Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Julie Rogers
I was excited to participate in the Church’s 2016 “Light the World” Christmas campaign. I looked forward to completing the daily challenges, particularly for day five: “Jesus helped the sick, and so can you.”
That day I left work and walked through the gray city streets planning to visit my grandparents. I felt great. It was Christmastime and the world was beautiful. The peal of a charity bell rang through the air. As I neared the streetcar platform, the sound of the bell was drowned out by a homeless woman yelling at the bell ringer.
“You’re a fake!” she screamed. “I’m hungry, I’m cold, and you take it all for yourself! You’re a fake!”
Most people ignored her, and the bell ringer continued ringing his bell. I put my headphones on, but I could still hear the woman yelling, “You’re a fake! I’m hungry. I’m cold.”
I remembered I had a 20-dollar bill in my pocket. I considered giving it to the woman. “No,” I thought. “If I’m going to give this to someone, I should give it to someone nice.” Then the Spirit reminded me of the challenge and whom I was trying to be like. Jesus was the King of kings, yet He served the lowest of the low. I knew what I needed to do.
I walked toward the woman. She wasn’t yelling now, but her eyes were closed and tears ran down her cheeks. I took the 20-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Rough day?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Yeah,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her, and she cried into my shoulder until the streetcar came.
“Thanks,” the woman said when we said goodbye. “And not just for the money. Thanks for the hug. I needed a hug.”
Hugging a random person on the street was not something I had planned on doing, but I know it’s something Jesus would have done. I am grateful the Lord gave me the opportunity to serve as He would have. Jesus helped the sick, the poor, and the needy. So can I.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“’Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

Elder Lund leaves soon for his mission. He told us, “I worked at a dry cleaner for two years. I found the position when I took a buddy to his interview. He told the lady he couldn’t take the job because of the hours but that I could. I did. I worked the cash register, took in dirty clothes, and gave out the clean ones. I also cleaned up after closing. When I started the job I was very shy. I learned to speak up and explain things to people. I gained a lot of confidence. Now I don’t have trouble communicating with people.
“My brother and I bought broken lawn mowers, repaired them, and sold them for a profit. We didn’t have to spend money for parts. They just needed our mechanical knowledge.
“I put my money into a savings account. I recommend everyone use a savings account. But give the bankbook to your mom so you can’t take the money out again. You need to start early in life to save because you can’t cram in the last few months like you might for a test.”

From the first time she came to church, 16-year-old Moema Duberley loved it. “The girls were very receptive and tried to help me get to know everybody,” she says. “It made me feel like the Church was my second home.”
But it became difficult for Moema to come to church when her mother stopped attending a few months after their baptism. Partly because of her calling but mostly because of their friendship, Katarina began calling Moema.
“Sometimes I felt like I was bothering Moema,” says Katarina, “but I kept trying because I felt it was important, and I knew God was going to help because I was also praying.”
After months of Katarina’s and other girls’ fellowshipping, Moema returned to full activity. “I came back because I was missing everything I had been learning at church and my relationship with God and the members.”
Now Moema and Katarina share a special bond. “I’m really grateful because I needed a friend when I was less active,” says Moema. “I’m very thankful for Katarina being like this for me. When you spend time away from the Church, you begin to feel that maybe you won’t be accepted. But when people call, it feels good to know you’re not forgotten.”
As for Katarina, “I feel really happy and thankful that Moema came back,” she says. “And it worked! I prayed and it worked.”

Grandpa and I worked on the car most of the afternoon. We stopped at about 4:00. There was a dance in town that night, and I was going to take a girl I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I had known Margie for as long as I could remember. We were in the same kindergarten class, and I used to pull her ponytail. In junior high I used to tie the ends of her dress sashes to the back of her chair during class, and then laugh as she got up and knocked her chair over. Most girls would have gotten mad but not Margie. She would just laugh, shake her finger at me, and say that I had better watch out; she was going to get me back.
But when we went to high school, something happened. Margie was no longer the skinny-legged, freckled-faced girl in knee socks and braces. Sometime during that summer she had changed into a willowy beauty with an electrifying smile and sun-streaked hair. She was so carefree and simple, always laughing, always there to listen.
But halfway through our sophomore year she moved to the city. It was quite a blow to all of her friends, me in particular. But she promised to write and visit when she could.
So, when she called me to tell me that she was going to be in town visiting her grandparents for a few days, I couldn’t help but get excited. She had always been so fun to be with, and I was sure I would have a good time. Two years couldn’t have changed us that much.
As I drove up to the house where her grandparents lived, my hands were sweaty and butterflies were doing acrobatics in my stomach. My legs felt like spaghetti as I got out; and as I knocked on the door, I felt my face flush to a deep, hot red. The door opened and there was Margie, still willowy, still beautiful. Smiling, she let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Boy, it’s really good to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” I stuttered.
“Grandpa and grandma are in the kitchen. They said they wanted to see you when you came.”
“Oh. I saw your grandpa in town the other day, but I haven’t seen your grandma for a long time,” I said as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bobby, how’s your grandpa?” asked her grandfather. “I hope he’s doing well. Haven’t seen him around for a while. Now, we don’t want to sound old-fashioned, but what time do you think you’ll be home?”
I assured them that it wouldn’t be too late, and then we left. As we walked out to the truck, I heard Margie clear her throat. I looked at her, but all she did was smile and ask who was going to play at the dance.
“Oh, it will be records,” I said.
“Records. How different. At home we always have a band.”
“That really must be nice,” I said uncomfortably. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice kept saying that this evening wasn’t going to be what I had expected. She just kept smiling.
All the kids welcomed her when we got to the dance, but as I watched her, I saw something that puzzled me. It was sort of an amused look, one that seemed to say, “I can’t believe the way you all act. I hope I didn’t act like this.”
We danced; then she danced with some of the others. Every once in a while I would see that same look. It bothered me, but what could I do? I just let it go.
On the way home, I asked if she had had fun.
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to get home and tell the kids about it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she would tell them. Her voice wasn’t the same as it used to be. She acted differently. Maybe it was just my imagination; it was probably nothing more than seeing old friends again. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to worry about it; we were going to the county fair the next weekend, and I was sure we’d have fun.
I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

This cookie made of phyllo dough and pistachio nuts is a thank-you. It was made by the Kadado family who, for decades, owned three bakeries in Damascus, Syria. When war came, a blockade stopped food and supplies from reaching their part of the city. The Kadados began to starve. At the height of this desperate situation, Latter-day Saint Charities and some very courageous staff at Rahma Worldwide began serving a daily hot meal, along with milk for the little children. After a difficult time, the family began their life—as well as their bakery—once again in a new country.

Recently, a box of cookies arrived at the Church offices with the following message: “For more than two months, we managed to get food from the Rahma–Latter-day Saint [Charities] kitchen. Without it we would [have] starve[d] to death. Please accept this … sample from my shop as a small token of thanks. I ask God the Almighty to bless you … in everything you do.”

A cookie of gratitude and remembrance. It is meant for you. To all who prayed after watching a story on the news, to all who volunteered when it was not convenient or who kindly donated money to the humanitarian fund trusting it would do some good, thank you.

Some years ago, just before leaving Salt Lake to attend the annual meetings of Boy Scouts of America in Atlanta, Georgia, I decided to take with me enough copies of the New Era so that I might share with Scouting officials this excellent publication. When I arrived at the hotel in Atlanta, I opened the package of magazines. I found that my secretary, for no accountable reason, had put in the package two extra copies of the June issue, an issue that featured temple marriage. I left the two copies in the hotel room and, as planned, distributed the other copies.

On the final day of meetings, I had no desire to attend the scheduled luncheon but felt compelled to return to my room. The telephone was ringing as I entered. The caller was a member of the Church who had heard I was in Atlanta. She introduced herself and asked if I could provide a blessing for her 10-year-old daughter. I agreed readily, and she indicated that she and her husband, their daughter, and their son would come immediately to my hotel room. As I waited, I prayed for help. The applause of the convention was replaced by the feelings of peace which accompanied prayer.

Then came the knock at the door and the privilege which was mine to meet a choice family. The 10-year-old daughter walked with the aid of crutches. Cancer had required the amputation of her left leg; however, her countenance was radiant, her trust in God unwavering. A blessing was provided. Mother and son knelt by the side of the bed while the father and I placed our hands on the tiny daughter. We were directed by the Spirit of God. We were humbled by its power.

I felt the tears course down my cheeks and tumble upon my hands as they rested on the head of that beautiful child of God. I spoke of eternal ordinances and family exaltation. The Lord prompted me to urge this family to enter the holy temple of God. At the conclusion of the blessing, I learned that such a temple visit was planned. Questions pertaining to the temple were asked. I heard no heavenly voice, nor did I see a vision. Yet there came clearly into my mind the words, “Refer to the New Era.” I looked toward the dresser, and there were the two extra copies of the temple issue of the New Era. One copy was given to the daughter and the other to her parents. We reviewed them together.

The family said farewell, and once again the room was still. A prayer of gratitude came easily and, once more, the resolve to ever provide a place for prayer.

Rosario Saccone
Soft-spoken Rosario Saccone was elated when, in 1981, the missionaries first talked to him about the plan of salvation. He thought, “Finally! Someone who thinks like me.” Excitedly, he gathered his friends at the local pizzeria and had the missionaries explain the plan to them. (One of the those friends was later baptized.)
Rosario’s conversion did not go smoothly, however. At one point, he was going to call off the baptism. But the reassuring words that came from one of the missionaries struck Rosario so deeply that he knew they could only come from the heart of one inspired by God.
The situation nearly got out of hand when his large family learned of his impending baptism. The crying, pleading, and arguing that emanated from his family’s apartment drew the nine other families in their building into the discussion. At length, Rosario succeeded in calming the situation and convincing his mother that what he was about to do would not bring the family disgrace. Instead, it would make him better.
In time, his family came to know that he was right.
Rosario, who lives in Palermo, Sicily, has since served in the Italy Rome Mission and now is employed in microfilming birth, death, and marriage records for the Church’s Family History Department.

Grandma came to visit when Dad took Momma to the hospital to have the new baby. Since I’m the oldest, I knew I could help Grandma a lot. I showed her where the plates and glasses went and which blankie Susie needed for her nap. I told her that Annie preferred cheese sandwiches to peanut butter and jelly. I helped set the table and clean up the dirty dishes.
“Joshua, you are so helpful,” Grandma said.
After dinner, Grandma read stories from Susie and Annie’s fairy-tale books. Then she let me pick out some stories from my favorite dinosaur books.
“I never get tired of reading about brontosauruses, tyrannosauruses, and triceratops,” Grandma said. “And that reminds me of something.” Grandma walked over to her suitcase and opened it. She pulled out a fossil with the print of a leaf preserved in a rock. “I found this on the farm,” she said, handing it to me.
At bedtime, Grandma helped us read the scriptures before family prayer.
In the morning, Dad called to say he was bringing Momma and our new baby home. We all hurried to finish up our chores. My sisters and I stacked the toys in the toy box and washed and dried the dishes. Grandma mopped and vacuumed floors and finished folding the clothes she had washed.
We were getting tired after all our work. Grandma sat down on the bed and picked up a pillow to fluff it up. Suddenly the seam on one side of the pillow split open, and feathers scattered everywhere. Grandma tried to stuff the feathers back in, but they flew around her like a blizzard of snow. Susie and Annie squealed and ran through the storm of feathers. I forgot I was supposed to be helping and joined in, sending more feathers swirling across the floor.
Grandma grabbed a broom and dustpan, but sweeping only scattered the feathers more. Grandma sank into a chair and wiped her forehead with her handkerchief.
I stopped running and looked at Grandma. She had worked so hard, and now Momma would come home to a big mess. I stopped galloping around and told Susie and Annie we needed to help Grandma clean up. I found a large paper bag, and we started gathering up handfuls, but feathers still littered the room.
I got the vacuum and turned it on. Whoosh! The vacuum sucked up feathers like fall leaves swirling into a leaf catcher. Then my sisters and I went out on the porch and plucked feathers out of our hair.
Grandma looked relieved. “Thank you, Joshua,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
When Momma arrived home, we crowded around to hug her.
“Did the neighbors’ chickens escape from their henhouse?” she asked. “I saw a few feathers on the porch.”
Grandma and I looked at each other and laughed as we all went to meet the new baby brother Dad was holding in a bundle of blankets.

I tend to think I’m exempt from Christ’s divine help when I’m having a hard time. I sometimes think that He, a sinless and perfect Savior, could never understand what it’s like to struggle.
I remember especially feeling this way as a missionary. It took a big struggle for me to realize that Christ knows what it’s like to have a hard time.
I thought I was at the peak of my mission—I was training a new missionary, preparing for a baptism, and getting the hang of the whole missionary thing. I felt so happy.
But I didn’t recognize the stress and anxiety building up inside me.
I was lying down to sleep one night when I began spiraling into the second panic attack I’d ever had in my entire life—the first having occurred nine years previously. Nine years!
Why, after only a small period of anxiety as a child, was it suddenly resurfacing now?
I stubbornly tried to continue my mission as normal, thinking I could fix my own problems.
While I wrestled with my mental health, someone shared with me an insight they had while reading about the Savior’s experience in Gethsemane.
Jesus said, “My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death.” And then the Savior prayed, “O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Matthew 26:38–39).
Have you ever felt the heaviness of your own sorrow? Have you ever asked God, “Is there another way?”
In perfect willingness, perfect obedience, and perfect love, our Redeemer accepted the will of the Father. He was perfect because He was sinless, but He still felt pain, sorrow, and loneliness.
After all, He descended below all things—so He could lift us up.
Realizing that Jesus Christ perfectly understood what I was feeling as I struggled with anxiety, I finally allowed Him to help me carry my burdens.
My anxiety didn’t suddenly go away. I still had hard days. But being close to Christ gave me enduring joy anyway because I knew He was right there with me, saying, “I know. I know perfectly how you feel.”
During this experience, Christ became my closest confidant.

“Why should we even bother to put up the tree this year?” I muttered, pushing aside the packing boxes in the garage.
My sister, Mary, picked up a box of ornaments. “What’s Christmas without our tree?”
“What’s a Christmas tree without presents?” I countered.
Mary didn’t bother to answer. We all knew that the new house would be our only Christmas gift this year. Even the money we children would have spent on each other went into moving expenses. We lived on food storage and potatoes and looked forward to the raise Dad had been promised in January. We would each get a few small treats in our stockings but nothing under the tree.
When the tree was decorated, Mary and I stood back to admire our work. “I knew it would look great by that big window,” she said, smiling.
“There’s still a lot of empty space underneath it, though,” I pointed out gloomily.
I was still feeling gloomy as I prepared for bed that night. And to make matters worse, I couldn’t find my pajamas. Old and worn in the knees, they were nothing special to look at, but they were comfortable and warm, and I liked them. I looked in my dresser, under my bed, and in the hamper but couldn’t find them. Finally I gave up and put on a sweatsuit.
At school the next day, my new friend, Joan, was very excited. “Do you know what I want for Christmas this year?”
“What?” I asked without much enthusiasm.
“A new bike.”
“A new bike? What’s wrong with the one you have?” I had seen her bike. It had a bell on the handle and a big basket to carry her books in.
“It’s kind of bent from when I fell.” Joan frowned. “What’s wrong with you today, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.” Then I realized that nothing was exactly what was wrong with me. “I’m getting nothing for Christmas,” I explained.
“I’m sure you’ll get exactly what you want,” Joan said confidently.
When I came home from school that day, I was astonished to see a present under the tree. I blinked and looked closer, but it was still there. It was large and brightly wrapped—and it had my name on it!
I ran into the kitchen and found my mother looking through drawers and cupboards. “Mom,” I said breathlessly, “There’s a—” I stopped when I saw her troubled face.
“Have you seen my favorite paring knife?” she asked.
“The old one with the wooden handle? No.”
“I suppose I’ll have to use the newer knife,” Mom said with a sigh. “I like the old one because it fits my hand so well. I’ll be glad when I figure out a place for everything and everything stays in its place. By the way,” she continued, “did you know that there’s a present for you under the tree? I wonder where it came from.”
The next day at school, I told Joan about the present, and a girl named Barb overheard me. “Just one present?” she said. “There are dozens under our tree.”
Joan squeezed my hand and smiled. “I told you that you’d get exactly what you want,” she said.
A few days later, my brother, Mike, came home from ball practice looking discouraged.
“Hard practice?” Mom asked.
“No,” Mike said, “it isn’t that. I wanted to take my autographed basketball to show the team, and I couldn’t find it. I hope we didn’t lose it in the move.”
“I’m sure everything will show up when we finish unpacking the boxes,” Mom assured him.
I cheered up Mike by showing him the new present that had mysteriously appeared under the tree. This one had his name on it.
And so it went. Every few days another present appeared under the tree until there was something for everyone, even our dog. We could hardly wait for Christmas day to find out what was in those packages and who had given them to us.
Finally it was the last day of school before the holidays. My teacher was passing out candy canes, when Joan pulled me aside. “I got it!”
“Got what?”
“My new ten-speed. My parents hid something big in the attic, so it must be my bike.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You’re getting exactly what you want.”
“I hope so.” Joan suddenly looked worried. “Barb told me that she had a ten-speed once but didn’t like it very much. I think I’ll hang on to my old bike, just in case.”
On Christmas morning, my family hurried through breakfast. We could hardly wait to open our presents. We emptied our stockings first, oohing and aahing over each package of gum, candy bar, and dollar-store trinket. Each small gift was a lot more fun because of the large, bright packages still awaiting us.
When we had finished with our stockings and were seated around the tree, holding our mystery gifts, Dad gave the signal for the unwrapping to begin. Usually we took turns, but this time no one could wait. As I tore open the paper, I could hear cries of delight from all around.
“I’m so glad!” Mary said. “I really wanted this.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for this,” Mike said.
“This is perfect,” Dad said. “It’s just what I wanted.”
I opened my own gift box and glimpsed plaid flannel folded beneath tissue paper. Was it a new pair of pajamas to replace the pair I’d lost? I’d really like that. But as I lifted it from the box, I realized that it wasn’t a new pair of pajamas. It was something much better—my old pair!
I hugged the soft pajamas to me. I was so happy to see them again! Never before had I been so thrilled by a present.
“Who did this?” Mary asked.
I looked over and saw Mom smiling, her gift unopened on her lap. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” she said. “Did you all get exactly what you wanted this year?”
“You bet!” my brother said as he happily twirled his basketball on his finger.
“What did you get?” I asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Show us what you wanted for Christmas.”
Mom opened her box and held it out so that we could see what was inside.
“It’s empty.” Mike’s voice was sad. “You got nothing for Christmas.”
“Not really,” Mom said. “Because what I want most is what I already have.”
I felt the same way. I got nothing for Christmas—nothing new, that is. But I still got exactly what I wanted. And more. With a gift of nothing, my Mom taught me gratitude for everything I already had.
At lunch, after Dad and we three children searched and unpacked a zillion boxes, we gave Mom her old paring knife, wrapped in the biggest box we could find.

My grandma was the best giver. Her gifts were thoughtful, and every gift she wrapped was covered in beautiful paper with a coordinating bow tied perfectly with ribbon. Going to her home on Christmas morning was like walking into Santa’s workshop. Her gift was the gift you couldn’t wait to receive on Christmas and on every birthday as well. Even so, I don’t remember all the gifts she gave me. What was special was the way she gave them.
Late in 2016, Grandma was diagnosed with cancer. This woman who gave so well at Christmas would be in the hospital for her favorite holiday of the year. I started to worry about how that would affect Grandma, so I felt that I should call my mom and ask her how I could help Grandma with her gifts. Knowing Grandma, she would have made her Christmas plans ages ago and would be so disappointed not to carry them out. And indeed, Mom said Grandma had already bought the presents.
My grandpa gave us the task of wrapping and preparing the gifts for each of the thirteen grandkids and spouses, along with the gifts for more than twenty-seven great-grandkids. I carefully chose the gift bags, tissue paper, and envelopes.
I scanned a card from a previous year to remember their annual message: “Love Eternally, Grandma and Grandpa.” With Grandpa and Grandma’s permission, I did my best to re-create their message. I tried to wrap like Grandma did. I wanted everything to be perfect—to do it as she would have done.
When I was about halfway through the bags, glitter, and cards, the Spirit whispered to me, “This is part of what it means to take someone’s name upon you. This is part of what it means to do things in someone’s name.” In trying to give like Grandma, I was drawing closer to her. I started to think more about what it means to take Jesus Christ’s name upon us.
At baptism, I covenanted to take Jesus’s name upon me and to “always remember [H]im” (Moroni 4:3). Each week during the sacrament, I renew that covenant and begin again. I take that invitation more personally now. I understand better how taking Christ’s name upon us involves living as He would.
I knew how Grandma gave because I had been the recipient of her love and thoughtfulness so many times. I know how Heavenly Father and Jesus love and give because I constantly witness Their blessings in my life.
I am a recipient of Christ’s grace. I want to do what He would do. I want the life I live, the service I give, and the love I share to bear a resemblance to His—to feel as though it came from Him. I am grateful I had the opportunity to serve Grandma and, in doing so, to come to understand more deeply the gifts the Savior has given me.

As soon as the snow started to fall that day in January, I began listening for Jeremy. He was due back around 3:00 P.M., and I knew there wasn’t much chance of his plane being early. But every time I heard footsteps in the hall, I found myself watching for his head to poke through the door of our dorm room.
It wasn’t a question of missing him, although I guess I did. I can easily survive ten days without that skinny intellectual. The problem was, I was curious. Had his father shot him or not?
Jeremy was my roommate. The first day I walked into the dark cell that passes for our dorm room, Jeremy was sitting at his desk listening to classical music and reading a chemistry text as if it were a light novel. I hate classical music.
I walked in and set my luggage down on one of the two beds—the one that didn’t have crackers spilled on it. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand across the narrow room. “I’m Paul Jones. I guess we’re roommates.”
“Jeremy Kahn,” he said, taking my hand and crushing it in fragile-looking fingers that felt like steel cables. I have milked cows all my life. Consequently, I have strong hands. I squeezed back hard to teach him a lesson—and made no impression whatsoever. I retrieved my mangled hand, and he smiled.
“I guess you’ve heard about my abnormality,” he said.
I checked him out for signs of leprosy, but he seemed pretty much intact.
“I’m Jewish,” he said.
“Oh, I should have known,” I said. “You look Jewish. But believe me, we Mormons have the greatest respect for the Jewish people. In fact—”
“What do you mean I look Jewish. He was frowning now.
“Oh, well, you know, Curly hair, dark eyes …”
“Go ahead, why not say it—‘big nose!’”
“Well, you do have a big nose.”
“So, do all Christians have small noses? Yours is no beauty.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I offended you. There’s nothing wrong with looking Jewish.”
“There’s no such thing as looking Jewish,” he said. “I have Jewish friends with straight blond hair and blue eyes and pug noses.”
“So you look more Jewish than they do. You should be proud of it.”
He slammed down his chemistry book on the desk. “Stereotypes! You’re full of stereotypes. All you Mormons are!”
“Hey, watch it; that’s a stereotype!”
He looked at me for a moment as if deciding whether he should laugh or throw his book at me. Then he laughed. “I should warn you,” he said. “I’m going to be a problem.”
“Why are you going to be a problem?” I said. “Are you a genius or something? Do you practice black magic? You don’t look like much of a problem to me.”
“Actually I’m only a near-genius,” he said, “but I’m going to be a problem because you’re going to try to convert me to Mormonism, and I’m not going to convert.”
I held up my hands as if in shock and looked as innocent as I could. “Me try to convert you? Whatever gave you such a wild idea?”
“Because I’ve already had one guy in here mumbling something about the stick of Judah and the stick of Joseph. The dorm mother had to tell me that she was of the tribe of Ephraim before she would give me my sheets. And then a guy with a Bible surgically attached to his right hand came in and informed me that I would never be happy until I accepted Christ as my Savior. And I’ve only been here a half hour!”
“The gospel is very precious to us Mormons,” I said. “We feel that we should share it with others.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “And a Jew would make a really fine trophy, wouldn’t he? You could have my head mounted and hung over your desk. And another endangered species bites the dust.”
“You’re being a little oversensitive, aren’t you?” I said, beginning to unpack.
“Yeah? Well, I guess you don’t know much about Jews, do you? Or about being a minority.”
“Look, buddy,” I said, “I’ll admit I’ve never known much about Jews. Or Buddhists. Or nuclear technology. But that doesn’t mean any of them is bad. And while we’re on the subject, I might add that every human being is a minority of one. Nobody else knows your heart, your mind, your fears, or your hopes because they’re yours alone. So let’s not be Jew and Mormon this year. Let’s be me and you. We’ll never really know what it would be like to be each other, but we can compare.”
When I finished he began to applaud. “Bravo!” he said, with his already-familiar sarcastic smile. “Where do I send my 25 cents for additional copies?”
I was just about to get mad then, but he held up a skinny hand, and his face broke into a real smile. “Shalom, Paul,” he said. “The fact is, I liked your speech, and I accept the Jones doctrine of co-existence. I think we can be friends.”
Just then I noticed an old tennis shoe on my side of the room, “What’s that?” I said.
Jeremy observed it carefully. “It appears to be my tennis shoe,”
“Well what’s it doing on my side of the room?”
He sighed and picked it up. “Just my luck,” he said. “Ten thousand roommates to choose from, and I get Felix Unger.”
When I came back from the bathroom a few minutes later, he had made my bed. I thanked him, never suspecting that he had short-sheeted it.
That night as I sat on my innocent-looking bed, I pondered my fate. Jeremy had not really been as different as I had expected. I hadn’t seen him wear a skull cap, and there was no menorah in sight. He’d eaten everything on his plate at dinner and had spoken English all day. I knew there were different kinds of Judaism as there are different kinds of Christianity, and I assumed that whatever kind he was, he knew what he was doing. We didn’t talk about religion at all that day, though we were together a lot, buying books and eating in the cafeteria and reading countless bulletin boards. But as I sat on my bed exhausted just before midnight, I realized we’d reached a moment of truth. How do you pray under scrutiny?
I decided I’d better get used to it and slid off the bed to my knees. My head sagged to the mattress in its usual way as I took my usual deep breath and started my nightly mumble in the mind. But I felt eyes burning holes in my back. I wondered why Jeremy’s eyes could chastise me so painfully while knowing for all my 18 years that “angels above us are silent notes taking” had never made me bat an eye. I straightened up and began again.
It was a longer than usual prayer because there was a lot more to discuss here than there’d ever been back home. Then I got up with aching knees and sat on the bed to wind my alarm clock. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed as heavy feet tore past our door. There were voices coming from every direction. I guess it’s true that dorms just get going at midnight.
“That was a long prayer,” Jeremy said. “Did you really memorize all that?”
“We don’t memorize our prayers,” I said. “We just pray from the heart.”
“Makes sense,” he admitted. “That way you know you’re on the right page.”
With that mountain crossed, I threw back my covers and thrust my feet as far as they’d go into the bed—which was all of about 30 inches.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. “I thought Mormons slept kneeling.”
Much later I was scoring a lay-up for the Boston Celtics in overtime when something woke me up. I forced my eyes open wide enough to see Jeremy sitting on his bed in a warm-up suit, tying up his jogging shoes.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m putting on my prayer suit, can’t you see?”
“You’re what?”
“Look, Jones, you commune with the infinite by praying. I do it by jogging.”
I squinted at the clock. “It’s 5:45 A.M.,” I said.
“I know,” he said, going to the door. “I overslept.”
As the weeks went by, Jeremy and I discovered that we got along pretty well. For my part, once I got used to his dirty socks and used Bic pens being scattered on my side of the room, his 5:30 jogging schedule, and his devotion to classical music, I kind of liked the guy. Occasionally I had to challenge him to a game of one-on-one basketball to put him in his place, and it didn’t hurt my opinion of him that he could dribble behind his back and had a sweet jump shot from the top of the key. (Of course, he couldn’t afford to miss because I could outrebound him ten to one.) We talked (and argued) about a lot of things together, but the one thing we never talked about was his family. That surprised me because I had always heard that Jewish families were very close. I also made it a point not to preach religion to him, not yet anyway, knowing how he felt.
It was during general conference in October that things changed. During the Sunday morning session, which I was listening to on the radio in our room, he looked at me and asked, “Who are those guys you’re listening to?”
I explained General Authorities in about two sentences. He nodded and said, “That one talking now sounds just like my dad. If he were a General Authority, all he’d talk about is how Judaism’s dying out because of the rebellious young generation.”
“Does he really think it is?”
“He knows it is. In fact, it took me months to get him to say I could come to school here. He went crazy when we first talked about it. Said I’d turned my back on my heritage.”
That gave me a chance to bring up something I’d always wondered about. “Why did you come to school here?”
He laughed. “Because it was as far away from my father as I could get. I love him, but I needed to get away from him before he swallowed me up.”
Then I cleared my throat and really walked out on thin ice. “Jeremy, what do you think about your religion?”
He sat down and thought for a moment.
“I am a Jew,” he said. “Millions of people have suffered and died so that I could say that, and I’m not going to forget. I will always be a Jew. I’m more proud than I can say of being Jewish. But I’m talking about culture and tradition and heritage. When it comes to religion, well, I think it’s a good religion, like all the others. But bits and pieces of other religions I’ve run into make a lot of sense too. It seems to me that if dad would dare let me study religions and make my own decision, if Judaism is the only truth, I’d find out and be a better Jew. And if not … well, I don’t know, I’ve never considered that possibility. And then there’s Christ. It’s strange, but I find myself wishing it were true about him. It must be very comforting to believe in someone who loves you that much, even …” He was quiet for a moment. “And then there on the radio, all those men are saying stuff about faith and charity and morality, and it’s good stuff. Can’t some of it be right too? Of course, you think it is, and millions of others too, but my dad wouldn’t even listen. He’d condemn it in a minute. He misses a lot that way, I think.”
“Well, he’s not alone in that.”
“But if he’s wrong? What then? And if he’s right, what will become of all your little old men on the radio?”
I didn’t think I could say anything as effective as keeping my mouth shut, so I just sat back and let him think. In a minute he continued.
“It’s been bothering me for a while. I love my dad, and I love my heritage. For centuries my people have looked for a Messiah, and you Christians say he’s come. It would be so nice to surrender and stop looking. You Mormons paint such an attractive picture—eternal life after death with those we love, eternal progress. It would be nice to believe, easy almost. But we Jews have never taken the easy way. I’d rather stay out in the cold than come into a warmth that is only wishful thinking. My heart is divided in two. How am I supposed to put it back together?” He shifted his position at the desk. “Can you turn the radio up a bit? I guess I need to listen.”
Jeremy seemed to go into hiding during the next three days. He’d slip into our room late at night, sleep till around 6:00, and be gone again. I never saw him in his jogging outfit anymore, and he quit playing practical jokes. That worried me the most. If he wasn’t putting honey on the toilet seat or smearing shaving cream on the phone, he just wasn’t happy. Life had really gotten dull without all that. I assumed he was studying for midterms. He was premed, and his organic chemistry book alone weighed more than my mom’s Volkswagen. I thought I glimpsed him a couple of times going into the library, and once I was sure I saw him at the fourth floor reference desk, but by the time I got close, he had disappeared into a corner somewhere. I didn’t talk to him for almost a week until one day I came home from a ward football game to find him sitting on his bed reading a worn-looking paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. He jumped up, grabbed his sweater off the floor, and turned to leave.
“Hey, don’t leave,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all week. Is something wrong?”
He turned slowly from the half-opened door. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “Something is wrong. Everything is wrong! You and your Nephi and your little old men have ruined my life! I had a good life. I had a close family, a promising career, and not a complication in sight. And then you and your crummy Church came along and destroyed it all. Your stupid Book of Mormon is true and you know it! And you know what that all means, don’t you? Your whole crummy Church is true! Now I’ll have to get baptized and start being a Mormon. Don’t smile, Jones; it’s not funny. My dad’s going to kill me and then disown me. I’ll have no family or future or anything else. Sure, your family is forever. Now mine won’t even be for this life. It’s all your fault! What am I going to do?” He stared for almost a full minute at my speechless bewilderment. Then he flung the door open the rest of the way and was gone, the Book of Mormon clutched tightly like a life preserver in a drowning man’s hand.
A few weeks later I watched the water in the font close briefly over Jeremy’s head and open up again as he emerged grinning in his wet, white clothes. A few days after that I listened as he bore his first testimony from the stand.
Jeremy went home at Christmas to break the news to his family. He hadn’t known how to put it in a letter, and he couldn’t say it over the phone. So it was going to happen face to face, like David faced Goliath.
“But not till I’ve slept in my own bed once, and seen my nephews and my little sister, and had a chance to gather my valuables,” he said. “Because the minute it’s out, my dad is going to throw me out of the house.”
“Have a little faith, Jeremy. Think of the pioneers and all they went through.”
“I’m not going to have to think about it. I’m going to know how they felt because when my dad’s through with me, I’ll have to cross the plains on foot myself, if I can cross them at all. Do you know what disown means? Do you realize this will be the last time I’ll ever see my mother?”
I laughed. “Don’t overdramatize. You know it’s not true. Your dad might be a bit shocked, but he’ll get over it.”
“You don’t know my dad at all. He’s going to kill me. He keeps loaded guns in the house for just that purpose.”
“Would you shut up and get on the plane.”
“Take a good look at me. You’ll never see me alive again.”
And so I waited anxiously as 3:00 approached on the day of his return. I was excited to hear his story and anxious to find out how he stood with the father he both loved and feared. I wore a trail in the carpet as I paced and finally went out to shoot some baskets to pass the time. I returned at about 4:00, hoping he would be there.
He was. I grabbed him from behind as he bent over a drawer stuffing socks in a corner. He whirled in surprise and threw one arm around my neck in a wrestling hold. We went down and struggled on the floor until I knew I was beat.
“Uncle!” I choked, just before he pinned me.
Then he talked about skiing in New England and his friend Bernie at MIT and his nephew’s latest invention. I only heard half because I was listening beyond it all for something more. Finally I interrupted.
“And your dad, how was he?” Jeremy didn’t bat an eye. “Fine, he didn’t feel real good, because he always gets a cold about this time of year, but he was better toward the end and even went skating with us at Central Park. Did I tell you I saw my old girl friend? She’s married to a guy she …” He slowed down under my steady gaze and finally stopped.
“I didn’t tell them.”
The clock ticked. A girl laughed in the lounge far down the hall and around the corner. Jeremy’s eyes were trained on his shoes.
“Well, it’s your decision. But …”
“At least I’m still part of my family.”
“Are you really? You’re really part of a lie. They think you’re something you’re not.”
“If it makes them happy, why worry about it? Let them go on.”
“Go on living a religion you know isn’t the whole truth? Go on living without the blessings you could show them how to receive?”
He sighed. “I couldn’t. My mom would love me anyway because she’s my mom. And my sister and brothers would at least try to understand. But my father … you don’t know how he gets. He used to beat me. He used to have this belt. I love him, but he’s got this awful temper, and in his eyes, I’ve done worse than murder. I’ve betrayed him and my family and their God.”
My silence was deafening. He looked steadily at me. “I wanted to tell him,” he said. “But … you don’t know my father.”
I returned his steady gaze. “No, Jeremy, you don’t know my Father.”
“Your father?”
“My Heavenly Father.”
The snow piled against the window silently while we sat facing each other. I finally stood and left the room. I tried to watch the TV in the lounge for a while, but the silence of the still mostly empty halls bothered me. I wandered outside without my coat to the snack bar and idly ate a hamburger. I wandered up on campus until I realized how cold I was and how wet the snow had become. I tramped back to the dorm in the darkness, half expecting Jeremy to be gone. The light was off in our room, but I paused outside the door, thinking I heard a voice. I tried to discern who was speaking. The voice was too low to really hear, so I finally turned the knob and slid into the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dusk inside, I saw him just replacing the telephone in its cradle.
I couldn’t believe it. He was crying! He turned quickly away to hide his tears and then walked to the window.
“That was dad.”
There was a long pause, then, “I told him.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked his back.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said he didn’t know who I was and hung up. All I heard was the dial tone.”
The snow still fell as he stared at it.
“I listened to that dial tone for a long time. Finally a recording came on and said, ‘Please hang up.’ I couldn’t believe it.”
Suddenly he whirled and pounded his desk top so hard it rattled. “Why did I ever think I could make him understand? I’ve always been afraid of him. Now I’m not afraid; it just hurts. I didn’t know anything could hurt like this.”
School started again, and Jeremy got a job shoveling snow and doing winter maintenance on the lawn sprinklers. His parents never called anymore, and even though his mother still wrote sometimes, there was no word from his dad. Jeremy buried himself in his calculus and chemistry and, in general, wasn’t much fun anymore. They came around with a sign-up sheet for basketball intramurals, and we couldn’t get Jeremy to sign.
So I played alone.
It got suddenly warm in February for about a week. Jeremy was out maintaining sprinklers while I sat on the window ledge one day, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed as I drank in the warming air, pretending to read a history book. The mailman went past. I dragged myself inside again with a sigh and got ready for my only afternoon class. On the way out, I halfheartedly checked the mail.
The letter was unmistakably from Jeremy’s dad. The first. I laid it conspicuously on his pillow and hurried out.
When I ran into Jeremy in the cafeteria several hours later, I managed a casual “How’s your dad?”
“Okay.” He stirred his mashed potatoes.
“I saw he sent you a letter.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, is he still mad? What did he say?”
“Just asked how school was, said if I didn’t make it to med school he’d kill me, and said everybody’s fine at home. Just like nothing happened.”
“That’s all?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Basically.”
“Did he say anything about the Church?”
He shook his head.
“Well, at least he wrote.”
“Yes, he will always love me because I’m his son, not because he thinks I deserve to be loved.” He buttered a roll and went on, talking around a mouthful of peas. “It’s not enough that he has cooled down to the point where he’ll write to me again. I want more than that. I want to be able to talk to him again, to teach him the gospel.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“What I like about you, Jones, is how you avoid the facts.”
“You obviously don’t know him as well as you think. You never expected a letter, did you?”
“I sent him a Book of Mormon. He didn’t even mention it.”
“And he won’t. Until he believes it.”
“He’d have to read it first.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Ha!”
Three weeks followed with three letters. The night of the fourth letter, Jeremy showed up to play basketball with the ward team, and he was grinning. As we sat on the bench waiting to play, we finally got to talk.
“Did you see I got another letter? It was pretty much the normal I-am-fine, how-are-you stuff for the most part, but at the end he got down to business. He told me he has thought a lot about my ‘betrayal’ and thinks he understands.
“He says that the whole thing turns on the Messiah. As far as he’s concerned when the true Messiah comes, he can make whatever changes he wants, because his changes won’t reject Judaism but perfect it. The trick is to tell the true Messiah from the false ones.”
“That’s very profound,” I said. “Of course it is. It’s the same thing I told him in my last letter. Anyway, he says that although I’ve made a fool of myself, it took courage for me to become a Mormon knowing how he felt about it. In fact he compared it to Moses leaving Pharaoh’s court and David facing Goliath. I humbly agree with him.”
“Before you start writing a second book of Psalms,” I said, “ask yourself if David left his dirty socks on the floor.”
He ignored me and went on. “He says that when I get home this spring we’ll examine the evidence and argue it out man to man. Right now he’s reading the Book of Mormon so he can really tear it to shreds. Good luck, dad. Oh, and there was a P.S. too. He says that if I’m going to be a Mormon, I’d better be the best Mormon there is because I’m Solomon Kahn’s son and his honor is at stake.” He laughed. “I have a feeling that by the time I become a priest my first assignment may be to baptize my own dad. And then who knows? How do you think I’d look in a dark suit?”
I stifled a nasty remark about his looks in anything.
He bounced a basketball on the floor for a few moments and then looked at me. “You were right, Jones. I didn’t know either of my fathers very well. I thought it was all up to me.”
The whistle blew, and we ran onto the floor before I had time to answer.

Now it’s a few days after the grubbing—Saturday morning to be exact—and the Young Women of the ward are under London Bridge. They could be in the middle of an old English village, except that every gabled house is full of tourists buying trinkets. It’s the kind of place where there are no shops but plenty of shoppes. In the cool shadows of the water under an arch of the bridge, panhandler carp rise for handouts. Along the river quay there are paddleboats and canoes and aqua jets and motorboats for rent. For a half dollar a man will stamp a likeness of London Bridge on your penny. Art and clothing and curios are for sale. You can get snow cones and hamburgers and hot dogs and pretzels and nachos and pizzas, and just about anything else your heartburn desires. Houseboats and speedboats nose up to the docks. Swallows dart in and out under the bridge. The bridge itself is beautiful, arching away across the channel in great gray sweeps, solid as merry old England. It refuses to look out of place anywhere, even here where its out of placeness is beyond doubt.
But the girls have not come to sightsee. They’ve come to help a friend wash a bus. And this isn’t just any old bus. It’s an authentic London doubledecker, living out its latest incarnation as a fast-food stand. It belongs to a member of the Church, and washing it can be quite a chore for one person. So the girls have decided to help, especially since they plan on having some fun afterward. They do the work, and they do it well. They get each other wet, and they do that well too.
Meanwhile, the deacons and teachers are down the quay digging out grass from between cracks in the cement. It’s their way of helping to beautify their city’s most famous landmark.
When both jobs are finished, the whole group, joined by the priests, tries out the pedal boats. In and out under the bridge from sunshine to shadow to sunshine again they go, their orange life jackets shining in the spray of their pedaling like some frozen citrus treat.
But this is all just an appetizer for the beach party in the afternoon. They meet at State Beach on the island. There, amid palm trees, they play frisbee and volleyball and football and toss-the-leader-in-the-water. Jeff and Shaun and John even team up to recreate the original “Mormon connection” pass. Once again, the football slips through Shaun’s fingers. But just as before, there is a friend handy to back him up. John takes the pass and turns upfield.
He jukes a palm tree, sidesteps a picnic table, and outruns a garbage can. Sand spraying behind him, he sprints, free and strong, toward an unseen goal line.

While on a flight to Peru a few years ago, I was seated next to a self-proclaimed atheist. He asked me why I believe in God. In the delightful conversation that ensued, I told him that I believed in God because Joseph Smith saw Him—and then I added that my knowledge of God also came from personal, real spiritual experience. I shared my belief that “all things denote there is a God” and asked him how he believed the earth—this oasis of life in the vacuum of space—came into existence. He replied that, in his words, “the accident” could have happened over eons of time. When I explained how highly improbable it would be for an “accident” to produce such beauty and order, he was quiet for a time and then good-naturedly said, “You got me.” I asked if he would read the Book of Mormon. He said he would, so I sent him a copy.

Brother Ringger comes from Switzerland. His grandmother was touched by the missionaries a long, long time ago. His father was a man of great faith, a patriarch in the midst of his people, in a very literal way. Brother Hans Ringger has been a stake president among his people and a Regional Representative. He is a man of faith. His English may not be as polished as perhaps yours is. But there burns in his heart a deep, flaming conviction of the truth of this work. By profession, he is a distinguished architect in his native land. He has just retired as a full colonel from the Swiss Army. When I talked with him the other day about his leaving his business and consecrating himself to the work of the Lord and what it would entail, I looked into his strong face, and the tears began to well just a little. Then he said, “Of course, of course. If that’s what the Lord wishes, that’s what I want to do.”

I sat down and wrote the first few verses and laughed. And then I thought about Eric when he was six.
“Eric’s got a girl friend! Eric’s got a girl friend!” I remembered how Brad teased as he and Eric came home from school.
Eric was silent. I couldn’t detect a smile, a frown, anything on his cherubic face. He just ignored Brad totally and asked, “Can we eat breakfast sooner tomorrow, Mom? I want to go to school early.”
“Yes,” I answered. I was surprised at his coolness. “Yes, of course. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” He shook his head, smiled, and walked out the back door to play.
“See. I told you!” Brad confirmed.
I’m not a nosy mother—well, only a little nosy. I wanted to know why Eric went to school 15 minutes early and came home 15 minutes late for a week. But he volunteered nothing.
On Tuesday I had to return library books. I decided to go at 1:50 so I would be driving by the school at 2:20 when school was out.
I was late and had to drive almost home before I saw Eric. He was with a girl. From the back I could see she had long, blonde hair and a pretty dress. But something was different. She didn’t raise her left leg far from the sidewalk, and as I passed I could see her left arm was limp. Eric saw me. He grinned widely and waved. As I smiled back my eyes surveyed a beautiful little girl with an enchanting smile and blue eyes.
At dinner I decided it was time to be open about the whole thing. I wanted Eric to know it was acceptable to have lots of friends in the first grade—even if one was a girl.
“I saw your friend today, Eric. She’s pretty.”
“She’s nice,” he added.
“So that’s the reason you go to school early?” his father asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me about her. What’s her name? What does she took like?”
“Her name’s Jena. And she looks like … like … uh … like a girl.”
The family laughed. “She’s very pretty.” I explained. “She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile.”
“What’s wrong with her leg?” Brad asked innocently.
Eric bristled and raised his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with her leg.”
“Brad wasn’t being mean, Eric. She does have a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy, Eric. That doesn’t change her being pretty or nice.” I taught physically handicapped children and accepted the fact that everyone has limitations of some kind.
In early December I got a phone call.
“Is this Eric’s mother?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“This is Mrs. Hamilton. I’m Jena Hamilton’s mother.”
“Oh, yes. Hello!”
“I called because I wondered if you were aware of what Eric has been doing for us—I mean for Jena—but really it affects all of us.”
I was puzzled. “No, I suppose I don’t,” I replied honestly.
“Do you know Jena?”
“I saw her going home from school. She’s a very pretty girl.”
“Then you know she has a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy.”
“I see.”
“When we moved here last summer and I went to register her, the school said they wouldn’t accept her. Her learning isn’t impaired. It’s just a motor involvement, but they insisted the other children would taunt her until we would be sorry. They asked me to enroll her in a special school, but I insisted they let her try here. They were skeptical, but I was quite firm in my decision.”
“I understand your feelings.”
“When school started, it was just like they said. Some of the children wouldn’t stop yelling names and making fun of her. And no one would play with her. After the first week and a half of school, with her coming home in tears every day. Then a little miracle happened—Eric!”
“Eric?”
“He decided enough was enough. He asked Jena if he could play with her at recess. The boys laughed at him and called him names too. But he ignored them.”
“That’s not my Eric,” I thought.
“He walked home with Jena to the accompaniment of jeers. From that day on he has walked her to school, played with her at recess, and walked home with her. The third week of school some boys started throwing rocks at Jena. Eric challenged them to a ferocious fight if they didn’t stop.”
That’s my Eric. He was two inches shorter than anybody, but he was never afraid of a fight if it was necessary.
“I guess he said it so firmly they decided to leave her alone. Jena is doing so well now. Other children are playing with her, and no one seems to be paying attention to her problem.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“There’s more,” she continued. “Yesterday I stopped Eric out in front—I was so happy how things are going—and I said, ‘You’re such a nice boy! How did you ever get to be such a nice boy!’ It was a comment, not a question of course, but he spoke right up and said, ‘Our church teaches all the boys to be nice boys.’”
“Well, I was so surprised, I said, ‘And what church do you belong to, Eric?’
“And he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sometimes called the Mormon church. Would you like to have the missionaries?’ He’s quite a boy!”
Well, do you want the missionaries? I was hoping my voice would say. But it didn’t. “Yes, I guess he is. I really appreciate your calling me.”
Jena Hamilton didn’t need Eric much after that. They were friends, but he went back to playing with the boys and calling all girls “dumb.” In a year or so Jena moved, and we moved.
I looked down at the birthday card I was making. I decided not to write a verse about Eric when he was six. It was too special.

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana Larsen said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

I remember vividly an experience I had as a small boy. One day while playing with my friends, I accidentally broke a window in a store near our home. As the glass shattered and the security alarm blared, a paralyzing fear filled my heart and mind. I realized immediately I was doomed to spend the remainder of my life in prison. My parents eventually coaxed me out from a hiding place under my bed and helped me to make amends with the store owner. Fortunately, my jail sentence was commuted.
The fear I felt that day was overwhelming and real. You undoubtedly have experienced much greater feelings of dread after learning about a personal health challenge, discovering a family member in difficulty or danger, or observing disturbing world events. In such instances, the distressing emotion of fear arises because of impending danger, uncertainty, or pain and through experiences that are unexpected, sometimes sudden, and likely to produce a negative outcome.

It was Sunday, November 9, 1975, in Bountiful, Utah. The chapel was filled, and the doors into the overflow were opened. The echo of sliding chairs being set up in the cultural hall could be heard above the prelude music. It was because so many friends and family had come to rejoice with Elder Thorne in his sacred call from a prophet of the Lord—a call to serve for two years as a special witness for Christ to his brothers and sisters in Argentina. Just before the music stopped, Elder Thorne and his parents left the door where they had been shaking hands and made their way to the stand. All eyes were on them as they took the remaining seats just behind the pulpit. It was easy from where I sat to look over the audience and locate his proud grandmother and grandfather. This was an occasion for the entire family; they were all a part of this special event. His four younger brothers were smiling, probably because they would get to expand into Gale’s room as soon as he entered the mission home, or maybe because they anticipated how they would feel in just a few short years when they would respond to the call of a prophet.
In this setting I recalled the words of President Spencer W. Kimball:
“The gospel must go to all the world, to every creature, every clime, every people, every soul. It calls for an ‘all-out’ effort. This appeal is not for the rich nor for the poor, for the successful or the intelligentsia, but to every heart and mind in the world, to every corner of the earth. We are still far from our goal.”
This call to arms was given by a living prophet. He further stated, “We call for more missionaries, but we want more worthy missionaries and more able missionaries.” (Regional Representatives Seminar, October 2, 1975.)
I observed, in this large audience, an unusual number of young girls, many of them visitors to our ward. They brought with them the excitement and enthusiasm of youth. Their very presence added to the beauty and importance of the occasion. Among them I spotted the plain, the confident, the bashful; but common to each was the radiant, youthful expression of anticipation and commitment. I studied the expressions on the faces of several of these young women and followed their gaze resting upon Elder Thorne—the dark suit, the white shirt with the conservative tie, and the little-shorter-than-usual haircut.
The young women and young men in the audience represented a circle of friends bursting with pride and sharing the honor of one of their number. It was not hard to believe that in the heart of each one were the words, “I’ll go where you want me to go, and I’ll do what you want me to do.”
Since the girls were sitting in groups of twos and threes and fours, it appeared evident they were not competitors seeking the missionary’s attention. It was obvious that they too were part of the “all-out” effort spoken of by the prophet.
But what part did they play? What had their influence been in Elder Thorne’s preparation? In his closing remarks I began to sense the powerful influence friends had had on this young man who was spiritually mature beyond his years. After expressing gratitude for family and loved ones, and before his final testimony, he grasped the pulpit on either side and leaned forward. He dropped his head just a moment. Then, looking up, he quietly said, “And I give thanks to all my friends, especially you girls in the audience who have kept the standards and encouraged me to do the same.” His voice deepened as he continued, “Thank you for your influence that has helped me prepare for a mission.”
After the closing prayer there seemed to be a spontaneous gravitation as young men and women from all parts of the building quietly, with increasing power, moved forward until they encircled their young missionary friend. Without accompaniment their voices united in singing “God be with you till we meet again” like a prayer to heaven from the voices of living angels. The tears flowed freely from the eyes of these youth who had played a very vital part in helping to build a more worthy and a more able missionary.
In that moment I witnessed a power of love and support from friends that would serve as a reservoir of strength to each one of them in the days to come.
Leaving the chapel, I was driven by the desire to more fully understand how those young girls had been such a powerful part of the “all-out” effort. If it could be identified, it could be repeated over and over, and the results would be immeasurable. My search led me to many youth in many areas. The first responses were stated in a variety of ways, but the message was always the same.
“We don’t know what it is, but we can tell you what it isn’t.”
Tim said, “It isn’t just telling me that I ought to go on a mission, because I want to make that decision myself.”
After a few moments David, looking a little thoughtful, expressed himself this way: “Some girls say they won’t go with you if you don’t plan on going on a mission. It doesn’t seem to matter to some of them whether you are a good missionary or not, and that’s no help.”
Brent added, “A girl can talk to you about a mission, but when she starts to get close to a guy and influences him the wrong way, it is not what she says that counts.”
Bradley added, “A girl has a lot of influence, and if you like her, you try to do the things that impress her. If good things impress her, then that is what you try to do.”
In a tone of independence and conviction, David expressed these thoughts: “Some girls don’t even care if you go on a mission or not. I think they should care, but they shouldn’t try to force you, because when you are forced to do something, you just want to turn and go the other way. You want to use your own agency about something that important.”
It was Ross who said, “Occasionally I get the idea a girl is more concerned about what I ought to be doing than what she ought to be doing.”
Stan added, “If a girl is not willing to pay the price to do what she ought to be doing, then I think she is a hypocrite to be trying to tell me that I should go on a mission.”
Finally all of the comments about what it isn’t were expressed, and then, like nuggets of wisdom, I learned from many young men those truths that when understood and practiced by the young women of this church will be an influence of such power and magnitude as to affect for good every corner of this church and the entire world.
Young women of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, do the young men you associate with know that you have a standard of excellence from which you will not depart? Do they know by what you say and do that you honor and respect your parents and that you follow the counsel of the leaders of the Church? Do they know you will delay dating until after you are 16 because a prophet of the Lord has given that direction? By your actions do they know that you have made up your mind to be good and that you will not weaken? Can they look to your friendship to gain confidence and respect for themselves? Will your language, your dress, your choice of entertainment, music, books, and movies help the young men who associate with you develop admiration and respect for womanhood? As young men are exposed to the world’s distorted role of womanhood, can they see in you the refinement and sweetness that encourage an attitude of reverence, respect, and honor for that sacred calling?
Strange that I had not realized it before, but it is not as a young woman encourages a young man to go on a mission that her greatest influence is felt. Rather, it is through her actions as she reveals her commitment and testimony to the gospel of Jesus Christ and gives evidence through her power and influence in the advancement of good.
William George Jordan had this to say:
“Into the hands of every individual is given a marvelous power for good or evil—the silent, unconscious, unseen influence of his life. This is simply the constant radiation of what man really is, not what he pretends to be. … He can cultivate sweetness, calmness, trust, generosity, truth, justice, loyalty, nobility—make them vitally active in his character—and by these qualities he will constantly affect the world.” (As quoted by David O. McKay in April general conference, April 6, 1950, Improvement Era, May 1950, pp. 366–67.)
When a young man is encouraged by the example and testimony of his friends to do those things that are a magnification of his priesthood, preparation for a mission becomes one of those things. As a young woman begins to comprehend and accept her responsibility to her own mission in life, she becomes a powerful influence in the life of the young men who associate with her. They are encouraged by her example to attain their goals as she begins to prepare for her ultimate destiny.
Girls who are filling their own lives with righteousness, who are developing a taste for all that is good and wholesome, who are learning skills for successful womanhood and motherhood, radiate the light of God. Young men feel this light when they are in the presence of noble young women. The nobility within them is awakened. A yearning to be worthy to be the eternal companion of a noble daughter of God is kindled. Young men will stretch their lives to be equal to the greatness of the soul they feel within themselves. A mission will be one of the initial steps that can result from the influence of a girl whose own preparation causes her to radiate the light of God.
“That which is of God is light; and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.” (D&C 50:24.)
When a young man returns home from his mission, he can be assured that such a young woman will have kept pace with him spiritually, that she is prepared to receive inspiration, that she has progressed intellectually, socially, and has in every way prepared to stand as an eternal companion. She will sustain him, not drain him, so that together they come filled, ready to accept the further responsibilities the Lord has for those who love him and keep his commandments.
It was Sunday again, and another “more worthy and more able” missionary was responding to the call. I advanced my frequently asked question one more time, and Elder Snow, glancing warmly and respectfully at the young girl standing by his side, smiled and responded: “She never told me I should go on a mission. I just always knew it was important to her because everything about the Church is important to Jannie.”