Gospel Story Finder

There is another temptation to be resisted. It is to yield to the despairing thought that it is too hard and too late to repent. I knew a man once who could have thought that and given up. When he was 12 he was ordained a deacon. Some of his friends tempted him to begin to smoke. He began to feel uncomfortable in church. He left his little town, not finishing high school, to begin a life following construction jobs across the United States. He was a heavy-equipment operator. He married. They had children. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce. He lost his children. He lost an eye in an accident. He lived alone in boardinghouses. He lost everything he owned except what he could carry in a trunk.
One night, as he prepared to move yet again, he decided to lighten the load of that trunk. Beneath the junk of years, he found a book. He never knew how it got there. It was the Book of Mormon. He read it through, and the Spirit told him it was true. He knew then that all those years ago he had walked away from the true Church of Jesus Christ and from the happiness which could have been his.
Later, he was my more-than-70-year-old district missionary companion. I asked the people we were teaching, as I testified of the power of the Savior’s Atonement, to look at him. He had been washed clean and given a new heart, and I knew they would see that in his face. I told the people that what they saw was evidence that the Atonement of Jesus Christ could wash away all the corrosive effects of sin.
That was the only time he ever rebuked me. He told me in the darkness outside the trailer where we had been teaching that I should have told the people that while God was able to give him a new heart, He had not been able to give him back his wife and his children and what he might have done for them. But he had not looked back in sorrow and regret for what might have been. He moved forward, lifted by faith, to what yet might be.
One day he told me that in a dream the night before, the sight in his blind eye was restored. He realized that the dream was a glimpse of a future day, walking among loving people in the light of a glorious resurrection. Tears of joy ran down the deeply lined face of that towering, raw-boned man. He spoke to me quietly, with a radiant smile. I don’t remember what he said he saw, but I remember that his face shone with happy anticipation as he described the view. With the Lord’s help and the miracle of that book in the bottom of a trunk, it had not for him been too late nor the way too hard.

May I share a letter from a grateful recipient of their loving service. He writes:
“The young women [of my ward] very literally saved my life. I was a young bishop, just 29, the father of four beautiful little girls, including a small baby, when Heavenly Father called my wife home to Him. As I met with each of our little girls and asked them what impact this change would mean to them, the concerns of six-year-old Emily, the oldest of the four, were many, including, ‘Who is going to comb and curl my hair for church and put ribbons and clips in it?’ That was a good question to me as well. Who? I was consumed with the idea that life would be as ‘normal’ as possible for all of us—which meant that I would have to learn a whole new way of life. I was their father, and I was going to be the only parent. I realized that I was not equipped with the motherly skills that I needed. I called upon the young women of the ward to train me to be able to satisfy at least the needs of hair care. They came to my home, numerous times, to begin my training. They even showed me how to care for my six-month-old Natalie as far as washing her hair without so much trauma. By the time I ‘graduated,’ I could whip up a mean (but simple) hairdo. Much more than the skill, those young women gave me confidence as a father of daughters—that I could love them, care for them, be there for them, no matter how the rest of my life continued.” Thank you, Brother Michael Marston, for your tender letter.

I had been serving with the U.S. Army in Vietnam for two years. Vietnam has two seasons, hot and dry and hot and wet. This morning was hot and wet, just as each previous day had been for the past several weeks. I was sitting in a shallow ditch, too tired to care about the mud oozing into my army boots or the stench of the blood stained water around my feet. Sweat was pouring down my brow, soaking my shirt. The oppressive heat made breathing laborious.
I had spent the past three weeks on patrol operations. Now, with those of my colleagues still alive, I was waiting by a loading zone for helicopters to take us back to base camp.
I thought of the past few days—of my friends who had died, of the pain of those who hadn’t, and of how tired I was of everything. We had had weeks of constant patrol, chasing enemy troops by day and praying at night that they wouldn’t come looking for us. But they always did.
I instinctively crouched deeper into the ditch as a bullet whined overhead. An enemy sniper had started shooting, so this was no time to be careless. Our guards were scanning the jungle, but they had not yet spotted the source of the rifle fire.
The roar of helicopters filled the air and three of them landed some ten meters behind me. Their machine guns opened up to keep the enemy occupied. Fresh troops, our replacements, scrambled off the helicopters and into the ditch as our wounded were loaded aboard. The entire exchange lasted only seconds, and then the helicopters were gone. The next flight would be for us. “Just a little longer,” I thought to myself as I tried to control the urge to stand up and stretch my cramped legs.
In the silence broken only by muffled conversation and occasional gunfire, I became aware of someone whistling a familiar tune. What was that song? It seemed to calm my fears and shut out the war. I listened intently and looked around to see a soldier sitting about a meter away. I couldn’t make out his name tag; he was another private from the company that had just arrived. He continued to whistle—and then I recognized the tune, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.”
I quickly crawled over to him and asked if he was a Latter-day Saint and if he held the priesthood. He said yes, and my heart skipped a beat; I had not been in touch with another Church member since I had attended the Saigon Branch several months before. I asked if he was worthy to bless the sacrament, and he told me that he was.
It was the Sabbath; I knew that only because of the day and date feature on my watch. I had an army ration biscuit and a canteen of water, so I asked if he would help me with the sacrament. He nodded and we crawled out of the ditch—out of sight of the other soldiers—into the tall grass and bamboo.
I pulled from my pocket my serviceman’s copy of Principles of the Gospel that my bishop had given me when I had received my draft notice. I offered my helmet, upturned, for our table, and the soldier produced a clean white handkerchief for the sacrament cloth. Kneeling with my new companion in the mud, I unwrapped the biscuit and broke and blessed it. While I prayed, he watched the jungle with his rifle ready. We served each other. Then he laid down his weapon, took the canteen cup of water, and blessed it while I guarded him.
Never in my life has the bread of the sacrament tasted so sweet and the water so pure as it did that day, nor has my soul been so strengthened by the ordinance. We clasped hands, then quickly crawled back to the protection of the ditch. Immediately, the noise of the helicopters again filled the air, and I was up and running for the loading zone with my colleagues. I turned and looked back, my fear had left me. My brother-in-the-gospel smiled and waved. I climbed aboard the helicopter, and we were gone.
I never asked that soldier’s name, nor he mine, but in those brief moments we forged a bond to last throughout eternity. Another member of the Church had rescued my soul from the horror and despair of war. Partaking of the sacrament in the jungle had brought me closer to the Lord than I had ever been before.
Through a gospel ordinance, we had found peace.

Nine years later Hal was enjoying tenure at Stanford and serving as bishop of the Stanford First Ward. With his in-laws living nearby, “things were set,” he recalls. But in the middle of the night in 1971, Kathleen woke him with two unusual questions: “Are you sure you are doing the right thing with your life?”
Wondering how they could be any happier, Hal asked, “What do you mean?”
Kathleen replied, “Couldn’t you be doing studies for Neal Maxwell?”
Neal A. Maxwell had just been appointed Commissioner of the Church Educational System. Neither Hal nor Kathleen knew him, but Kathleen felt that perhaps her husband could be doing more to change lives.
“Doing studies for Neal Maxwell—at my stage of my career?” Hal responded. After all, he thought, “ ‘Doing studies’ was something a young graduate student might do.”
Following a pause, Kathleen said, “Will you pray about it?”
At that stage in his marriage, Hal knew better than to ignore his wife’s counsel. He got out of bed, knelt, and uttered a prayer. “I got no answer,” he says, “and I felt terrific about it because I didn’t want to go anywhere.”
The following day during bishopric meeting, a voice that Hal has come to know well came to his mind and rebuked him for treating lightly his wife’s prompting. “You don’t know what way is up in your career,” he was told. “If you ever get another job offer, you bring it to me.”
Hal was shaken by the experience and immediately returned home. “We’ve got a problem,” he told Kathleen. He feared he had made a mistake by passing up several job offers he had received while at Stanford. “I had never prayed over any of them,” he says. Humbled, he began praying about his future.
Less than a week after Kathleen’s late-night questions, Commissioner Maxwell called and invited Hal to Salt Lake City for a meeting. He flew out the next day, and the two men met at the home of Hal’s parents. The first words out of Commissioner Maxwell’s mouth were “I’d like to ask you to be the president of Ricks College.”
Even his wife’s prompting and the spiritual rebuke he had received hadn’t prepared him for such a surprise. He told Commissioner Maxwell that he would need to pray about it. After all, he knew little about Ricks College. The next morning he met with the First Presidency. Afterward, Commissioner Maxwell told him the job was his if he wanted it.
Upon his return to California, Hal continued praying fervently. An answer came, but he almost missed it. “I heard a voice so faint that I hadn’t paid attention to it,” he recalls. “The voice said, ‘It’s my school.’ ” He called Commissioner Maxwell and said, “I’m coming.”
Just like that, Hal gave up the trappings of tenure at Stanford for life in a single-wide trailer in Rexburg, Idaho. It would be several months after his inauguration as president of Ricks College, on December 10, 1971, that he would move his family into their new home, which he helped build.
“I went to Ricks knowing a couple of things,” he says. “One is that I wasn’t as much of a big shot as I thought I was in terms of my great position at Stanford. Another is that I knew my wife had received revelation before I did. Finally, I knew that I was a lucky guy to be there. So instead of answering the question ‘How could I give up my career at Stanford?’ I say, ‘Heavenly Father took care of that. It never felt like a sacrifice.’ ”

Mike Bruneau’s parents and Church leaders told him that work is something to take seriously, to be honest at, even when it is not very glamorous. He took that advice to heart.
Mike, 15, is working as a temporary custodian for a Pepperell elementary school during the summer. If you have ever pushed a vacuum around your own living room you can probably testify that cleaning is not the most exciting job. Mike says the temptation to slack off at work is strong at times, but he sets goals and takes pride in his work.
“It could be boring because we do a lot of the same things over and over,” Mike said. “So I set a goal to make sure we get everything done before the end of the day.”
Mike also adds that he wants to be a good example because he’s LDS. He has had the opportunity to tell other employees about the Church and feels better about talking religion when others can see what kind of person he is trying to be.

Growing up I thought the Spirit only spoke in an audible voice, which made me think very few people were privileged to hear that voice. So when I met with missionaries and accepted their invitation to pray to Heavenly Father for a confirmation that the gospel is true, I expected to hear an audible voice. And I was disappointed when I didn’t. Even though I felt their message was true, I was reluctant to be baptized because I had not heard the voice of the Spirit.
As my family members were baptized and bearing testimonies, I felt like I wasn’t doing something right, since Heavenly Father wasn’t “speaking” to me. When my mum and older brother went to the temple, I had a strong feeling that the temple was truly the house of the Lord and that I needed to prepare to go there one day. But I still didn’t recognize that my feelings were promptings from the Spirit.
One day I was reading from the Book of Mormon with the missionaries, and I had a strong feeling that what we were reading was true. I told the elders what I was feeling, and they helped me understand that the witness I felt was the Holy Spirit speaking to me. In that moment I realized I had been feeling the Spirit in so many ways, but I hadn’t considered He speaks with us all so differently. I accepted the invitation to be baptized that day.

On a bright, crisp winter afternoon we pointed our van toward the mission home in Bordeaux, France. It was December 24, 1990, and we were on our way home for Christmas.
My wife, Kathy, and I, along with our four children—Camey, age 14, Brandt, 13, Kristen, 10, and Derek, 8—had just experienced a week to remember. Because of the distances involved in our mission, we had not brought the missionaries together for a Christmas celebration. Rather, we had traveled as a family to every city in the mission, bringing a feeling of family togetherness, involving the children in sharing a special Christmas program. Our family had rejoiced with each of the missionaries in the great privilege of sharing the restored gospel of Christ at this glorious time of year.
On our final day we had been joined by four wonderful missionaries. The large blue van, now full, was filled as well with the Christmas spirit, and Christmas carols and favorite stories made the travel time pass quickly. Kristen and Derek were becoming more excited with each hour as they anticipated the surprises Christmas morning would bring. We could almost smell the turkey dinner being prepared at the mission home by a wonderful missionary couple awaiting our return. The feeling of Christmas was in the air.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we realized there might be a problem. For much of the morning we had experienced some difficulty in shifting our van from one gear to another. We had stopped to check the level of the transmission fluid, but all seemed to be in order. Now, with darkness setting in and our van still two hours from Bordeaux, third, fourth, and fifth gears stopped functioning altogether.
We limped along the tree-lined country road in second gear. It would be impossible to drive to Bordeaux in this condition, and we looked for possible help. Our first hope was a convenience store just preparing to close. I asked about possible rental-car locations or train stations nearby. We were far from any city of any size, however, and my questions brought little response.
I returned to the van. The concern and disappointment showed on the faces of our younger children. Would they not be home for Christmas Eve? Would they spend this most special night of the year in a crowded mission van? After they had brought happiness and cheer to missionaries far from home, would their Christmas come alongside a forgotten French country road far from their own home?
Kristen knew to whom we could appeal, and she immediately suggested a prayer. Many times as a family we had prayed for those in need—for the missionaries, the investigators, the Church members, our leaders, the French people, our own family. We bowed in prayer and humbly asked for help.
By now it was dark. The van crept forward, moving at a jogger’s pace through the pine forest. We were hoping to reach a little town just three miles (5 km) ahead. Soon our lights caught a small sign with an arrow directing us to Villeneuve-de-Marsan.
We had driven the two-lane road from Pau to Bordeaux many times, but never had we journeyed off the highway to the little town of Villeneuve-de-Marsan. As we hobbled into the town, the scene was like many small French villages. Homes and small shops were attached one to another, crowding the narrow road leading into town. People had closed their window shutters early, and the streets were dark and deserted. The lights in the ancient Catholic church in the center of town showed the one sign of life as they glowed in preparation for the traditional midnight mass. We rolled past the church, and the van hesitated and then stopped. Fortunately, we found ourselves in front of a lovely country inn. The lights were on, and we determined that this was our last chance for help.
To avoid overwhelming those in the inn, Kathy, Camey, and the missionaries stayed in the van while I took the three younger children inside. I explained our situation to the young woman at the front desk. She could see the beleaguered faces of my children, and she kindly asked us to wait while she called the innkeeper, Mr. Francis Darroze.
Camey came in to see how we were doing. As we waited for Mr. Darroze to arrive, I silently said a prayer of thanksgiving. We might not make it back to Bordeaux for the night, but how good of our Father in Heaven to lead us to a clean hotel! I shuddered as I realized how easily we could have spent the night in the van in a remote area of France. I could see a restaurant in the next room, and I was amazed to see it open on Christmas Eve. We would have a good meal, a hot shower, and a comfortable sleep.
Mr. Darroze arrived in the clothing of a traditional French chef, with his double-breasted chef’s coat buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was the owner of the hotel, a man of importance in the community. His warm eyes and quick smile communicated that he was a gentleman as well.
I told him of our dilemma, of the 10 of us in the van, and of our destination in Bordeaux. As he noticed my accent, I added that we were Americans and in one sentence told him why we were in France.
He instantly sought to help us. About 10 miles (16 km) away was a medium-sized city with an active train schedule. He called to ask about the next train to Bordeaux but found that it would not leave until 10:15 Christmas morning. All rental-car companies in that larger city were closed.
The disappointment was evident in the faces of my young children. I asked Mr. Darroze if he would have room in the inn for our family and the four missionaries to spend the night. Although we wouldn’t make it home, at least it was a great blessing to have found such suitable accommodations.
Mr. Darroze looked at the children. He had known us only a few minutes, but his heart was touched with the brotherhood that crosses all oceans and makes us one family. The spirit of Christmas giving filled his soul. “Mr. Andersen,” he said, “of course I have rooms here that you can rent. But you do not want to spend Christmas Eve here in the inn. Children should be home as they await the excitement of Christmas morning. I will lend you my car, and you can go to Bordeaux tonight.”
I was amazed at his thoughtfulness. Most people would view strangers, especially foreigners like us, with caution. I thanked him but explained that there were 10 of us and a small French car would never be sufficient.
He hesitated momentarily, but his hesitation was not to diminish the gift but to expand it.
“At my farm about 10 miles from here I have an old van. It is used for farming and has only the two seats in front. It will travel at only about 45 miles per hour (70 kph), and I am not certain the heater works well. But if you want it, I will drive you the 10 miles to my farm to get it.”
The children jumped for joy. I reached into my pocket for my cash or credit cards. He quickly shook his head and his finger in disapproval.
“No,” he said, “I will take nothing. You can bring my van back to me when you get time after Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. Take your family home.”
Sometime shortly after midnight the lights of Bordeaux came into view. The children and the missionaries had fallen asleep in the back of the innkeeper’s van. As we drove the familiar streets leading to our home, Kathy and I thanked our kind Heavenly Father for our own Christmas miracle. At a time when only He could bring us home, He had heard our prayers.
We were home on Christmas Eve, even though in Villeneuve-de-Marsan there was room in the inn.

“Did anyone work problem number 12?” Mr. Bentley asked the class.
The students all shook their heads.
Except Jeff. He raised his hand. “I did.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bentley said with raised eyebrows. “What did you get for your answer?”
“(X-Y)/(X + Y).”
Mr. Bentley looked at him strangely. “That’s what I got too. Did anyone else work it?”
Silence.
Mr. Bentley looked at Jeff with newfound respect. “It’s a hard problem. Did it take you very long?”
He modestly shrugged his shoulders. “Not really.”
“Would you like to show the class how you got your answer?”
“No, that’s all right. You go ahead.”
He was a senior in high school. His family had just moved to town because his father was the new superintendent of schools. The reason he appeared so bright in math was because he’d used his dad’s stationery and written the publisher for the teacher’s supplement that had all the problems worked out.
After putting the problem on the board, Mr. Bentley turned to Jeff and asked, “Is that how you did it?”
Jeff casually nodded his head. “More or less.”
The class bell rang, and it was time for lunch.
He ate alone. He didn’t care. There was nobody in this town he wanted to know anyway.
When school was over he went downtown and continued to look for a job.
A week later he found a job at an expensive men’s clothing store. He worked after school and on Saturdays. They didn’t actually let him sell anything; he unpacked clothing, cleaned the rest rooms, dusted, and ran errands.
Upstairs the store was mahogany and marble, but in the store’s basement there was no need for a good impression because no customers ever ventured that far. Alterations were made in the basement, and there was a large steam press which hissed clouds of steam. The two women who worked there were grumpy and were always complaining about everyone else.
Beyond the alterations room was an entire area full of mannequin parts—a bin for heads, and another for arms. And scattered along the dimly lit hall stood headless, armless bronzed torsos on the roughened cement floor.
Another section was filled with remnants of past window displays—signs which define for us what the “Man of Action” is wearing. But the “Man of Action” changes every season, and the signs were for last year, so the signs lay in stacks gathering dust, waiting for the window man to finally decide what to keep and what to throw away.
Jeff spent much of his workday in the basement. Starting from cardboard slabs he made up suit and tie and sock boxes. He also mailed altered suits to out-of-town customers. Also it was in the basement where they kept the supplies for polishing and dusting the mahogany upstairs.
One day he walked to the end of the dreary hallway. The lighting was bad and the clutter more evident as he proceeded.
What a mess, he thought. He moved aside a sign and saw a stack of men’s magazines. He was embarrassed by the cover on top. Making sure nobody was around, he opened it up and quickly thumbed through its pages. There was a centerfold picture.
I’ve got no business looking at this, he thought, closing it and walking away.
Four days passed, and he never returned to the magazines. He congratulated himself on his self-control.
But one day he returned. It was a day when it seemed as if the world was against him. At breakfast his parents scolded him for driving the car but never putting any gas in it. His dad warned him that he’d better spend more time studying if he ever expected to get a college scholarship. At school he said hello to a girl, but she looked coolly at him as if he weren’t even there.
He forgot the combination to his locker and had to go to the principal’s office to ask for it. The girl working there smirked and suggested he write it on his hand so he wouldn’t forget it. He flunked a world history exam. After school his boss yelled at him as soon as he walked in because two days ago he’d switched two suits and sent an old suit to a state senator who’d bought one especially for a press conference.
On that day, when the world seemed to be tumbling down on him, he found himself in the basement lifting up the old signs to again gaze at the stack of magazines.
Life was the same dull routine day after day. Besides that, nobody really cared about him anyway. What good did it do to try to live right when things just turn out rotten anyway?
He picked one of the magazines from the bottom of the stack and quickly stuffed it in his school notebook and walked away.
Later that night, at home, after family prayer, when his mom had embarrassed him by insisting on a good night kiss, he went to his room and closed the door and read the magazine from cover to cover.
The next day at work he returned it to the bottom of the stack, and nobody was any the wiser. It was his little secret.
Over the course of the next two weeks, in the same way he read every magazine in the stack.
It doesn’t matter, he thought. I’m still the same. It hasn’t affected me at all.
Shortly after, he met Holly. She was from a small branch in a town 50 miles away. She was a sophomore and he was a senior, and they met at a seminary Super Saturday. She had blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Her high cheekbones made everything about her face seem more dramatic. Her laughter reminded him of wind chimes.
After the first scripture chase, he sat behind her so he could watch her every move.
After the lesson, they all went to the gym to play volleyball. He stood next to her. Before the game started, she turned to him, smiled, and said, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
They talked. He couldn’t remember what he said, because he was so anxious to have her like him. The game started and they lost, but he didn’t care because she said she enjoyed getting to know him and that she hoped to see him again sometime.
When it was all over, he walked her outside to her parents’ car, he asked her if he could come up and visit her sometime, and she said she’d like that.
“Do you think we’ll be good friends?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
“I do too.”
He asked her for a picture, and she said she’d mail one to him.
On Monday of the next week, his math teacher asked him to sign up for the special college preparatory exam because if he did really well he could get a scholarship next year and anyone as bright as he was should be able to get a full-ride scholarship anywhere in the country.
“I’m not that smart,” Jeff said.
“I think you’re too modest. I’ve noticed the way you do all the homework. You’re the best student I’ve ever had. I insist you take the exam.”
Monday afternoon Holly’s picture came in the mail. He sat at his desk and looked at it and dreamed that they’d fall in love and that someday she’d let him kiss her.
He phoned and thanked her for the picture.
“I hope we can be good friends,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Can I tell you something? Last summer I met this guy and we really got along well and it was the first guy I’d every really dated. But after the second date he just quit. He didn’t ever call me or say what was wrong. I figured it was probably something that I’d said. Of course my parents said not to worry, but that’s what they say about everything.”
“He was a fool to quit dating you,” Jeff said. She smiled. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He took the standardized math exam, but he didn’t do as well as people expected. “I think I had the flu that day,” he explained to Mr. Bentley when the results came in.
He checked the magazine pile every week. Another new issue appeared on top of the pile. He told himself he wouldn’t read it, but after a few days he broke down and did.
He always promised himself it was the last. Somehow promising himself made him feel better.
Another Super Saturday rolled around again. He sat next to Holly in class. Afterwards everyone went roller skating. He skated with her the whole time.
He asked her if she’d go with him to the junior-senior prom, and she said yes.
The next week Mr. Bentley asked to speak with him privately. “I don’t understand how you can do so well on homework and so poorly on the hour exams.”
“I get nervous taking exams,” Jeff said.
“Is that the real reason?” he asked.
The junior-senior prom came. Holly had made arrangements to stay with Church members in town.
After the dance he drove out to a country lane and parked. He kissed her for the first time.
He kissed her again. Suddenly, uninvited, came a flood of images from the magazines. He didn’t like the thoughts racing through his mind. He tried to make them go away, but they wouldn’t.
Suddenly he was afraid of himself around Holly. He started the car and drove to where she was staying that night.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He felt terrible. He realized that if she knew what he’d been thinking, she would hate him. “I’d better go now. Good night.”
“What did I do wrong?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You won’t ever call me again, will you? What’s wrong with me? At least tell me that.”
“It’s me. There’s something wrong with me.”
As he drove home, he hated himself. He decided not to date her anymore because of what he might do if he listened to the thoughts put there from the magazines.
He promised himself not to read the magazines anymore, but he did. They didn’t demand much from him except that he turn the pages.
One day Mr. Bentley called him in after class. “I think you’ve been cheating on the homework, but I can’t prove it. For your own sake, if you have, then admit it. No class is worth damaging your integrity over. Just confess what you’ve been doing, and I won’t flunk you. I’ll give you a C—a good, clean, honestly earned C.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Bentley had to give him a B because there was no proof.
Graduation day finally came. Jeff came down with the flu and asked to be excused from commencement. It was better that way.
Throughout the summer his father kept asking him to apply for college, but he didn’t feel like it.
One Sunday his Sunday School teacher told him he’d been chosen in the premortal existence to be alive at this time to help prepare for the second coming of the Savior.
She doesn’t know me, he thought. She doesn’t know the way I really am. Nobody does.
His bishop asked him to get ready for a mission, but Jeff knew he wasn’t that kind of guy.
He had no plans.
One Sunday in July, his bishop asked to speak to him in his office.
The bishop talked about being made an elder. Rather than having to explain why he didn’t want to be an elder, Jeff went along with the idea.
The bishop gave Jeff an interview. It started out easy enough, but before Jeff knew it the bishop was in deep waters.
Jeff wasn’t ready to confess. So he lied.
Perhaps because he had no reason to suspect any misconduct, the bishop wasn’t as penetrating with his questions as he should have been. When it was over, he told Jeff he’d passed the interview. “Stake conference is next Sunday. We’ll see you then. Your parents will be proud of you. Now the only thing you have to do is go see the stake president.”
“What for?” he asked.
“He needs to interview you too.”
The executive secretary had set up all the interviews on Sunday after church, but he’d set them too close together, so there was a line of people waiting to get in. Two of the guys from his ward, also graduating seniors, were also in line.
Holly and her father showed up in the hallway too because her father had a meeting to go to.
“Is it all right if I stand next to you in line?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
He looked at her. She was more beautiful than he’d remembered.
“What are your plans now that you’ve graduated?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I hope you go on a mission,” she said.
“Why?”
“I know you’d be a great missionary.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it.”
She touched him on the sleeve. “You’ve got to have faith in yourself. I think you’re … special.”
He shook his head. “No I’m not.”
“There you go again.”
He couldn’t look her in the face because she reminded him of what could have been.
“You quit coming to Super Saturday.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Why?”
“I got busy.”
“I wished you hadn’t been so busy,” she said quietly. “But I learned from it.”
“What did you learn?”
“That you can’t depend on other people to make you feel good about yourself. It’s got to be inside you.”
For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of looking into her eyes. She was not afraid anymore. He looked away.
The next person in line went into the stake president’s office.
“Did you pass?” someone asked the one coming out.
“What do you think?”
“I doubt it, but hey, if you can pass, anybody can.”
They all laughed.
His face turned crimson red because he was next in line.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“Your face is so red. Do you have a fever?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. You’d better stay away from me.”
She smiled. “I’ll take the chance it’s not contagious.”
“I hope it isn’t.”
Several minutes passed. He turned to her and said quietly, “I have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You need to tell someone. You can’t keep a problem to yourself.”
The door opened again. President Rossiter came out and shook Jeff’s hand and asked him in.
They went through the same questions again, and again he lied just as he had to the bishop.
When they were finished, President Rossiter looked uneasy.
“Is something wrong?” Jeff asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe you’d better tell me.”
“What?”
“I just don’t feel good about what you’ve said.” Jeff wiped his forehead.
“Let me explain something, Jeff. You could probably lie to me or your bishop and get away with it. We’re only human, and we might never know the difference. But when I ask these questions, I represent the Lord as if he were asking them, and if you don’t tell the truth, then it’s as if you were lying to the Lord. Now let’s go over some of the questions one more time.”
They went over the questions one by one. Again Jeff lied, but by the time the questions were over his face was dripping with sweat.
President Rossiter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong. Would you like to talk about it?”
Jeff shook his head. “There’s all those people waiting in the hall. If you take too much time with me, they’ll know there’s something wrong.”
“Telling the truth doesn’t take any longer than lying does.”
Jeff sat there stone faced.
“God knows what the problem is. Let me know too, so I can help you with whatever it is. You are important in his eyes. He reserved you to come to earth at this time to help bring about the Second Coming.”
Jeff shook his head. “I wish people would quit saying that. It’s not true about me. You don’t know me. Nobody knows what I’m really like.”
“Then why don’t you tell me,” President Rossiter said quietly.
“All right, I will. I lied to my bishop, and I lied to you. I’ve cheated in school, and I’ve read magazines. Bad magazines. Don’t tell me to stop. I’ve tried that, but no matter how hard I try, I’m just not strong enough anymore. It’s like it’s got control over me, and no matter how hard I say to myself I won’t ever do it again, I can’t stop. How can you possibly know what it’s like? I’m not like any of the people waiting in the hall out there. I’ve got a dirty mind.”
He tried to make the shame come out quietly, but it didn’t. It was the first time he’d cried since he was six years old. So now, he thought bitterly, on top of everything else, I’m not even a man, and everyone in the hall knows it because they can hear me crying.
President Rossiter put his arm around his shoulder. Jeff wondered if he’d talk about this in stake conference, and if after that people would stand in the halls of church and secretly smirk as he walked by.
He asked President Rossiter about it. “I don’t tell anyone, Jeff, not anyone.”
Jeff finally opened up and told it all—about the magazines and the thoughts that wouldn’t go away, and about cheating on homework, and about all the lying he’d done to cover it all up. He told every secret thing he’d done until it was all out in the open, and there was nothing left to hide. When he was finished, he asked, “Will you excommunicate me now?”
“Jeff, your bishop and I are going to work with you to help you repent, so you can wipe the slate clean again.”
Jeff looked up. “I can start over?”
“If you repent, you can. Your bishop will outline some steps to follow.”
“But I’ve disappointed the Lord.”
“Yes, you have.”
“But how can he forgive me for what I’ve done?”
“Because he loves you.”
“And if I do, someday will I be able to be an elder and go on a mission?”
“Yes, but it’s up to you. You can be forgiven if you turn from your sins and repent.”
“But what about the bad thoughts?”
“Replace them with good ones.”
Half an hour later he walked out into the hall again.
“It’s about time,” one of his high school friends complained. “What were you two talking about in there?”
President Rossiter smiled. “Bob, come on in and find out for yourself.”
Jeff started down the hall. He walked past Holly. He turned away. He didn’t want her to see his eyes because they were bloodshot from crying.
“Are you all right?” she called out after him.
He stopped walking and turned around to face her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Can I walk with you?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “I’d really like that.”
The next day at work he put all the magazines into a box and lugged it up to the floor with the mahogany and marble.
The store was momentarily without customers.
“Hey, do these magazines belong to anyone?” he announced loudly.
All the salesmen came up to the counter where he’d set the box. They looked at the box full of tattered, dusty magazines. One by one they all denied that the magazines belonged to them.
“If they don’t belong to anyone, I guess nobody will mind if I just toss ’em out, right?”
Nobody objected.
He went outside and dumped them in a trash can just in time to see the garbage truck coming down the alley.
The hydraulic ram on the garbage truck crushed the box and mixed it with other garbage collected on that block wilted brown lettuce and old potato and carrot peelings and a large pail of darkened, deep-fat grease from the restaurant next door.
On his way inside again, he started whistling a hymn to himself. He decided he’d call Holly after work and ask if she’d go with their family on a picnic next week out at the lake. Maybe he could teach her how to water-ski.
Inside again, he passed a mirror customers used to look at themselves when they tried out clothes for the “Man of Action.”
He smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He liked what he saw.

A few years ago, I was overwhelmed by my many jobs, public service, Church responsibilities, and the needs of my family. I was concerned that I was not giving any of them the attention that they needed.
On March 12, 2012 Elder David A. Bednar, came to the Dominican Republic, and I dared to ask him, “How can we attend to the affairs of the Lord, our family and all the other commitments?” He said, like a juggler’s strategy to keep all the spinning plates in motion we also must be wise in the distribution of our time so that each obligation provides quality actions.
I felt peace in his profound answer, and I desired to better organize my time, identify how to use it wisely, honor commitments and dedicate quality time to my family.

Back in Manchester, a young man named Oliver Cowdery was staying with Joseph’s parents. Oliver was a year younger than Joseph, and in the fall of 1828 he had begun teaching school about a mile south of the Smiths’ farm.
Teachers often boarded with the families of their students, and when Oliver heard rumors about Joseph and the gold plates, he asked if he could stay with the Smiths. At first he gleaned few details from the family. The stolen manuscript and local gossip had made them wary to the point of silence.15
But during the winter of 1828–29, as Oliver taught the Smith children, he earned the trust of his hosts. Around this time, Joseph Sr. had come back from a trip to Harmony with a revelation declaring that the Lord was about to begin a marvelous work.16 By then Oliver had proven to be a sincere seeker of truth, and Joseph’s parents opened up to him about their son’s divine calling.17
What they said captivated Oliver, and he longed to help with the translation. Like Joseph, Oliver was dissatisfied with modern churches and believed in a God of miracles who still revealed His will to people.18 But Joseph and the gold plates were far away, and Oliver did not know how he could help the work if he stayed in Manchester.
One spring day, as rain was falling hard against the Smiths’ roof, Oliver told the family he wanted to go to Harmony to help Joseph when the school term was over. Lucy and Joseph Sr. urged him to ask the Lord if his desires were right.19
Retiring to his bed, Oliver prayed privately to know if what he had heard about the gold plates was true. The Lord showed him a vision of the gold plates and Joseph’s efforts to translate them. A peaceful feeling rested over him, and he knew then that he should volunteer to be Joseph’s scribe.20
Oliver told no one about his prayer. But as soon as the school term ended, he and Joseph’s brother Samuel set out on foot for Harmony, more than 100 miles (160 km) away. The road was cold and muddy from spring rain, and Oliver had a frostbitten toe by the time he and Samuel arrived at Joseph and Emma’s door. Yet he was eager to meet the couple and see for himself how the Lord worked through the young prophet.21

There is an example that expresses my meaning well. Some years ago a young lady missionary shared with me some of the circumstances of her call. Her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and his kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with his daughter one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her. He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. The Lord, he said, told him to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow in this climate, others were not growing onions, he had no experience growing onions. After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again told to plant onions. So he borrowed money, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured and prayed. The elements were tempered, the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop, paid his debts to the bank and the government and the Lord, and put the remainder in an account under her name—enough to supply her wants on a mission.
I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling in me as she said, “Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to his wisdom if I am humble enough. I have a father just like that.”

This same light led the way for 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister, Caroline, on a dark and chilling day in Independence, Missouri. It was 1833, and an angry mob roared through the streets of Independence, burning property and wreaking havoc. In their path was the home of Brother William W. Phelps, where the printing press was kept. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. The mob demolished the printing press and threw the wreckage into the street. However, they stacked up the printed pages in the yard so they could burn them later.

Mary Elizabeth and Caroline had been hiding by the fence, frightened spectators to all this destruction. Even though she was terrified, Mary Elizabeth’s eye was fixed on those precious pages. She and her sister ran out from their hiding place, gathered up the scriptures, and bolted. Some of the mob saw them and ordered them to stop. But the brave girls ran into a large cornfield, where they dropped breathlessly to the ground. They carefully laid the pages of revelations between the tall rows of corn and then covered the pages by lying on them. The relentless mobsters looked and looked for the girls, coming quite close at times, but never did find them. Eventually they gave up their search to see what further damage they could do to the town.

I believe the light of the Lord directed Mary Elizabeth and Caroline as to what to do and where to go for safety. Sisters, that light shines for you, and it will guide you as it did the Rollins girls. It will keep you safe even when danger lurks. As the Master promised, “I will also be your light … ; and I will prepare the way before you, if it so be that ye shall keep my commandments; … ye shall know that it is by me that ye are led.”

While teaching at BYU, Brother Dennis Rasmussen was selected to study at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. In the opening session, as he gave his name and university, Rabbi Muffs boomed, “You’re the Mormon! … Do you pay your tithing?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Do you pay it with a joyful heart?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I believe,” the rabbi said, “that joy is the essence of religion. There is nothing more fundamental to religious living than joy. … I am working on a book about joy.”
Brother Rasmussen responded, “There’s a passage in the Book of Mormon … , ‘Adam fell that men might be; and men are that they might have joy’” (2 Ne. 2:25). Rabbi Muffs was profoundly touched and exclaimed, “I’ve found the text I’ve searched for all my life … in the Book of Mormon.” Turning to Brother Rasmussen he said, “Say it again, but not so fast.” As he repeated the familiar words, the rabbi’s eyes glowed in appreciation of this great truth he understood but had not heard so succinctly expressed (Dennis Rasmussen, “An Elder among the Rabbis,” Brigham Young University Studies 21, summer 1981: 344–45).

“Are General Authorities human?”
I suppose this is a question that is in many minds and has been from the very beginning. It arises, in the very nature of things, because of the high regard in which we hold the offices that these Brethren are called to fill.
I recall an incident from early Church history, from the days of persecutions and difficulties. Heber C. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, found himself in circumstances where he sought hospitality from a member of the Church, a widow woman. She offered him what she had—bread and milk—and provided a room with a bed for him. He went to retire. She thought: “Here’s my opportunity. I would like to find out [and this is, in effect, the same old question: Are General Authorities human?] I would like to find out what an Apostle says when he prays to the Lord.” So after the door was closed, she crept quietly up to it to listen. She heard Brother Kimball sit down on the bed. She heard each of his shoes fall to the floor. She heard him lean back on the bed and then utter these words: “Oh Lord, bless Heber; he is so tired.”
… This is a subject about which people often have incorrect concepts. Many people had this same question in their minds during the time of Joseph Smith. He said: “I was this morning introduced to a man from the east. After hearing my name, he remarked that I was nothing but a man, indicating by this expression, that he had supposed that a person to whom the Lord should see fit to reveal His will, must be something more than a man. He seemed to have forgotten the saying that fell from the lips of St. James, that [Elijah] was a man subject to like passions as we are, yet he had such power with God, that He, in answer to his prayers, shut the heavens that they gave no rain for the space of three years and six months; and again, in answer to his prayer, the heavens gave forth rain, and the earth gave forth fruit [see James 5:17–18]. Indeed, such is the darkness and ignorance of this generation, that they look upon it as incredible that a man should [speak] with his Maker.”

One night Joseph and Emma stayed up late to take care of the babies, who were both sick. A mob of angry men came into the home. The men grabbed Joseph and carried him away from the house.
The wicked men hurt Joseph and poured hot tar on him.
When the mob left, Joseph was very weak. He crawled back to the house. When Emma saw Joseph hurt, she fainted.
Joseph’s friends carefully washed him.
Sunday morning—the next day—Joseph preached to the congregation as usual. Some of the men from the mob came to listen.

Ryan: When I was about 12 years old I went to a friend’s house and found him and a bunch of neighborhood boys gathered around the computer. I joked, “Hey, are you guys looking at pornography?”
They said, “How did you guess? Come check this out.”
That was the beginning of a problem in my life. I soon began using our family computer to find more and more images.

I felt relief when I stopped pretending. Sharing the burden with my bishop and my family meant I no longer had to deal with this addiction alone. Now I hold on to this support system.
A problem that dominated my youth could not be overcome overnight. This road has been long and hard—and it continues. It isn’t enough anymore to look happy. I want to be happy. I am coming to know Christ and the Atonement with much deeper and more personal meaning. The Atonement gives me the strength I need so my self-confidence and self-respect grow step by step each day.
I was honest with my bishop. And when my dad talked to me about the Internet sites I was visiting, I was honest with him too. We worked on the problem together. We decided not to have the Internet in our home for a while. That was a big help.
I’m turning 16 soon, and I’m glad I decided not to let pornography control my life. I feel better about myself, and I think about young women differently than I did before. With my bishop’s help, I’m preparing now for the temple, a mission, and a great marriage one day.

Another one said, “I was always camping with my friends, and they were always putting in big chaws. Me and my cousin swore up and down that we’d never try it because it smelled sick and looked sick. One day I was with my buddies up in the hills. They whipped out their cans of snooze and offered me one. I just kept on telling them no. I finally took one. I figured these guys were my good friends, and they had done it so it must be good.”

All of the young men we talked to were underage to buy chewing tobacco. Even though the laws against selling tobacco to minors are strict in most states, this did not cause them a moment of concern. “We have friends with older friends or older brothers who will buy it for us. Sometimes we buy it ourselves when the clerk does not ask for identification. Or we’ll stop a stranger in the street, give him the money, and ask if he’ll buy it for us.”

None of those we talked to would admit ever being addicted to tobacco. In fact, several pointed out that they had quit for weeks or months at a time. They seemed reluctant to admit that it has any power over them. They started giving a list of excuses for using chewing tobacco such as how they like to have something in their mouths or how it keeps them alert or how it’s something to do when they’re bored. But it started to sound like they were fooling themselves. If it isn’t a problem, why can’t they leave it alone permanently?

They all talked about how bad the tobacco smells and how it burns the tender places of their mouths and how sick it made them at first when they swallowed the juice. Most of them couldn’t honestly say they liked it. The best they can say about it is they don’t mind it now. They see themselves as the exceptions, the ones who can give it up with no ill effects.

But one young man we interviewed is making a real effort to quit. He wants to get his life in order, so he can be in a position to serve a mission and stay active in the Church. He talked about how difficult the past months have been, how hard it is to give up a bad habit. He’s deep in the struggle to shake free.

These young men are members of the Church and know it’s against the Word of Wisdom to use chewing tobacco, but they took the bait when they were very young. One said, “Just last year in seminary, we were studying the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Word of Wisdom is in there. When we started studying that, it started eating at me. It bothered me quite a lot.”

Just like the trophy fish with a hook planted deeply in its lip, now they are fighting hard to get free even as they are being pulled more firmly into addiction.

What would help them quit? In one way the answer they give is not surprising because it’s the answer to so many other problems: a firm commitment to the Church. One of them said, “The Church has influenced me a lot towards quitting. When I’m with my Church friends, I don’t even think about it. But when I get around people who chew, or when I’m by myself, it drives me crazy.”

All of these young men agree that having their parents get angry about their habit makes them feel rebellious and want to get away so they can have a chew and calm down. What works much better is having their parents know about their habit and express disappointment or hurt by it. “Guilt is much more effective than anger in stopping me from taking a dip.”

And as they have taken seminary, where they read and study the scriptures, the desire to live a good life, free from tobacco, is starting to bloom in them. Their belief in the Church is a powerful element in turning them away from tobacco.

Here’s a tidbit we didn’t include in the article: Nicotine is so addicting that for many people the only way to quit chewing is to take up smoking. That’s like a fish shaking the hook and trying to hide in the frying pan.

Tobacco companies in the United States are not allowed to advertise on television or radio, so they have begun other promotions to make teens notice their brands. They are the major sponsors of sporting events. Jackets, hats, T-shirts, and sporting equipment are becoming available with tobacco brands imprinted on them. Dave Stoddard, vice-principal at Bingham High School in Salt Lake City, says, “We don’t allow kids to wear clothing that advertises tobacco products or alcohol. We ask them to change or send them home if they persist.”

Seemingly innocent products are produced that imitate the habit of chewing tobacco such as finely shredded beef jerky packaged in round cans, or shredded bubble gum, also in cans the same size and shape as chewing tobacco. When children learn to imitate, it isn’t such a big leap to participate in the real thing.

Chewing tobacco is easier to hide than smoking. In many cases even family members don’t really know how involved in tobacco some teens are. The young men we interviewed were very careful never to chew tobacco in school. They say it seems like anyone who tries gets caught. They also say they never ever chew at home, “unless it’s after 10:30 P.M. and you know for sure everyone is asleep.” When they feel a need for tobacco, they say they leave to go for a walk or hide out in the bathroom. They chew mostly around their friends. So far they think their parents don’t know about their habit.

They pointed out a few telltale signs of a chewer: flakes of tobacco caught in their teeth; habits like moving their tongue under their lips and spitting; chewing toothpicks or sunflower seeds when they can’t chew tobacco.

Involvement with tobacco often doesn’t end with one bad habit. It usually leads to others, including alcohol or drugs. Dr. Van Komen says that studies show people who use tobacco are more likely to use alcohol. It’s known as cross-addiction.

We asked these young men what advice they could give that would help others keep from getting involved with tobacco. The question was hard for them to answer. After all, knowing better didn’t keep them from starting. One thing they do know, they probably wouldn’t have started if they hadn’t been around friends or relatives who were chewing tobacco.

When we asked Dr. Van Komen if there was anything we could say to persuade people to avoid chewing tobacco, he said, “I don’t know if there is anything other than telling them the truth about the addiction, the nicotine, and the very repulsiveness of chewing.”

Yes, chewing tobacco is a disgusting habit.
Yes, it can make you sick.
Yes, it can cause cancer.
Yes, it is against the Word of Wisdom.
Yes, it is highly addicting.
Yes, it can take away your choices.
Yes, it can ruin your life.
And if anyone offers it to you, say no.

A group of young men and women busily feeding a work crew at a ward chapel gave up a few of its members to show a New Era reporter a thing or two, including the Kentucky Training Center where many Thoroughbred owners train their horses and where Aaronic Priesthood groups make money for service projects by cleaning and caring for the stables, a pasture complete with horses, and an Argentine stallion worth a million and a quarter. In the process of the visit there were a few bonuses such as a Sousa march played on blades of grass, a couple of handmade clover necklaces, and a horseless race from a convenient starting gate.

In the fall of 2024, not long after being called to be an area organization adviser in the Europe Central Area, Laura Echarri Hermoso traveled more than 5,000 miles (8,047 km) from her home in Pamplona, Spain, to sing as a guest member of The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square.
She had been in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, for just three days when she tested positive for COVID-19 and quarantined herself. Her opportunity to sing in the choir for the upcoming general conference seemed out of reach.
In the loneliness and isolation of her hotel room, she knelt and prayed. She hoped for healing. She longed to be able to sing. She kept her faith.
Ultimately, she was chosen with 13 others worldwide to sing in general conference, and in September 2024, she boarded a plane for the United States. After arrival, she was diagnosed with COVID-19 and that’s when her quarantine began.
Solitary isolation far from home taught a profound lesson: The Savior would provide comfort in her loneliest moments (see John 14:26–27). “I thought I was not going to make it,” she said. “I was quite discouraged, but I had faith. At the same time, I wasn’t feeling well. Now one of my main objectives is to look for those who may feel alone and try to give them relief.”
After eight days of isolation, her health and voice recovered, and she practiced with the choir. She joined her voice with hundreds on the stand in the Conference Center and sang at the October 2024 general conference.
“God lives. He’s aware of us, of each one of us,” she said. “Music is healing, has healing power, and we need to fill our lives with music. It’s very important. I feel that is something that the Lord is trying to tell me: Fill your life with music.”

Tomorrow was Christmas, and Kaiya was worried. He wasn’t worried about getting a present or what the present would be. He was worried about his friend Minato.
Kaiya and Minato played for the same soccer club. And they went to the same school. But then Minato did not come to school for three days. He missed soccer practice too. The teacher said Minato’s father was sick. To make sure others would not get sick, Minato’s whole family would have to stay at home for two weeks.
Kaiya was worried that Minato might get sick too. He asked Mama if they could check on him. They called Minato’s mother.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We are fine. But we haven’t been able to get our kurisumasu k?ki (Christmas cake).”
Christmas cake was Kaiya’s favorite. It had fancy white frosting and colorful decorations on top. It was a special treat in Japan. He thought Minato must feel sad to miss out.
After the phone call, Kaiya said, “Mama, let’s take them our Christmas cake. And can we take them pizza too?” He knew that saba (fish) pizza was Minato’s favorite.
Mama agreed. First they ordered the pizza. Then Mama put the Christmas cake in a box. Next they gathered some snacks and juice.
“This will help them get through the next few days,” Mama said.
Papa and Kaiya went to pick up the pizza. Then they went to Minato’s house to deliver everything. They couldn’t go inside, so they set it all at the door, rang the bell, and left.
When Kaiya got home, Mama showed him a text message from Minato’s mother. “I can’t believe you brought us a cake!” it read. “The kids are really happy. Thank you very much.”
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was Brother and Sister Takahashi. They were members of the Church who lived nearby.
“We brought you some higashi (rice cookies) for Christmas,” Sister Takahashi said. She held out a plate of cookies with beautiful designs.
After dinner, Kaiya and his parents ate the cookies. “Are you sad we don’t have Christmas cake?” Mom asked.
Kaiya thought about how he had helped Minato and his family. “Not really,” he said. “After all, Christmas is about giving!”