Gospel Story Finder

A strange noise woke the raccoons. Mother Raccoon peered out from their hollow in a tall elm tree. Then three smaller heads appeared beside hers. Below their tree a truck stopped, and two men got out and slammed the doors. The raccoons, frightened, ducked out of sight. But curiosity got the best of Lotor, one of the small raccoons, and he soon peeped out again.
Below him one man pointed at the tree and said, “This one will make good firewood.”
The two men brought an ax and a chain saw from the truck, and one of them began chopping a notch in the tree’s base.
For the raccoons to stay until the tree fell meant possible capture or even death. Mother Raccoon quietly urged her three youngsters out of their hollow and onto a tree branch. The limb of the tree overreached the branches of another tree, and Lotor scuttled over onto it.
The commotion of the rest of Lotor’s family on the branch caused the axman to quit chopping and to look up. “Coons!” he yelled.
The other man dashed to the truck and grabbed a rifle. There was a loud craaack, and Mother Raccoon fell to the ground. Lotor’s brothers scurried back to what they supposed was the safety of their home in the hollow of the tree.
Lotor scampered down the other tree and fled deeper into the woods. When he felt that he was out of danger, Lotor quit running and crawled under a bush.
Raccoons usually sleep during the day and forage at night, and Lotor was very tired. But he knew that he must find a new home. It was midafternoon before he found a high, hidden hollow in a tree much like his old one. The weary youngster clawed soft, rotted wood from the walls to make a “mattress” and lay down. After several plaintive whimpers for his lost family, he slept.
Lotor awoke shortly before sundown and descended the tree. He was hungry. Reaching a creek, he swam upstream. As he passed beneath a sweet gum tree, he heard a buzzing sound overhead. Remembering that his mother had once scooped honeycomb from a bee tree before the bees drove her away, up he went.
On the underside of a limb, halfway out, hung a nest. But there was no smell of honey. Lotor crawled out on the limb, then reached down and tapped the nest. The buzzing grew louder as several hornets flew out.
Lotor’s fur protected him against the hornet stings. However, his nose, eyes, and ears were exposed. When a hornet stung Lotor’s ear, he retreated rapidly, swatting as he went.
The little raccoon eventually found himself at the edge of the woods. By then a full moon lighted the sky. Beyond the woods was a pasture, and Lotor could see something tall growing in a field. He was about to go back into the woods when the breeze shifted. The smells of chickens, dogs, and man were all in the air. Another of the scents Lotor recognized was one he had smelled once on his mother’s fur when she had returned home with a couple of ears of corn in her mouth.
All was quiet, and Lotor was famished. He slipped under the pasture fence, ran through the pasture to the cornfield, hid among the cornstalks, and began to feast. Lotor was almost full when a new scent reached him. A fox was upwind!
Suddenly hens began squawking and dogs began barking. Lotor headed for the fencerow.
The hounds were baying now as they ran. And the fleeing fox was leading them toward the right, away from Lotor’s side of the cornfield. Nevertheless, the raccoon thought it wise to return to the forest. But before he got to the fence, the chase changed direction, and the baying hounds were headed toward the woods too.
Lotor and the fox reached the edge of the pasture at about the same time. The fox ran directly at Lotor, then swerved away and sped between him and the fence. Circling behind Lotor, it flashed toward the creek. Touching the bank, the speeding animal circled the hornets’ tree, came back to its trail where it had swerved to avoid Lotor, whirled, and retraced its flying steps back to the bank. Leaping far out into the creek, it headed upstream with its nose barely above water back toward the dogs!
Lotor understood. The dogs would find a trail that circled to nowhere, the creek would carry away the fox’s scent, and he, Lotor, was in the middle of that clever circle! He whirled toward the creek, but he was too late! The hounds saw Lotor and forgot about the fox. Lotor ran up the tree with the hornets’ nest.
The dogs leaped and snarled. Lotor sat quaking on the limb with the hornets’ nest. The only limb reaching close to another tree was the one on which he crouched. As he tried to ease past the hornets’ nest, he caused the limb to shake. A few hornets flew out of the nest, and one of them stung Lotor on his ear again! Angrily he slapped at the nest. It broke loose and fell between the two dogs, bursting open. The hornets swarmed over the hounds, and their baying became shrieks of agony as they fled.
Lotor descended, trotted to the creek, and swam across. On the other bank water flew in all directions as he shook himself dry. Then he ambled toward his new home. He was no longer a raccoon kit. In one adventure-packed day, he had grown up.

And finally, as a youth, my father counseled me to not have a serious girlfriend in high school. He counseled me to go on dates with different girls. At the time, I thought that that would make me a “player” or I saw it as a negative thing to date around. Now that I’m older and thanks to “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlet, I realize that there was wisdom in his counsel. However, I did my best to obey.
After high school and while dancing at the Polynesian Cultural Center, I fell in “like” with a girl. At Christmas, I bought and gave this girl a half-heart pendant with me keeping the other half. Unfortunately, like the song “Last Christmas”, I gave her my heart and the very next day, she gave it away.
My heart was broken...like the pendant….it was a dark day. I thought that being obedient to my dad was supposed to bring me blessings...not heartache. Gratefully, my now sister-in-love, Sina, shared my heartache with her younger sister and she replied to Sina, “tell him if it makes him feel better, I’ll go out with him”.
The next day, Sina introduced us and on March 26, 1989 we sealed our friendship with a kiss on the temple steps exactly 3 years later to the date, we sealed our love for ETERNITY...and as they say, the rest is history!

Alex Clinch of Sutton Coldfield, England, enjoys sports and has had success in several. He attends Riland Bedford School, where he is a house captain. He plays on most school teams and serves as captain of several. He led his teammates to victory when they won the Sutton Schools Athletic competition, the Basketball Cup, rugby finals, and table tennis inter-school competition. They were runners-up in the Birmingham Schools League Football finals.
Alex is in his third year of seminary. He was invited to play for the Sutton Town Football League team, a prestigious honor, but refused because it involved playing on Sunday.

An accounting clerk at a large university became a respected member of his profession--even holding a high office in his professional association. He was active in his church and community and had a good family. One day he discovered how he could take small amounts from the university without anyone noticing. He told himself that he was underpaid anyway--and besides, he would only use the money a short while and then return it. But the next month, more money was needed. Just a little more would not matter--he'd pay that back, too. The months stretched into years. The total amount taken swelled to several hundred thousand dollars. Then came the day when an audit uncovered his fraud. His reputation was shattered. His career came to an end. His family disintegrated. Ties with his church were broken. Where once he was a respected member of the community, now he was a common criminal unworthy of the trust and confidence of any employer.

When the Saints left Nauvoo for the Salt Lake Valley after Joseph and Hyrum were martyred, Mary resolved to make the journey. She and her family were assigned to a traveling group, and the captain told her that she would be a burden to others and shouldn’t attempt the difficult journey. Mary responded, “I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.”1 The trek proved difficult, but she arrived with her family in Salt Lake on September 23, 1848, a day ahead of the captain who had doubted her.

As soon as Brother Malone announced that the priests quorum was going to give a Christmas to a needy family for our December service project, I knew our family was in trouble. Since Danny’s operation and Luke’s mission call eight months earlier, things were tight around our place. I don’t know what the official poverty level was for a family of nine, but I knew we were miles below it, and I was convinced that we were prime targets for all the ward service projects and Christmas charity drives.
“Hey, Jason,” I said, cornering my younger brother that night before we climbed into bed, “we’re in trouble. I think we’re on the list.”
Jason just looked at me and retorted innocently, “I haven’t done anything. Honest!”
“How many weeks till Christmas?” I asked solemnly.
He shrugged and pulled the quilts back from his bed, fluffed up his pillow and remarked indifferently, “I don’t know, but I’ve got a test in English tomorrow and I need some sleep or I’ll …”
“Would you believe three?”
“Hey, I’ll believe anything. Just let me get to sleep,” he said, yawning and pushing his feet under the covers and snuggling up in a ball. “Besides, I’m not counting on anything for Christmas this year. Mom and Dad are broke.”
I turned the covers down on my bed, flipped off the light, and dropped heavily onto the mattress. “Well, when your teachers quorum chooses our family for their December service project, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The light flipped back on. Jason was sitting on the edge of his bed. “What’d you say?”
“Have you seen the storeroom lately?”
“Yeah, Mom sent me for a bottle of fruit tonight.”
“Was the door locked?” Jason shook his head. “It should have been. It always is this time of year. That’s where Mom and Dad hide the loot, but there’s no loot this year.”
Jason shrugged. “We’ll survive.”
“You don’t get the point,” I growled. “We’re charity material. Charity as in service project, needy family.”
“Come on, Brett,” he grinned nervously. “Mom fixes a few beans now and then, and we have lots of whole wheat bread, but that doesn’t make us candidates for welfare. Dad’s got a job. We’re not out on the street or anything.”
I flipped the light off again. “Wait till Christmas and find out the hard way,” I warned.
Five minutes later the lights came back on. “That’s just great!” he muttered. “All we need is 50 care packages on our front step Christmas Eve.” He groaned, shaking his head morosely. “How embarrassing!”
“The trouble is there’s not much we can do,” I complained. “How can you stop a charity project?”
“Let’s just tell them we don’t want anything.”
“Tell who? It could come from anybody. It’s not like we can send letters to everyone in the ward declining their good will.”
“Let’s move,” Jason growled.
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Could we hide?”
“For a month?”
Glumly we sat on our beds and brooded as we pondered the inevitable. “I know,” Jason suggested after a moment of silence. “We’ll beat them to the punch.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll pull off our own charity job, on somebody else.” He grinned, enthusiasm brightening his eyes. “If we’re helping another family—anybody—nobody will bother us. Everybody will think we’ve got enough to throw away.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, considering the plan’s plausibility. “It just might work. But who? Who’s in worse shape than we are?”
“What about the Bradleys? She’s a widow, three kids. You home teach there. You’d know what they could use.”
I smiled, but the smile was temporary. “We’re forgetting one thing. We’re broke. How do we help if we don’t have anything to help with?”
Jason sighed. “I forgot about that,” he mumbled.
It was true. We had no money, no job, and we struggled with a pride that prevented us from going down on main street with a bell and pot to solicit contributions.
“I know,” Jason volunteered, the excitement obvious. “We can collect pop cans and sell them. Twenty cents a pound.”
“In the middle of winter? Nobody drinks pop in the winter, and I’m not about to rummage through garbage cans just to pinch a few pennies.”
“How about newspapers. Morgan’s Shopping Center gives 30 dollars a ton for them. Everybody’s got newspapers, winter or summer.”
“Can we make enough money collecting newspapers?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Could you go around begging for newspapers?” I asked skeptically.
Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe. As long as we don’t go to people we know.”
“When do we start then?”
Jason chewed on his thumb. “Couple of weeks from now.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’ve got some tests coming up and a paper to write and …”
“I wonder what your teachers quorum will get you for Christmas.”
He glared at me. “Maybe we better start tomorrow afternoon.”
So with dubious motives we embarked on our questionable Christmas crusade. The next day after school we dragged ourselves over to Fruit Heights. We were sure no one there knew us, so we figured we could commence our campaign without fear of being recognized.
The trace of an icy mist hung in the afternoon air, bit through our coats and sweaters, and numbed our cheeks and noses. Pulling our collars up around our ears and digging our hands deep into our pockets, we approached our first house with an emotional mixture of trepidation, loathing, and melancholy endurance. I took a deep breath, gingerly pushed the door bell, and stepped back, shivering from cold and abject embarrassment.
Hearing someone approach, Jason turned to me and whispered nervously, “Maybe you’d better do the talking. I don’t know anything about this.”
“And what do I know?” I hissed back. “We’re in this together, you know.”
“Yeah, but you’re the oldest,” he added, stepping behind me just as the door opened and an older man greeted us with a curt nod and a withering scowl.
For a moment I just stood and stared, unable to call to mind the door approach Jason and I had rehearsed. Finally the man demanded gruffly, “Well?”
“Do you have some paper?” I blurted out.
“Paper?”
I gulped. “Newspaper.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, waving us away and turning to go. “The Collins boy brings it. I don’t need another paper. I hardly read the one I take now.”
“No,” I called out in desperation, “we don’t sell papers. We’re collecting old papers. To sell.”
“What?” the man asked.
“We’re trying to help a family for Christmas,” I explained. “The papers are for them.”
“It’s a widow’s family,” Jason volunteered from behind me. “It’s not really for us. The money from the papers, I mean.”
The man rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and looked us up and down. “I’ve got a few papers, I guess.”
“Could you save them? We’re not picking them up today. We’ll be back in two weeks. On a Saturday.”
“It’s for the widow and her kids,” Jason called out again. “And we’re not her kids either. We’re just trying to help her out. We’re not …”
I poked Jason to shut him up. “We’ll be back in two weeks then,” I repeated, my cheeks flushed purple.
By the time we made it out into the street again, I had to unbutton my coat because I was sweating so much. “I don’t know how many more of those I can do,” I muttered. “That wiped me out.”
“That wasn’t bad at all,” Jason grinned, pleased with himself.
“You didn’t say anything either,” I returned. “At least anything sensible. But the next door’s yours.”
“Mine?” he protested.
“And leave out the part about us not being the widow’s kids. Just act natural or they really will think we’re the widow’s kids.”
Our whole operation that afternoon lay between abject drudgery and acute torture, but we persisted. Our commitment did waver at times, but each time one of us faltered in our resolve to continue, the other would comment matter-of-factly, “It’s this or care packages Christmas Eve.” With that humiliating possibility looming before us, we beat down our pride and trudged on to the next house.
It was getting dark when we knocked at the last house on the block. We had already promised ourselves that if we could endure till then, we would call it quits for the night.
An older woman, Mrs. Bailey, hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on a cane. She peered skeptically over the rims of her glasses and pressed her thin, pale lips together.
“Hello, ma’am,” I greeted her, a pinched smile frozen to my blue lips. “We’re collecting old newspapers,” I announced. “For a needy family.” Mrs. Bailey didn’t respond, and I began to wonder if she could even hear me. “We’re going to sell the papers and help this family with Christmas,” I all but shouted, just in case she was slightly deaf. “Do you have any old newspapers lying around?”
“Well, my husband has collected a few,” Mrs. Bailey said in a shaky voice.
“Would he like to donate them to the cause?” Jason asked.
“Well, he planned to read them.”
“Do you think he could read them by a week from Saturday? That’s when we’ll pick them up.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” she answered bluntly.
It wasn’t exactly a turn down, but neither was it an offer. In nervous perplexity we stood shifting our weight from one foot to the other. “Well, thanks just the same,” I said, turning to go.
“What’d you say they’re for?” she spoke up suddenly.
“We’re helping a widow and her kids.”
Mrs. Bailey cocked her head to one side and tapped her cane on the front step. After a moment of contemplation, she shuffled into her house and returned with a sweater thrown about her frail shoulders. She motioned for us to follow her. We inched along behind her as she limped her way to the driveway. She led us to her garage and stopped. Banging on the door with her cane, she commanded, “You’ll have to open it.”
Jason and I jumped for the door and pushed it up. It squeaked and creaked and finally crashed into place overhead. We squinted into the black interior but could see nothing.
“There’s a light on the back wall,” she remarked. “One of you will have to turn it on.”
Jason volunteered me by giving me a shove. Reluctantly, I ventured into the darkness.
“Straight back,” Mrs. Bailey directed. “You can’t miss it.”
Before I had taken four steps, my feet smashed into a lawn mower. I teetered forward and tried to regain my balance, but in stepping over the mower, my feet became tangled in a garden hose and I crashed to the floor, knocking over cans, boxes, rakes, and hoes.
“Watch your step,” Mrs. Bailey cautioned from behind me.
“It’s on the back wall,” Jason encouraged from the safety of the driveway.
Muttering, I extricated myself from the tangle of tools, wire, and hose and continued my perilous journey to the back wall, this time with my hands outstretched, groping the blackness for other obstacles. After banging my shins on cans and boxes and scraping my head on a bucket hanging from the ceiling, I finally reached the back wall and flipped on the switch.
A pale yellow light cast a thousand shadows throughout the garage, and it was hard to determine just how effective the light was. The garage was stacked almost to the ceiling with a lifetime collection of odds and ends—tools, pots, old furniture, tires, and boxes. I was amazed that I had even managed to reach the light switch without maiming myself permanently or losing my life.
“There they are,” Jason sang out, pointing to two boxes right inside the garage door. “We didn’t even need the light for these,” he laughed.
“Now you tell me,” I growled under my breath.
“Oh, that’s only part of them,” Mrs. Bailey whined. “The others are in the corner under the tarp.”
In the shadows, I hadn’t noticed the dark mound in the far corner. I waded through some ragged lawn furniture, stumbled over two saw horses, and finally fell against the enormous mystery hidden under an old army tarp, gray with years of dust.
Grabbing one corner of the tarp, I jerked it back. A suffocating cloud of dust choked and blinded me. I sputtered, gasping for breath, and rubbed the dirt from my eyes, tripping over a croquet mallet and sitting down hard in a rusty, battered wheelbarrow filled with flower pots. My nostrils were filled with the musty smell of dirt and dried and decaying flowers, and there was a gritty film between my lips and teeth.
Jason whistled. “Would you look at that,” I heard him say in amazement.
Flailing the air with my arms to beat the dust away, I cracked my eyes and stared in disbelief at the huge mountain of newspapers before me. “How long’s he been saving them?” I gasped.
“I lost track after 20 years,” Mrs. Bailey replied simply. “Some people collect stamps. Some collect coins. My husband collected newspapers. He didn’t have time to read them, so he stacked them in here to read later. He insisted that the time would come when he’d be able to sit down and enjoy them. Nothing I could say ever changed his mind. And he wouldn’t let me get rid of them until he read them. So here they are. And he still hasn’t read them.”
“Is he going to care if we take them?” I wondered out loud.
“Oh, it’s hard to say with him.”
“We could leave some of the newer ones in case he wants to read them,” Jason offered.
Mrs. Bailey waved his remark aside with her hand and shook her head. “He won’t read them. Any of them. Not now. He died three years ago. They’re yours if you’ll haul them off.”
It was just a wild guess, but we estimated that there was at least a ton of newspapers in Mrs. Bailey’s garage. All ours! As we hurried home that night, a new enthusiasm was born. What had begun as a sheepish attempt to conceal our own poverty suddenly became a personal quest.
“You know,” Jason said, “I think we can really do it. Mrs. Bailey’s papers alone are enough to give the Bradleys a little Christmas. But we can get more, lots more. All we’ve got to do is keep knocking on doors.”
“And maybe tomorrow we better split up,” I suggested. “We can cover more ground.”
Two weeks later everyone in Fruit Heights had been contacted. We had even swallowed our pride and asked people in our own neighborhood to donate papers.
The Saturday before Christmas we were getting ready to collect our newspapers in Dad’s ancient, temperamental truck. The truck was a battered antique, but it was all we had to make our Christmas drive. It had traveled its share of miles and was now content to live its remaining moments rusting in front of our house. On a good day, which was rare, and if it was treated just right, it might consent to run. Unfortunately, that particular Saturday didn’t seem to appeal to the truck. When I turned the key and pushed the starter, it coughed and emitted a blue puff of smoke from the exhaust, but it refused to start. I tried again and again, but each time the cough became weaker and the smoke from the exhaust more faint.
We fumed and fussed. We pleaded with it, petted it, yelled at it, kicked it, and would have taken a sledge hammer to it. But it was dead. We had told everyone in Fruit Heights that we would pick up their papers, and we were afraid if we waited, those papers would end up in Monday’s trash.
“We’ve just got to go today, Brett. If we don’t get those papers, the Bradleys might not have anything.”
“Someone else might help them,” I said, trying to be positive just in case the old truck had finally fallen victim to age.
“Maybe, but we can’t be sure,” Jason countered. “We’ve just got to get it working.”
“Why today?” I growled, pounding helplessly on the steering wheel.
“Well, we sure aren’t going to get it running this way,” Jason said. “I’m getting some tools.”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Do you really think you can fix it? What will Dad say if you ruin it?”
“It’s already ruined. I can’t hurt it.”
“I wish Dad were here,” I moaned.
“Well, we’ll have to do more than wish. Let’s get to work.”
Next to Dad, Jason was the best mechanic in the family, so if anyone could coax the truck into starting he could. I sat back and watched while he checked everything from the points to the gas pump. After an hour of grunting and experimenting, he dropped the hood, wiped a greasy hand across his forehead, and said optimistically, “Fire it up.”
I whispered a prayer, turned the key, and pressed the starter. The truck groaned, coughed, sputtered, rattled, and finally purred. “Hop in,” I commanded with a grin, “before she changes her mind.”
Jason tossed the tools into the truck, wiped his hands on his pants, and jumped in just as we jerked away from the curb and headed for Fruit Heights.
The truck’s miraculous resurrection was not our only surprise of the day. We soon discovered that our project had become contagious. A host of people in Fruit Heights had been pricked by the Christmas spirit. When we made our first stop a man shuffled out and asked, “Could this family you’re helping use a trike? Our kids are too big for it now. It’s just sitting in the garage gathering dust.”
At another place we picked up an electric train set. A couple gave us a miniature table and chair set. We received a wagon and some Lincoln logs. A widower gave us a rocking chair.
When we stopped at the O’Briens’, there was only a small pile of newspapers, hardly enough for the stop, but before we left, Mrs. O’Brien came out and asked, “Is there a little girl in this family?”
“Trina’s four,” Jason replied.
“I have a doll—one I bought years ago, thinking I’d have a girl. I had five boys instead.” She smiled shyly. “Boys don’t take to dolls. I’ve been meaning to do something with it.” She left and came back with the biggest, prettiest doll I’d ever seen in my life. “It’s never been used,” she explained.
“Gee!” we gasped. “Are you sure you want to just give it away?”
She looked at the doll for a moment and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I would have just given it to one of my girls had I had one.” She sighed. “If Trina will like it, I want her to have it. I would like to see her face Christmas morning when she sees it.” She took a deep breath and flashed a weak smile. “Oh, well. I guess Christmas morning I’ll have to imagine what Trina is doing.”
By the end of the day the old truck had made six trips and was about to die a second time after our rigorous demands, but we had collected just under 150 dollars worth of newspapers, not to mention the donated gifts we had received. We bought shoes and coats for the kids; a gift certificate for Sister Bradley; and two boxes of groceries, candies, and nuts for the stockings and Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve everything was ready. Dad helped us fire up the old truck one more time. Jason and I filled it to overflowing and sputtered down the street to the Bradleys’, coasting the last block so as not to announce our arrival.
It was starting to snow as we climbed out of the truck and sneaked to the Bradleys’ front steps with our arms bulging with gifts. We could hear Sister Bradley and her three kids singing Christmas carols, and we paused for a moment in the shadows to listen before returning to the truck for the trike, the rocker, and the table and chairs.
When we had placed the last box of groceries on the step, we rapped loudly on the door and then sprinted to a clump of bushes where we could observe unseen. Sister Bradley opened the door and peered into the darkness. She was beginning to close the door when she spotted our Christmas project all over her front steps. She gasped and looked up and down the street, then back at the pile of presents. Slowly she dropped to her knees and began to cry.
My vision blurred with tears, and something swelled up inside of me until I could hardly breathe. Starting from deep in my chest and finally reaching to the tips of my fingers and toes, a gratifying warmth overwhelmed me. Never in my life had I felt such an all-consuming fulfillment. I was sure I would burst, and I wondered why I had waited so long to discover this side of Christmas.
When we returned home, all the lights were off except those on the tree, and everyone but Dad was in bed. He was there waiting for us in the dim light next to an enormous package—addressed to Jason and me!
“Where’d that come from?” I asked as soon as I saw it.
Dad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Someone left it on the doorstep while you were over at the Bradleys’.”
“Left it for us?” I groaned. He nodded. “You mean a Christmas package for us?” He shrugged again, obviously amused. “Well, we don’t want it!” I flared. “That’s exactly what we didn’t want.”
“They can just keep it,” Jason rebelled. “I’m not opening it.”
“It’s an insult,” I added. “I’m not taking anybody’s care package.”
Dad held up a restraining hand. “Talking isn’t going to change a thing,” I insisted, anticipating his argument. Dad motioned for us to sit down. We did, grumbling irritably. He waited for our protests to subside, and then he asked quietly, “Has this been a good Christmas?”
I looked over at Jason and he at me. “Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the floor but avoiding the package.
“Why? What’s so special about this Christmas?”
“Because … because we were giving something. We were making somebody happy.”
“Does taking this package change that?”
“It’s charity,” I flared. “We don’t want charity.”
Dad nodded. “Do you know what charity is? Real charity? Love, pure love. This package is a token of someone’s love, not of their ridicule or pity. It is the offspring of charity, of love, just as your gifts to the Bradleys sprang from love.”
“But Dad,” I protested.
Dad shook his head. “How would it have been had the Bradleys reacted to your gifts like you’re reacting to this one?” He looked at Jason and me and waited for an answer, but all we could do was shrug our shoulders and stare at the anonymous package. “You know, sons, there can never be a giver without a receiver. Both are necessary and good.”
He paused a moment. “When Luke went on his mission, I wanted to support him all by myself. I thought it only right that a father support his own son. My pride had a lot to do with it. I was being a little selfish. I didn’t realize until I started getting secret contributions that there were those who wanted to give also. I came to understand that I didn’t have the right to deny them the opportunity.”
He looked at our package. “I don’t know who left this for you. I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. But whoever it was has as much right to the joy of giving as you two. Unless you accept the gift, they can’t enjoy the full satisfaction of giving.” He placed his hands on our knees and concluded, “At Christmas time we give generously and receive graciously. That’s the spirit of Christmas. When you can do those two things, equally well, you will have taken a giant step toward manhood.”
Long after Dad went to bed, Jason and I stayed by the tree contemplating our unexpected gift. It was the hardest gift for us to accept, but we knew Dad was right.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Jason finally mused.
We glanced at each other. A spark of curiosity glowed in our eyes. I looked around to determine whether we were alone. “We could always peek,” I suggested furtively.
Jason nodded. “I never could wait till Christmas morning.”
We both grinned, nodded our agreement, and then eagerly pulled the package toward us and began peeling off the wrapping.

A few years ago my husband and I were enjoying visiting Australia. It was promising to be another beautiful spring day in the outskirts of Sydney. We were to be involved in a mission presidents’ seminar for presidents and their wives in that area of the world. However, at approximately 5:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, the telephone rang and woke us from our sleep. My experience with middle-of-the-night telephone calls has been that they usually portend bad news. Thus, as my husband got out of bed to answer the phone, I was quite nervous and concerned. As he answered the phone, I heard him say, “Hello, Emma.”
I relaxed somewhat, knowing that Emma was his secretary in the Office of the Seventy. I knew that we were 16 hours ahead of Salt Lake City time and it was Tuesday during working hours there. My thought was that she just wanted to talk to him before he became involved in the meetings of the day. However, his response to whatever she was saying to him was a very shocked “Oh, no!”
Again I became very concerned and surmised that it was not good news but involved something or someone from the Church family and not our own immediate one. I recall that he hung up the telephone and came and said to me that Emma had just reported to him that two planes had hit the World Trade Center buildings in New York City. We were instructed to remain in Australia until further notice.
We, of course, got up and turned on the television and were filled with shock, horror, and great sadness as we saw and heard of the devastating attacks in our homeland. The seminar began that day, but, as you can imagine, it wasn’t quite business as usual. A great somberness filled all our hearts. I felt such a heaviness of spirit.
The day proceeded with an abbreviated schedule as well as phone calls by the participants in the seminar to their homes and families. We were also informed that we would be able to receive the audio portion of a program to be held that evening originating from the Tabernacle on Temple Square.
The time came to hear the broadcast from Salt Lake City. I cannot recall exactly what was said or sung that night; however, I can vividly recall how I was affected when I heard the voice of our beloved prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley, as he spoke from thousands of miles away. Just to hear his voice seemed to lift much of the sadness and gloom I was feeling. I will always remember and treasure the comfort and peace I felt from hearing the love and tenderness in his voice that day. Others in the meeting expressed having the same overwhelming feelings of calmness and solace as I did upon hearing his voice. This peace came from our knowledge that we had a prophet to lead and guide us and that if we but listen and obey the words of such a man, who speaks for the Master, all would be well in our lives—no matter what else happened.

A friend of mine, Michael Koerber, discovered these principles when he was studying the gospel. Initially he didn’t take the lessons too seriously. He said that he was stubborn and did not read the Book of Mormon. However, due to a singular spiritual experience he and his wife, Audrey, had with the missionaries, he realized that he had to make more than a casual commitment. He committed to read the Book of Mormon.

One morning while on vacation he was reading the Book of Mormon. He reported his experience in these words:
I was reading in Alma somewhere. I remember ­having come to the end of my reading for that morning and coming to a very clear and undeniable realization of the truth of the Book of Mormon. It is indescribable. All I know is that it is as though every cell of my body rang out or sang out or shouted out, “This is it! This is true! Here it is! Look no further! You have the answer to your prayers!”
I remember getting up and walking over to my wife and saying to her, “We are joining this church.”
Audrey then asked, “Why now? What changed?”
I answered, “I don’t know. But I do know that this book is true. And if this book is true, then it was translated by a prophet of God. And if it was translated by a prophet of God, then I am joining this church.”

What’s different about family home evening at the Murphy house? At first glance, not much, you might think.
Seventeen-year-old Mandy (short for Amanda), from Vashon, Washington, is sitting relaxed with her stepmom and dad in the living room of their home, discussing current events and how they tie in to a gospel topic. The scriptures are ready for reference, and they are really paying attention to each other’s thoughts and feelings.
But that’s where much of the similarity to many Latter-day Saint families ends. You see, Mandy is a Church member, and her father, Brian, and stepmother, Robin, are not.
“This is quite a change for our family,” Mandy explains. “It started when I joined the Church. I was led to the Church at the appropriate time, when it really appealed to me. It was so comforting and the families in the Church were so strong, and I really needed that.”
According to Mandy, no particular person really initiates family home evening each week, but after she explained the concept of family home evening to her parents, they were willing to try it.
“We spent time together before, but now it’s more organized. We don’t usually stress studying scriptures because my mom’s not really comfortable with that yet, but every once in a while, my dad and I do. We play games, and sometimes my dad will read us articles from the newspaper and we’ll discuss them.
“We also try to get to know each other better. We do that by just basically sitting down and looking at each other, talking with each other. I’ve come to respect and love my parents a lot more since we’ve started having family home evening.
“Because of the Church, the influence of the Spirit, and the time we spend in family home evening, I have a much better relationship with my parents than I ever could have imagined.”

“Easter is a good time to think about Jesus and to remember His Resurrection,” Sister Rojas said. She held up a picture of Jesus. “Because of Him, people who have died can live again.”
Alonso looked up when his Primary teacher said this. Does that mean I can see my parents again? Alonso wondered.
Mamá had died years ago. Alonso didn’t remember her well, but he liked looking at pictures of her. Then Papá died too.
Now Alonso lived with Abuela, his grandmother. She had been teaching him about her church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was going to be baptized and confirmed next year, when he was old enough.
Then Sister Rojas held up a picture of a white building. “Another amazing gift from Jesus is temples. This is one of the temples here in Chile.”
Alonso looked at the gold statue on top of the building. It was beautiful! He wondered what happened inside.
“Temples are where families are sealed together forever,” Sister Rojas said. “This temple in Santiago is where I was sealed to my parents after we joined the Church. Because we were sealed, I can be with them even after this life.”
Alonso felt excited when he heard that. “Could I be sealed to my parents?” he asked. “Even though they already died?”
Sister Rojas nodded. “Yes! That’s one of the reasons temples are so important. They bless all of our family members, including those who have died.”
For the rest of the day, Alonso kept thinking about temples. He asked Abuela to teach him more. She talked about the white clothes people wear inside and the beautiful artwork on the walls.
“Best of all, it’s where you can be sealed to your parents,” Abuela said. “We’ll ask two people from the ward to stand in for them during the sealing.”
“Can we go tomorrow?” Alonso asked. “I want to be with Mamá and Papá forever!”
Abuela smiled. “I’m glad you want to go,” she said. “But the nearest temple is in Concepción. We don’t have enough money for bus tickets.”
“I’ll help save for the trip!” Alonso said.
From then on, whenever Alonso found a coin on the street or had a chance to earn some money, he paid tithing and then added the rest to their temple fund.
After months of saving, Alonso and Abuela finally had enough money to travel to the temple. They asked Brother and Sister Silva to come with them. On the day of the trip, they took a long bus ride to the city of Concepción. It was almost sunset when Alonso spotted something gold in the distance.
“I can see the angel Moroni!” Alonso said, pointing to the statue on top of the temple’s blue dome roof.
They spent the night at an apartment next to the temple. In the morning, Alonso went inside the temple for the first time. He saw a big picture of Jesus inside. He and Abuela got dressed in white. He felt happy and peaceful.
When it was time for the sealing, Alonso walked into a beautiful room with mirrors on the walls. A temple worker showed Alonso, Abuela, and the Silvas how to kneel around a special table called an altar. It was covered in soft fabric.
Brother and Sister Silva were there for Alonso’s mom and dad. Abuela was there for his sister who died before Alonso was born.
Closing his eyes, Alonso imagined his family all together.
I can’t wait to see them again, Alonso thought. I’m so grateful families can be together forever!

Now 150 years later, the date is June 9, 2006. One more handcart company is leaving Iowa City.
This time the company is made up of about 70 young men and young women from the Iowa City Iowa Stake. Dressed in pioneer clothing, with their handcarts full of supplies, these youth are gathered at the Mormon Handcart Park just outside of Iowa City—the same place from which the first handcart company left exactly 150 years earlier on June 9, 1856. Looking west, they can’t help but think of the original pioneers who stood here so long ago.
After a long day of trekking through the hills of Iowa, the youth now have a moment to reflect on their experience. Emma Pauley rereads Ether 12, a chapter on faith that she remembers learning about in seminary.
“I don’t know if I could have walked the whole way to Utah,” says Emma, “but the pioneers were able to do it, and I know that it was because of their faith. All great things are done by faith.”
The faith of the handcart pioneers enabled them to respond to President Young’s call to gather to the Salt Lake Valley. Their example makes it easier for the Iowa City youth to follow the counsel of the prophet today.
One way young men like Kameron Hansen can follow the prophet is by completing the Duty to God program. As he explains, “When I think of the pioneers and their sacrifice, it makes me want to finish my requirements so I can follow the prophet too.”
Following the prophet is important to these youth, and they look forward to seeing him the following Sunday at a commemorative fireside. The chance to hear the voice of a prophet will be the highlight of the celebration.
The early pioneers must have felt this same excitement as they walked to the Salt Lake Valley, knowing that with every step they were closer to their leader and hearing his voice.
“It is like a treasure waiting for me at the end,” says Skylar Hansen of the Iowa City First Ward.
After walking all day Friday and giving service on Saturday, the youth are happy it is Sunday—time to listen to the prophet in person. Now seated with their families at the commemorative fireside, the young men and young women feel grateful for their new understanding of the handcart experience. The words of President Gordon B. Hinckley inspire them to continue the legacy of faith left by the handcart pioneers. He tells them, “We must ever look back to those who paid so terrible a price in laying the foundations of this great latter-day work.”

My father passed away in April 2013. As I prepared to speak at his funeral, I realized how blessed I was to know and love his favorite scriptures. He shared them in family gatherings, and he read them with me when I needed counsel, guidance, or strengthening of my faith. I heard him share them in talks and assignments. I not only knew them, but I can still remember the sound of his voice and the spiritual feelings I had as he shared them. Through sharing scriptures and feelings, my father helped me to establish a firm foundation of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

“I’d like to go just one mile further, if we can,” said Bishop Steve Pond of the Kelso Ward, Longview Washington Stake. He was in the car with Mike and Beverly Glen of his ward, who were able to get through many of the roadblocks close to the volcano because they lived in that area. They had been winding up the narrow ash-covered mountain roads, helping the bishop check on members’ homes that might have been damaged by the mudslides and flooding.
“I’m afraid we’re not going to get through this roadblock,” said Mike Glen. “It’s manned, and they’re giving $500 fines to anyone who doesn’t belong up here.”
“Tell the national guardsmen that you’re a bishop and are checking on your people,” suggested Beverly Glen.
The car pulled up to the roadblock slowly, and the guardsman, who turned out to be LDS, poked his head in the car window.
“Hello, bishop,” he said. “How can we help you?”
“I’d like to check on some of our people who live up the road a ways,” said Bishop Pond.
“Very good. Some new tremors were felt in the last hour, though, so listen to your radio. If you smell lava, evacuate out of the area because as soon as we get the word to evacuate, we’re going in that direction,” said the guardsman. “Are we having Church this week?”
“Depends on your mountain,” said the bishop. “We’re going up the road now just a couple of miles, then we’ll be right out.”
Then they drove off, closer to the mountain and checking the members’ homes marked on the bishop’s map by pins. He used the map to keep track of his members during the disaster, and had spent most of his time outside of work the past two weeks since the eruption contacting members and making sure they were okay. Tonight he’d skipped dinner so he could get up to the homes while it was still light.
As soon as it was rumored that the volcano might blow, Bishop Pond had called a meeting with the ward welfare services committee to plan for the possible disaster. He asked the Relief Society to prepare a list of emergency supplies (much of which was to be taken from each family’s food storage) that could sustain each family for several days and was portable enough to be thrown into the car at a moment’s notice. The list was passed out to each family at sacrament meeting two weeks before the major eruption. Bishop Pond also assigned each ward family in a potential flooding area to another family on safe ground, so when the volcano did erupt (though no one knew if it would) everyone had a safe place to go.
To ensure good communications with the outside world and each other if the telephone system were hampered, a ham radio communications system was set up, too.
“Bishop Pond was really inspired in helping his ward members prepare for a possible disaster,” said Beverly Glen, a counselor in the Kelso Ward Relief Society. “It took a lot of work and foresight to help people get ready for what was to come.”
Some ward members put their food storage in their attics in case of flooding, so their food would stay dry. Many people drew upon their water supplies when their normal source of water turned to mud from the volcano’s mudslides. And some families drew upon their food storage when other families from the ward moved in with them.
“What we’ve learned from this situation is really just a verification that we need to do what the Lord tells us through his prophets, even without understanding the reasons,” said Bishop Pond.
“Overall, the disaster has brought some real blessings to our ward members. We’re much closer now as a ward, and we’ve been given the opportunity to really serve each other.”

“OK, Jason,” Mom said as she tucked him into bed. “You’ve been extra quiet tonight. Is anything wrong?”
Jason looked up at her. “It’s about school,” he said. “I just wish recess was different.”
“Have you made any new friends?” Mom asked.
Their family had just moved, and Jason was finally starting to feel comfortable in his new third-grade class.
“A few,” he said. “But it’s the playground helper. She’s grouchy all the time! And some of the kids say mean things about her.”
“What do you think about that?” Mom said.
“Well, I don’t think she’s nice, but I also don’t like it when the kids talk like that about her,” Jason said. “It makes me feel bad inside, even when she doesn’t hear them.”
“Jason, do you remember how the Holy Ghost speaks to you?” Mom said.
Jason tapped his heart.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “He talks to you through feelings and thoughts.”
Jason loved the peaceful feeling of the Holy Ghost. But when the kids were mean to the playground helper, he didn’t feel peaceful at all.
“But the Holy Ghost makes me feel good,” he said.
Mom nodded. “That’s right, but He also tells us when something isn’t right, or when we need to fix something. When you feel bad or uncomfortable inside, it could be the Holy Ghost telling you that something is wrong and you need to do the right thing.” She smoothed his hair. “What do you think is the right thing to do?”
“Well, I know Jesus wants us to be kind to everyone,” Jason said thoughtfully. “I guess that means playground helpers too.”
“Yes, it does!” Mom said. “We are all children of Heavenly Father, so we should treat everyone nicely.”
“Well, what can I do?” Jason said, frowning. “If she wasn’t so grumpy, maybe everyone would be nicer to her.”
“We don’t always know why people act a certain way,” Mom said. “We don’t know what’s going on in her life. Maybe she’s doing the best she can.”
Jason thought about when they had first moved here. Everything was so different from his old home. He had tried not to show it, but at first he had been scared and sad. Maybe the playground helper felt that way too.
“But if I don’t know why she’s feeling bad, how can I help?” Jason asked.
“We don’t always have to know what’s wrong to cheer someone up,” Mom said.
Jason thought about what cheered him up. “I know! Can we make her some chocolate-chip cookies?”
Mom smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
Jason was getting excited. “And maybe we can make some extra cookies to give to the kids at recess too!” he said. “I could share cookies with everyone and talk about how we can brighten her day even more!”
“Even better,” Mom said. “I sure am proud of you, Jason.”
Jason smiled. He was glad he had the Holy Ghost to remind him to treat others like Jesus would treat them. Recess was going to get a whole lot sweeter.

Richard had a lucky hat. He wore it to breakfast, and he wore it to bed. In fact, he hardly ever took it off. His grandfather had given it to him, and on the very first day that he wore it, Richard had caught a fish.
“It must be a lucky hat,” Grandfather had said, and Richard knew that it was true.
But it was hard to keep a hat on all the time—even a lucky hat. He couldn’t keep it on in the shower or when he went swimming. It was almost impossible to keep his hat on when he turned a somersault or did a cartwheel. And when it was windy, or when Richard ran really fast, his hat would be blown onto the ground.
When it blew off Richard’s head, his little brother Andrew would snatch it up and run with it because he wanted a lucky hat too. But no matter how much Andrew cried or screamed or kicked the floor, he always had to return it. The hat was Richard’s—Mother had said so!
Richard was glad he didn’t have to share his hat. I don’t know what I’d do without it, he thought. He had learned to do many things while wearing his lucky hat. He had learned to throw a football and to ride his two-wheeler without the training wheels. He had learned to build a house three stories high out of play logs. And now he could even write his name on the drawings he made for his mother.
But of all the nice things that had happened to Richard while he was wearing his lucky hat, the very best thing had been meeting his new friend Bernie. Bernie had moved in right next door, and he was just the kind of friend that Richard had always wished for. All summer long they had played together. Now that fall was coming, they would start school together too.
Once, Richard had been afraid to go to school. He was scared that he wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. He was scared that he wouldn’t make any friends. But since he had his lucky hat, and since he had his new friend Bernie, he wasn’t afraid at all. He couldn’t wait for the school doors to open.
And when they did, it was wonderful. He liked the room full of bright colors. He liked his teacher, Miss Evans. And he liked his classmates. Richard liked everything about school—that is, he liked it until the moment Miss Evans noticed his hat. “Please take off your hat, Richard,” she said. “You mustn’t wear it in the classroom.”
“But it’s my lucky hat,” Richard pleaded.
Miss Evans insisted, though, so Richard removed his hat. He stuffed it up the front of his shirt, but it made his stomach itch. He tucked it into his belt. But a boy grabbed it and wouldn’t give it back. Miss Evans finally took the hat and put it into her desk drawer. “You may have it back after school, Richard,” she promised.
The next day Richard didn’t want to go to school at all. First he said his head ached. Then he said his throat was sore. And then he said his stomach hurt. It did, too, because Richard was scared. But he had to go to school anyway—Mother said so.
So Richard took his lucky hat and put it up high in his closet, where Andrew couldn’t get it. Then he trudged to school with Bernie.
“It will be terrible without my hat,” he said to Bernie. But the day surprised him. Miss Evans gave him a big smile when he helped her pick up some papers she had dropped. Then he was the third one chosen in a game of ringtoss. Later his painting with the big yellow sun was hung on the wall for the whole class to see. That made Richard very proud, and he could hardly wait to tell his mother. Afterward he went out to play with Bernie and forgot all about his hat. He did remember it at bedtime, but he was too tired to get it down.
So the lucky hat stayed safe, high up on his closet shelf. Richard didn’t think of it again until two weeks later. He was looking for his favorite blue racing car when he found his hat. He dusted it off and tried it on. It fit as well as it ever did, but somehow it didn’t feel right.
“It’s hard to wear a hat all the time,” Richard murmured, “even a lucky hat.”
He took it off and started to put it back on the shelf. Then he thought, I don’t need this anymore, but I know who does.
And Richard climbed down from the stool and went to find Andrew.

I was one of the 13. My dad was not ready for baptism at this time. The missionaries were still teaching him because he was not ready to let go of his family’s traditions. He was born a Baptist and he said he’d die a Baptist. Our mother said, “I’m going to wait for your dad.” So, she was not baptized with her children.

Well, my dad, died at the age of 98. He was buried fully clothed in the garment of the holy priesthood and his sacred temple clothing. He was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, May 31, 1979. He promised my mother he would marry her in the Temple. They were married and sealed in the Mesa Arizona Temple June 7, 1983.

My dad struggled with accepting the Book of Mormon because he had been taught all his life, that the Bible was the only true word of God.

As he continued to read the Book of Mormon for himself, through the power of the Holy Ghost, he came to know the Book of Mormon as another testament of Jesus Christ.

Because my dad continued to pray and study the Book of Mormon, the power of God strengthened him to overcome his family traditions and other personal challenges that held him bound from accepting the restored gospel.

As a young elder, I had been called to the old Primary Children’s Hospital on North Temple Street … in Salt Lake City. There were children to be blessed. It was the Christmas season. I had never been in a children’s hospital before.
As our group entered the foyer, we noticed an attractively decorated Christmas tree, with beautifully wrapped gifts beneath its boughs.
A feeling of sympathy welled up within me as I noticed these tiny children, many with legs or arms in large plaster casts. Some were ever so weak and pale.
A young lad called out to us, “Will you give me a blessing?” Of course the blessing was given. I shall ever remember placing my hands on the … head of that faithful boy who was desperately ill. As we left his side, he looked up into my eyes and said, “Thank you, Brother Monson.”
We walked away, only to hear him call out, “Oh, Brother Monson, merry Christmas to you.” I could scarcely see him for the tears in my eyes. He had that glow about him that comes only at Christmastime. That boy trusted in his Heavenly Father. He acknowledged the priesthood of God. His faith was unwavering. I felt I was on holy ground.
What made the glow emanate from the presence of this faithful boy? It was the Christmas spirit.

When he was released, we again felt prompted to move. We decided on Beverley in East Yorkshire to be near my widowed mother, then in her nineties. Her passing early in our planning did not change our minds, but three house purchases fell through in quick succession. I asked Paul, ‘Do you think the Lord is trying to tell us something?’
We widened our search to the next branch area, Bridlington. We found a house quickly, but the owners soon decided not to sell. I was almost in despair. Then, quite unexpectedly, the Lord blessed us with a better home—larger, cheaper and full of the historical details I love. We have been happy here ever since, serving in the Church as we can.

Lisa, you should take seminary,” Ashley mentioned casually. Before us were folders displaying lists of class choices for the next school year, when we were starting high school.
I looked vacantly at my friend, finally managing a smile. I hated to tell her, but seminary was the furthest thing from my mind. I was then a less-active member of the Church, as I had been for most of my life. Over the years, I had grown vaguely aware of the gospel but hadn’t received a strong testimony of its truthfulness.
As I went home after school that day, the prospect of seminary began to intrigue me. Ashley, as well as my other friends, all seemed very excited to become a part of it. I had a desire to do what my friends were doing, even if I didn’t understand what they were doing or why they were doing it. After discussing my plan with my parents and getting their permission, I decided to take seminary my first year of high school.
I didn’t know what a profound impact that simple act would have on my life. My first year of seminary changed my life as I began to see myself and others as children of God, loved and cherished. I began going to church on Sundays, despite my family’s inactivity.
I have now finished high school, but I will always be grateful for seminary. During that hour each day, I had my prayers answered and my testimony strengthened. Seminary helped me prepare for a temple marriage and encouraged me to strive to be a better person.
I know that God cares for each of us. I know that seminary is a blessing that helped me build on a firm foundation in Jesus Christ. I would encourage you to enroll in seminary. It will change your life too.

Many years ago in the ward over which I presided as the bishop, there lived a couple who often had very serious, heated disagreements. I mean real disagreements. Each of the two was certain of his or her position. Neither one would yield to the other. When they weren’t arguing, they maintained what I would call an uneasy truce.

One morning at 2:00 a.m. I had a telephone call from the couple. They wanted to talk to me, and they wanted to talk right then. I dragged myself from bed, dressed, and went to their home. They sat on opposite sides of the room, not speaking to each other. The wife communicated with her husband by talking to me. He replied to her by talking to me. I thought, “How in the world are we going to get this couple together?”

I prayed for inspiration, and the thought came to me to ask them a question. I said, “How long has it been since you have been to the temple and witnessed a temple sealing?” They admitted it had been a very long time. They were otherwise worthy people who held temple recommends and who went to the temple and did ordinance work for others.

I said to them, “Will you come with me to the temple on Wednesday morning at 8:00? We will witness a sealing ceremony there.”

In unison they asked, “Whose ceremony?”

I responded, “I don’t know. It will be for whoever is getting married that morning.”

On the following Wednesday at the appointed hour, we met at the Salt Lake Temple. The three of us went into one of the beautiful sealing rooms, not knowing a soul in the room except Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, a General Authority position which existed at that time. Elder Christiansen was scheduled to perform a sealing ceremony for a bride and groom in that very room that morning. I am confident the bride and her family thought, “These must be friends of the groom” and that the groom’s family thought, “These must be friends of the bride.” My couple were seated on a little bench with about a full two feet (0.6 m) of space between them.

Elder Christiansen began by providing counsel to the couple who were being married, and he did so in a beautiful fashion. He mentioned how a husband should love his wife, how he should treat her with respect and courtesy, honoring her as the heart of the home. Then he talked to the bride about how she should honor her husband as the head of the home and be of support to him in every way.

I noticed that as Elder Christiansen spoke to the bride and the groom, my couple moved a little closer together. Soon they were seated right next to one another. What pleased me is that they had both moved at about the same rate. By the end of the ceremony, my couple were sitting as close to each other as though they were the newlyweds. Each was smiling.

We left the temple that day, and no one ever knew who we were or why we had come, but my friends were holding hands as they walked out the front door. Their differences had been set aside. I had not had to say one word. You see, they remembered their own wedding day and the covenants they had made in the house of God. They were committed to beginning again and trying harder this time around.