotionally lost.

After praying, I felt comfort, warmth, and love. I knew He was with me. I know Heavenly Father sees our struggles and hears our cries. From that day on, I understood that He has big plans for my family—plans that require His timing and my patience.

When John Rainer was a young boy in Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, one of his favorite parts of the day was dusk. Like most young Indian children, John would run and play and do chores all day long, with an exuberance typical of those who grow up with space to roam and air to breathe. But at the end of the day, when golden fire filled the horizon, John would pause and listen. He would always hear the song of the flute.
“It was a peaceful, relaxed melody,” John recalls. “The old man would sit near the river half a mile from town and play his tunes. He believed the music would travel with the water. You couldn’t see him, but you could always hear his tunes.” It was a time for rest from the day’s labor, a time of repose and contemplation, a time during which a love for music was born in John’s heart.
John grew up and moved to the city. He lived in a comfortable brick home in a suburb of Orem, Utah, with his wife and children. And every evening, just at dusk, he would take his flute—one he made himself—and play a melody—one he wrote himself—to his family. His neighbors didn’t always see John, but they could usually hear his songs. When they did, the whole world seemed to pause, breathe deeply, then sigh in contentment.
“Playing the flute is my way of sharing something my ancestors shared with me,” John said.

This lesson came full circle a couple of years later, when I was eight or nine years old. My father’s doctor’s office was downtown, and I would occasionally stop by to visit him on my way home from school. One day I stopped by, and my father invited me into his office. He said, “I have something I want you to do for me.”
“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”
My dad took from his desk four crisp twenty-dollar bills and said, “I want you to deposit these in the bank for me.” Now, $80 at that time would be worth about $300 or $400 today. That was a lot of money to a little kid.
My father filled out a deposit slip and gave it to me along with the bills. He then asked me to take the money with the deposit slip down the street to the Raymond branch of the Bank of Montreal. I remember thinking at the time, “This is a lot of money! I could buy anything with this much money!” but I quickly got rid of the idea. I knew my father had trusted me with the money, and I didn’t want to betray his trust.
I went straight to the bank and got in line to make the deposit. I remember being the only little person standing in that line. I received a receipt from the cashier, and when my dad came home that night, I proudly gave it to him. He was very kind and told me how much he trusted me and how proud he was that I’d done what he’d asked me to do.

Shortly after Sister Cook and I arrived in Mongolia, we were asked to accompany two young elders to a city called Muren. At the conclusion of our trip, our return was delayed by bad weather. Each day we went to the airport to see if our plane was going to arrive so we could fly out. We waited with other passengers until we received word whether we would depart that day or would be forced to return to the city for the evening.

Trying to take the same flight out was a group of foreign tourists. They told us they had been by horseback to some of the most remote, little-explored areas of Mongolia.

While we were waiting at the airport, one of these tourists approached one of our elders and said: “I know who you are! What are you doing here? These people don’t need you. They are an unspoiled people with a rich heritage. Why don’t you just go home and leave them alone?”

The elder came to me and was very upset, and we talked about the several responses he could have given. It wasn’t until about two weeks later, however, that I read a statement by President Benson that explained what would have been the perfect response. President Benson said:

“Some may ask why we as a people and church quietly and consistently seek to change individuals while there are such large problems about us. … But decaying cities are simply a delayed reflection of decaying individuals. … The commandments of God give emphasis to improvement of the individual as the only real way to bring about the real improvement [of] society” (A Plea for America [1975], 18).

“The Lord works from the inside out. The world works from the outside in. The world would take people out of the slums. Christ takes the slums out of the people, and then they take themselves out of the slums. … Christ changes men, who then change their environment. The world would shape human behavior, but Christ can change human nature” (“Born of God,” Ensign, Nov. 1985, 6).

My niece Katie was a hopeful 20-year-old university student with many talents and plans for the future. Four years ago Katie died in an auto accident. Though our family still feels much homesickness for her, we know that we will be with her again, and we are not worried about her. In Katie’s wallet was her temple recommend, given to her by her bishop so she could be baptized for her ancestors. Katie was worthy. Not long before Katie died she wrote these words: “If this were my last day on earth, this is the record I would leave. Make each day meaningful. … Stay close to the Lord. Gain all the knowledge you can about the scriptures, the gospel, the creations of the Lord. … Give of yourself … and always remember Christ for His example and His Atonement and strive each day to be like Him.” Katie had entered in the way that leads to eternal life, and she had stayed in.

President Hinckley: … She has run the house all these years. When our children were growing up, I was away much of the time on Church assignments. In the early days, when I had responsibility for the work in Asia, which I had for a long time, I would be gone for as long as two months at a time. We couldn’t telephone back and forth all the time in those days. She took care of everything. She ran the home. She ran everything and took care of the children.

We had a garden in our backyard. When I came home from one of my long assignments, I found that it had all been planted to lawn. She and the children had spaded up that backyard, sown lawn seed, and there was a beautiful lawn! The garden didn’t suffer, because we could plant another garden to the south of us. But that whole backyard became a beautiful patch of lawn.

That’s typical of the way she did things. She was independent and had a great eye for beauty.

Approximately seven years ago, a sister from the Ashton 1 Ward, Ashton Stake, was working in a local care home where she met and started talking with visitors from the local Royal British Legion. During the conversation the visitors mentioned how challenging it was to get volunteers to assist with the annual Poppy Appeal. The sister, Helen Hubbert, immediately offered to be a volunteer for the RBL and their Poppy Appeal. Helen also told the visitors that she was confident she could get others to assist through family, friends, neighbours and members of her church community. The British Legion were delighted and discussions followed to put a plan together and find an appropriate venue for the appeal.
The plan was to create a rota that would run for 10 days, Monday to Saturday, 10.00am until 9.00pm. The venue was a local supermarket, where the volunteers would man some tables with displays and items to sell such as poppies, poppy wreaths, metal lapel poppies, poppy brooches, and poppy related items for children. Helen set about getting the rota filled with volunteers. It wasn’t easy, but with the help of family, friends, neighbours and members of the Church, the rota was filled.
Over the next two weeks, all the time slots were filled with volunteers, with help from families, youth, Primary children, full time missionaries, church members as well as some of Helen’s neighbours, all helped raise a substantial amount of money for the Poppy Appeal. It had been a positive experience for all involved. Helen’s enthusiasm, drive and organisational skills had made it happen. The question was, could and would Helen be willing to help the following year, the answer was yes. This time people, including members, were offering their services without being asked, again the rota was quickly filled and yet again a substantial amount of money was raised for the poppy appeal.
Sadly, the Poppy Appeal was interrupted during the COVID-19 lockdown and so there was no face to face Poppy Appeal in 2020. Helen was back in 2021 with the same enthusiasm and drive and a substantial amount of money raised for the RBL. In 2022, Helen was taken ill and sadly passed away in October. Her good friend Ashleigh Hughes, also a member of the Ashton 1 Ward took up the mantle to keep that commitment that Helen had made seven years earlier to support a charity that was close to her heart. Ashleigh has kept Helen’s legacy going, by organising the volunteers and correlating with the British Legion. During November 2023, members, along with friends, helped raise almost £18,000, a truly remarkable effort by one group of volunteers.
The British legion said that Helen has created a community with pride that had brought people together.
Helen has created a great tradition of service where people ask to volunteer and who want to do their part. What a great legacy to leave.

President Heber J. Grant once heard Bishop Millen Atwood preach a sermon in the Thirteenth Ward, “I was studying grammar at the time,” he said, “and he made some grammatical errors in his talk.
“I wrote down his first sentence, smiled to myself, and said: ‘I am going to get … enough material to last me for the entire winter in my night school grammar class.’ We had to take … four sentences a week, that were not grammatically correct, together with our corrections.
“… But I did not write anything more after that first sentence—not a word; and when Millen Atwood stopped preaching, tears were rolling down my cheeks, tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that welled up into my eyes because of the marvelous testimony which that man bore of the divine mission of Joseph Smith, the Prophet of God. …”
He continued: “Although it is now more than sixty-five years since I listened to that sermon, it is just as vivid today, and the sensations and feelings that I had are just as fixed with me, as they were the day I heard it. …
“… the one thing above all others that has impressed me has been the spirit, the inspiration of the living God that an individual had, when proclaiming the Gospel, and not the language. … I have endeavored, from that day to this … to judge men and women by the spirit they have; for I have learned absolutely, that it is the spirit that giveth life and understanding, and not the letter—the letter killeth” (Improvement Era, Apr. 1939, p. 201).

In April, the branch started a Young Women program. At first there was only one participant: me! Even when I didn’t go, the teacher would wait for me. That seemed strange, too. Why was she so patient? Why did she wait so long even when she wasn’t sure I’d show up?
About that time, the mission presidents changed and the Suzuki family came to Sapporo. There was a young lady in the family, Naomi, who was my age. We quickly became friends, since we were the only young women our age in the branch. She set a good example for me, and with her as a guide, I began to understand the patience of our teacher and the beauty of the gospel. Naomi’s example helped keep me going to church weekly and praying diligently. I was able to gain a small testimony and wanted from the bottom of my heart to be baptized.

While I was in high school in Oakley, Idaho, the school board was finally able to raise enough money to buy us football uniforms. Our coach was the chemistry teacher. He had seen a game one time, and so he taught us how to tackle and run a few simple plays. The rest of us had never seen an actual team play.
Our first game was against Twin Falls, Idaho, the previous year’s state high school champs. Well, as you can imagine, the game was interesting. We tried a couple of plays and didn’t go anywhere, so we kicked the ball to get rid of it. Each time we got the ball, we kicked, and each time they got the ball, they scored.
Near the end of the game, when we were battered and beaten, Twin Falls started to get a little reckless. Clifford Lee, who was playing halfback with me, had one of their wild passes land right in his arms. He wondered what to do with it. He saw them coming after him, so he started to run for his life. He scored a touchdown.
We didn’t try an extra point because we didn’t have anyone who could kick one. The final score was 106 to 6. Our team lost so badly because we had not mastered the basics of football.
In life when there is something to be done, we have to learn the basics. They are taught in the scriptures. None of them has changed. We have to learn to obey the simple, basic rules of the gospel that are necessary for us to advance.

“This will be very difficult for some of you,” said Mr. Boothe, our choir director. “But I promise, those of you who take my challenge will have an experience you’ll never forget.” I didn’t see what could be so hard about singing Christmas songs in a rest home.
Our coats, scarves, hats, and gloves soon formed a small mountain in a corner of the cafeteria, and I took my place with the basses as we began to sing “Joy to the World.”
As if on cue, we heard the click-click of doors opening one by one. Down each corridor came a shuffling procession of elderly men and women leaning on crutches and canes, or pushing their metal walkers before them. I began to fidget with impatience at their slow progress, worried that our whole program would be over before they even got seated.
“Pick one out.” I could see Mr. Boothe mouthing the words, and I remembered his challenge to us earlier. He did not want us removed from this widening sea of ancient faces. He wanted us to choose someone in particular, to think of them as our friend, and go sing and talk to them, person-to-person.
I didn’t see anyone I wanted to think of as a friend. I pictured my two grandmothers, their faces animated and alive as they dipped into their endless reserves of family stories. These people were nothing like that. I saw only dull, expressionless faces, and those few who did smile worried me by smiling too much.
As our choir began spreading out I saw a tiny woman in a blue-flowered nightgown. She perched in her wheelchair like a baby bird in an oversized nest. Her gaze never left the floor. Something told me this was “my” lady.
As we finished “The First Noel,” Mr. Boothe raised his eyebrows, questioning. He was obviously not pleased with the few remaining holdouts. I took a deep breath and found myself standing next to the woman in the wheelchair. Up close I could see that her hair was fine and white as angel hair. I leaned down close to her ear and sang confidently with the choir, “Chestnuts roasting …”
In a single burst, she sat bolt upright, popped her eyes and mouth wide open, threw her hands in the air, and screamed as loud as she could! Everyone, including the director, fell silent, craning their necks to see what I had done to this woman who was still screaming. Mr. Boothe was right; this was becoming more unforgettable by the moment!
“Lady,” I said, “what did I do? Please stop!”
And she did. She went pale as she clutched her heart, taking only quick shallow breaths. Fortunately a nurse came charging down the aisle to save this poor soul from her special new friend. Shoving me aside, she patted the lady’s hand and said, “Breathe deep, Stella, breathe deep.”
This sounded like good advice, so I joined in, “Breathe, Stella, breathe!”
The nurse shot me a withering glance. “Young man,” she said, “don’t you think you’ve been helpful enough?”
Our director tried to rally the astonished group. “Silent Night!” he ordered quickly.
I retreated and tried to be inconspicuous, but it was no use. Wherever I looked, newly attentive men and women reached fearfully for canes, crutches, whatever might be needed to ward off this strange boy whose voice could cause pain.
At the end of the program, a nurse corralled several of us to take people in wheelchairs back to their rooms. Grabbing the handles of one of the last wheelchairs, I leaned over to introduce myself to its owner. It was Stella!
“Ma’am,” I hurried, “please remain calm. I’ll take you to your room, and then you will never have to see me again. I promise.”
When we arrived in the ladies’ wing, I asked, with my best smile, “Which room is yours?”
“I’m not telling,” she said grumpily. “You have to guess.”
I suppose I deserved it, but everyone else was saying good-bye to their charges and heading for the bus. I sped up, asking in every room, “Is this where Stella lives?” She seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. At last, I found her room.
“Here we are, Stella, home sweet home.” I stood there awkwardly, looking around the room for something to make small talk about. There it was! A neat row of eight Christmas cards taped to the wall above her night stand. “Well, it looks like a lot of people are thinking of you this year.”
She paused and heaved a sigh. A shadow seemed to darken her face. After a moment she spoke, “You can look at my cards if you’d like.”
I opened the first one. “Merry Christmas, Stella, 1983.” The next was similar, “Merry Christmas, 1982.” Then ’81, ’80, and on down the line. They were all from the same person—all in perfect condition like prized possessions. When I turned around I had an odd feeling in my stomach. It was no longer time for small talk.
Stella began quietly, “I don’t have family or friends who come visit anymore.” Then, sounding very tired, “I don’t think the other people in this place like me very much.”
The fine, white angel hair circled her tiny, expectant face. She seemed so vulnerable as her dark eyes met mine, awaiting a response. Why was she telling me this? What could I do? I had no answer to her heartbreaking revelation, but I remembered all at once the one thing that had never failed to make my grandmothers’ faces glow.
“Stella,” I swallowed hard, “would you please tell me about your favorite Christmas?”
I sat on her bed and waited. There was a moment’s hesitation as she searched for the memory. Then a smile lit her face as she found it. It didn’t take long to warm to her subject, and she sparkled like an ornament as she shared each detail.
I closed her door quickly when I left. I wanted all the glowing warmth of that remembered Christmas to stay and fill her room for as long as possible. As the bus pulled away, I stared out the window, trying for the second time that day to see which room was hers.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered. “Merry Christmas, Stella.”