Gospel Story Finder

When families join the Church, they receive great blessings. But when the Ning family was converted, the Church gained two future full-time native missionaries. Said Elder Ning Kong-lung, “If people first come to a knowledge of God, seek after his kingdom, develop faith in him, and obey his commandments, their lives will change. The Church gives us a method to obtain eternal life. When our family first joined the Church, it was tough. My brother and I were small. My mother had heart disease. I believe it was the most troubled period in my life. I know our family situation changed because my dad led us in obedience to the commandments.”
His mother has since passed away, and his father, who owns and manages a small noodle factory, is now a counselor in the district presidency.
“A change is taking place,” says Elder Ning. “Many of the young members have great enthusiasm to do missionary work. Before now most of the youth didn’t think about serving as missionaries—they thought it wasn’t their concern. As each branch has more missionaries called, the members within the branch are influenced.”

I shouted for joy. My whole high school must have heard. Other students stared at me, wondering what had made me shout, but I could not contain my delight when I saw my name on the list of students admitted to the Philippines’ premier university. I truly felt blessed.

When people learned that I would be attending the university, they looked at me in awe. In moments of reflection, I couldn’t help smiling. My future was set. I was very grateful to the Lord for helping me succeed in the qualifying examinations.

“Heavenly Father, I can’t go on a mission right now. There is so much for me here. Let me continue my studies. After I get my degree, I will go and proclaim Thy gospel.
“I need to continue studying, Father. I need this for my future.
“Thou knowest that I have tried to persuade the department head to grant me a leave of absence for two years. She would not allow it. She told me I had to apply for an honorable dismissal from the university if I choose to go.
“Heavenly Father, I can’t go on a mission right now. I need this for my future.”

My heart was heavy as I approached the office door of the college secretary. He would tell me that I was out of my mind, that I would be sacrificing a promising future. How could I explain to him that the Lord had called me?

“I am here to see the college secretary.”
“It is about applying for an honorable dismissal.”
“No, I am in good academic standing.”
“No, I have not been involved in any criminal offense.”
“The reason? I have received a call from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. I need to give up my studies at the university to serve the Lord.”
“No, the mission cannot be postponed, and I will serve for two years.”
“I know that means I cannot return.”

“What? I can apply for a leave of absence? My department head said that I had to leave the university because a leave of absence can be granted for only one year.”
“The university policy was recently changed? She must not have known that, nor did I.”
“Thank you very much.”

After I served in the Philippines Ilagan Mission from 2000 to 2002, I resumed my studies at the University of the Philippines in Quezon City and then transferred to Brigham Young University–Hawaii. I look forward to marrying and raising a family in the gospel.
The Lord would have us sacrifice everything to Him. That does not mean we cannot receive the desires of our heart. Sometimes He just wants to see if we will put Him first.

I recently read the account of a man who, just after the passing of his wife, opened her dresser drawer and found there an item of clothing she had purchased when they visited the eastern part of the United States nine years earlier. She had not worn it but was saving it for a special occasion. Now, of course, that occasion would never come.

In relating the experience to a friend, the husband said, “Don’t save something only for a special occasion. Every day in your life is a special occasion.”

That friend later said those words changed her life. They helped her to cease putting off the things most important to her. Said she: “Now I spend more time with my family. I use crystal glasses every day. I’ll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket if I feel like it. The words ‘someday’ and ‘one day’ are fading from my vocabulary. Now I take the time to call my relatives and closest friends. I’ve called old friends to make peace over past quarrels. I tell my family members how much I love them. I try not to delay or postpone anything that could bring laughter and joy into our lives. And each morning, I say to myself that this could be a special day. Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.”

I have a very funny kitten. She followed my grandpa home one day, and she has stayed with us since then. We call her Shadow because she is black.
Shadow always looks up. She jumps into the empty bathtub, looks up at the towels, then jumps up to pull one down. When she is outside and wants to come in, she looks up at the window in the door and jumps up and holds on to the window frame with her paws and looks in at us.
Sometimes I think Shadow believes she is a dog. She jumps out of a hiding place and lands on my dog; then they roll around on the ground and playfully chew on each other. When my dog grabs a stick, Shadow runs around, trying to catch it. They even eat out of the same bowl.
Shadow really loves to look up at my grandpa. He picks her up and pets her and tells her what a good kitty she is. I think she loves him in a special way because he found her. She was very tiny and sick when she followed him home. He took her to the animal doctor to get her some medicine. Grandpa made her a nice, warm bed in our house too.

At 11, I started studying the scriptures. As I would sit down and study the scriptures, I came upon the command that you must be baptized. Even though my family would go to revivals or to church on Easter Sunday, I knew I had never been baptized and I felt I needed to be.
I felt that when you were baptized, you were obliged to attend church with that specific congregation on Sixth Street or wherever. I had already visited all the churches in town, and there wasn’t one I wanted to belong to.
My father died when I was young, so there were just my mother, my brother, and my granddaddy. We would go to revivals during the summer as they traveled through our town. Most of the preachers were very forceful and domineering, and I was often frightened, until one preacher came who was kind of funny and rather entertaining.
I thought, “Well, if I have to be baptized to go to heaven, who would be better than this guy, because it’s a traveling revival and I won’t have to attend any church.” I had gone up and talked to the preacher, and he said he would baptize me on Saturday night.
It was the Friday night before at 9:25 P.M. I remember the exact time because I looked at the clock. It is still vivid in my mind. At 9:25 it was storming with a humdinger of an electrical storm like we get in North Carolina. It was lightning and thundering and raining. The trees were bent over, and it was dark. There came a knock on the door.
Mama, being a widow for so many years and very protective of her children, would never let strangers in the house. It was two young men in suits and trenchcoats, and she let them in. I remember it so distinctly, because I thought, “Who are these guys?” I thought Mama knew them.
She is very respectful of other people’s religions, so she made us come in and listen to them. I had never heard of Mormons before. I had never even heard the word. They started teaching us.
When I heard these two missionaries, I knew that what they were telling me was true. I had come to the conclusion that there was no true church and that’s why I was going to be baptized by the revival preacher. But after hearing the missionaries that Friday evening, I knew that they had something I was looking for, so I didn’t get baptized by the revival preacher the next day.
They taught us for a few weeks, and I really believed what they told me. But Mom was brought up in her religion and thought she was sinful thinking any other way. I don’t know if Mama asked them not to come back, or if the missionaries felt like they shouldn’t baptize an 11-year-old girl without her family, but they stopped coming.
I didn’t know where they had gone. I didn’t know where the church met or how to contact the missionaries. They had given me some books, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and The Doctrine and Covenants. I sat down and studied these books carefully.
By then I was in seventh grade. I remember my teacher wanted us to give a presentation on any subject we chose, and I picked Mormonism. I remember studying for it so hard. I then got up and gave my presentation in front of all the students and the faculty, and I wasn’t even a member of the Church. I think I answered every question correctly.
About a year and a half after the first missionaries visited us, another set of missionaries knocked on the door. My family wasn’t home, but they gave me a Book of Mormon. They said they would be back in a couple of days to see what I thought about it. I was baptized the next week and have hardly missed a Sunday since.
I remember that I wasn’t very comfortable at church for a while because I didn’t have my family to go with me. I knew the Church was true, so I gave myself a year to get comfortable and see how I fit. By the time that year was up, I never wanted to leave church. Mama used to say, “Honey, why don’t you come home once in a while.” Every opportunity I had, I was at church. I loved it there.
A sister in the ward came up to me, just before I left on my mission, and asked me, “What kept you coming back to church, every Sunday all by yourself.” I really couldn’t give her a direct answer, but something pushed me toward church every Sunday.
I don’t think it was coincidence that missionaries hocked on my door at 9:25 that night during a storm when missionaries are supposed to be in at 9:30. It was their last house, and with the storm they could have easily rationalized going home five minutes early. Those missionaries never knew that the 11-year-old girl listening in the background joined the Church and became a missionary herself.
That thought made me a better missionary. I would say to myself, “One more door. I was the last door, so one more door.”

Diana Nunes described one thing about the Spirit that everyone seemed to feel but hadn’t put into words. Diana remembered when she had been sent ahead to live with relatives and start school before the rest of her family moved to England. Her father had given her a blessing, promising her that she would have confidence while they were apart. Diana said, “When he finished the blessing, I knew that when I was feeling alone and no one, not even my parents, could help me, the Spirit would be there to comfort me.”

Nell was so excited she could hardly wait to change her Sunday clothes and run out to tell Dad what she had learned at conference. She didn’t even take time to put on her shoes, but ran barefoot across the dusty yard.
It was June 1899. There had been no rain in southern Utah for more than two years. The streams and even the wells around St. George had dried up. No crops could grow without water, and thousands of cattle had died on the range. Some of the families had already moved, and now Dad was also preparing to leave. Earlier that morning he had decided he was too busy packing the wagon to go to conference, even though President Lorenzo Snow had come all the way from Salt Lake City to talk to the people.
“Dad! Oh, Dad!” Nell called as she ran to him. “You can take our things out of the wagon. We don’t have to leave! In conference today President Snow said if the people will pay their tithing and plant their fields, the rains will come and we’ll have food.”
But Dad didn’t seem to understand. He just shook his head and sat down on the tongue of the wagon, staring out across the barren fields.
Dad had explained again and again that they could not live through another year without rain. There was very little food on their pantry shelves, and all the money that was left was the twenty dollars Grandfather had given to Nell.
Later that evening as Dad was washing up for dinner, Nell overheard him tell Mother they should all be ready to start at six the next morning. “We can make Thomson’s ranch by noon if we do,” he said.
The family sat down to a simple meal. No one spoke. Nell felt so sad she could hardly choke down the food. Finally she swallowed hard and said, “Grandfather once told me a story about how the people were blessed by doing exactly as Brigham Young asked them to do.”
Her father and mother stopped eating to listen as Nell continued, “When I said I wished I had lived then so I could have followed a prophet, Grandfather said that President Snow is our prophet today just like Brigham Young was then and that we should all follow him.”
After Nell finished telling the story, she asked Dad to take her precious twenty dollars. “You can give it to Bishop Thorne,” she explained, “to help bring rain to St. George!”
Early the next morning Nell looked out the window and saw a great cloud of dust blowing at the far end of the field. She dressed quickly and ran out across the dry ground.
When Dad saw her, he stopped the horses and held out his arms. Nell flew into them and he held her close. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here in time to help me plow the field and plant our seeds!”
During the hot dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George anxiously scanned the cloudless sky and sadly shook their heads. But neither Nell nor her father were at all surprised when on the second of August it began to rain.

I witnessed such an act of service one Sunday as I attended the sacrament meeting of a small branch which consisted of patients in a nursing home. Most of the members were elderly and somewhat incapacitated. During the meeting, a sister called out aloud, “I’m cold! I’m cold!” Without a moment’s hesitation, one of the priests at the sacrament table arose and walked over to this sister, removed his own suit coat, placed it around her shoulders, and then returned to his duties at the sacrament table.

After the meeting, this young man came to me and apologized for blessing the sacrament without his suit coat. Quietly I said to him that he was never more appropriately dressed than he was that day when a dear widow was uncomfortably cold and he provided the warmth she needed by placing his jacket around her shoulders. A simple act of kindness? Yes, but much more: a genuine love and concern for others.

Abby P., 12, of Utah, USA, has witnessed such respect and love firsthand as her family has mentored a refugee family from the Democratic Republic of the Congo that came to America after living in refugee camps in Burundi and Tanzania, Africa.
She’s also been impressed at how young women in her ward have rallied around four refugee teenagers.
“The family we’re friends with has a sister in high school and a younger brother, Alimasi M.; a sister; and a cousin, all in junior high,” Abby says. “We wanted them to be ready for school and for winter, so we organized some events to help them prepare.”
First was an opportunity for the refugees to meet young people their own age. Abby’s family organized a party “where we served food that you might see in Tanzania, like mshkaki [skewers of roasted meat and vegetables].” They also played games familiar to Americans, like tag. “Mostly we just introduced our refugee friends to everybody, so they could have friends when they started school,” Abby explains.
They also learned that their new friends had never experienced winter, so they organized a clothing drive to gather coats, boots, pants, and stockings. And they learned that the refugees’ younger brothers and sisters were homesick, “so we found some videos in French and Swahili [languages they understand] and put them on a flash drive so they could watch them with their siblings.”
When someone asks Abby why she helps refugees, she says, “They’re nice people, and they shouldn’t be left to suffer.” Then she shares the Bible story of Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with two-year-old Jesus to escape Herod’s soldiers, who were murdering innocent children (see Matthew 2:13–23).
“The Savior was a refugee, too,” Abby says. “I think He must have a soft spot in his heart for refugees.”

When my younger sister, Dania, was diagnosed with a rare disorder, I wanted to do something to help her. Turner Syndrome is a genetic disorder where a girl is missing one of her X chromosomes, and that results in short stature, possible heart problems, and other difficulties. My sister was 11 when she was diagnosed, and she sees this as a blessing in her life and a chance to help other girls who have this syndrome.
My mom and I brainstormed ideas on what I could do to help, and we decided to sponsor a run for a society to help those with Turner Syndrome. I didn’t know where to start, but I gathered a group of friends together who helped me find sponsors and to spread the word around the community.
The response from community members was great—so many people were willing to help out. The event turned out to be fun and lively, and everybody had an amazing time. There were 12 girls with Turner Syndrome at the run, as well as many Church and community members.
I met so many wonderful people and heard their stories; I saw these people through God’s eyes. I learned that we really develop a love for those whom we serve, and I know that “when [we] are in the service of [our] fellow beings [we] are only in the service of [our] God” (Mosiah 2:17).
Makaila E., California, USA

Burgon can’t really see much of anything. She has retinitis pigmentosa, a progressive loss of sight. And for a while Burgon couldn’t hear much. She had only five percent hearing in one ear. She was even preparing for a nearly silent future by learning tactile sign language, in which the signing is done in her hand.
But Burgon Jensen of Midvale, Utah, even with these two obstacles, is a fun, well-read, creative person. She loves to read and write in Braille, and she especially likes to write poetry. She loves to sculpt (yes, sculpt—she feels an object and then recreates it in clay). These days, her future is full of sounds and music because she has had a cochlear implant to help improve her hearing. These are just the beginning of a long list of things that Burgon does. She goes hiking and rock climbing with her family. She skis by following a guide’s instructions. She loves to go shopping, feeling pieces of clothing to determine if she wants to try it on. She is learning to cook and helps clean the house. But most of all, she has a funny sense of humor and a great attitude.
Burgon says, “I think attitude is such a big deal when you have challenges. You can be angry that you were given those challenges, or you can have a good attitude and say, like Nephi did, ‘I will go and do’ [Nephi 3:7], because I know that Heavenly Father is going to give me a way to do it.”

As a young man I had the opportunity to serve in the British Mission, which was a seminal, defining event in my life. The influence of a valiant mission president is one of the great miracles of the restored gospel. A few weeks ago I received a birthday card at Church headquarters from a woman I helped teach in Gloucester, England, many years ago. I had lost contact with her. She informed me that she and her husband are both very active members and have 6 children and 20 grandchildren, all born in the covenant. It may be the best birthday card I have ever received.

Let me illustrate this. One day when I was working on the standard plan temple, and it was about 4:00 in the afternoon; the manager of the Architecture and Engineering division came into my room and said to me: "Oh, by the way, I need the art glass design, for the temple windows, because I will be presenting it to members of the first presidency and the presiding bishopric at 11 a.m. tomorrow." He wished me good luck and left for the day. Can you imagine how, I felt as he walked away. Have you ever dealt with individuals like this? Interesting thing, I had no idea this was needed until just at that moment.

I worked about three or four hours on the design, but I could not come up with what, I felt, would be deserving of the Lord's Temple. I was in a panic and came to a point where I dropped to my knees and pleaded to my Heavenly Father that I needed his help, and that I had reached a limit on what I could do in such a short time. Now I debated about sharing this today because of the sacredness to me of this moment; however, I felt within my heart that I should share this.

As I was pouring my heart out to him, my mind was opened up and it was if the dews of Heaven came down upon me and pure thought poured into my mind and soul. I knew what the glass panels would look like and what the meaning would be. I closed my prayer and immediately began drawing what I had seen in my mind's eye. I spent a few hours putting together the presentation and placed the design on the manager's desk and left for home.

In the afternoon, the manager came in my office and said that they wanted to go ahead with the Art Glass Design. I indicated I was glad and if I had any doubt as I was thinking to myself what had happened the night before. Brothers and Sisters, I am not brilliant and I am not gifted, but the Lord, in such a short time, brought me up to the level I needed to be and at that moment.

It’s about 9:45 Sunday morning in Solo, 585 kilometers southeast of Indonesia’s capital city of Djakarta. Brother Suwarno leaves his home and gets on his bicycle. Three of his seven children get on the bicycle with him. Three other children balance on another bicycle pedaled by big brother Andi. They are going to Sunday School. After he has taught the Gospel Doctrine class, Brother Suwarno will attend priesthood meeting for ten minutes or so and then return home in time to bicycle his wife to sacrament meeting.

The children also had a special opportunity to make a rug that would be used in the temple’s cornerstone services. They first participated in a drawing contest for the rug’s design. From the winning designs, a lovely rug with six colorful panels was created. Each child was able to take a turn stitching a part of the rug. Their finished handiwork was exhibited at the temple during the cornerstone service.
The children will never forget their experience of making a rug for the dedication of the San Diego California Temple. That rug is now displayed in the children’s center inside the temple, where many will see their labor of love.

“This is it, Mark,” I say as I gaze out at the field strewn with hundreds of colorful eggs. “Next year we’ll be too old, so we have to win the prize basket today.”
“I know, Emily,” Mark answers, his grip tight on our basket, his body poised to bolt onto the field.
At the community egg hunt, we’re allowed to work in teams of two. My friend Mark and I have come close to winning before, but this year we have to win the prize basket. Besides the chocolate eggs and stuffed animals in it, there are a gift certificate to a video store, a bunch of CDs, two passes to that new amusement park—all kinds of great stuff.
And we’re going to do it, because this year, Mark and I are among the oldest, tallest, and fastest kids here. I know we can scoop up more eggs than anyone else.
Behind me I hear a woman saying, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to let her try this, Mike.”
I glance back and catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow skirt. She is with her parents and looks younger than me.
The flag goes down, and everyone goes tearing onto the field. Mark and I have planned out our strategy. We run past the kids stooping down to pick up the first eggs they come to. Instead, we head for the eggs beyond them. We grab eggs like crazy.
Mark and I have loaded our basket by the time the others have cleaned the front part of the field and start swarming into the area where we are. Even so, Mark and I continue to find a few eggs with the other children.
“You’re going to win,” one of the older boys groans when he sees our basket.
I smile. Yes, we’re going to win. I’m sure of it.
By now, the field has almost been picked clean of eggs. Mark and I start to recheck our chances of winning. We feel pretty confident.
Then I notice the girl in the yellow skirt walking slowly toward us. What is she doing? I wonder. She doesn’t have a partner, nor has she found a single egg. She holds her empty basket in one hand. Her other hand grips a long white stick tipped with red. She taps the stick to the ground and sweeps it in front of her as she walks as if she’s looking for something in the grass.
She can’t see! That’s why she has no eggs. Everyone ran out in front of her and grabbed every single egg, leaving none for her to find.
Why did she try this? I wonder. She couldn’t possibly beat us to eggs, let alone win.
Then I realize something. All I care about is finding the most eggs and winning the prize. But that girl doesn’t care a bit about the prize. She just wants to find eggs for the fun of it. And we’ve all taken that chance away from her.
I look over at Mark. He’s watching the girl, too. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows what I want to do. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. He wants to win.
But I step forward, lift an egg from our basket, and place it quietly in front of the girl. As her stick hits the egg with a satisfying clicking sound, she smiles. She bends over, gropes around for the egg, and finding it, places it in her basket.
I put down another egg. As she finds that one, Mark adds one to the grass. We both put out a couple more.
A little boy darts in front of me, heading for the eggs. I gently grab him before he can reach them. “No,” I whisper in his ear. “They’re hers.”
I know the girl will never have the most eggs—it takes her a long time to find them, and the hunt’s almost over. But at least she’ll have some. And the smile on her face shows how much fun she’s having.
The contest judge announces that the hunt is over, that we should bring all our baskets up to determine the winner. Mark and I go, but we know that we may have lost. We do lose by four eggs.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the woman who stood behind me earlier. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she mouths “Thank you” at me before she goes to admire the eggs in her daughter’s basket.
And then my mom’s there. “Emily, Mark,” she says. “I know how much you wanted that prize.”
I shrug. “It’s OK that we didn’t win.”
My mom puts her arms around our shoulders and squeezes. “But you two did win.”
She’s right. Even if our basket was totally empty right now, I think I would still feel like a winner, and I can tell that Mark feels that way, too. We wanted that prize basket. Instead, we’re taking home a wonderful feeling and the memory of a young girl’s smile. That’s the best prize of all.

Although I was born into the Church and was active through the age of 15, I wandered from the gospel during young adulthood. During that time, in search of something that could make me happy, I turned to drugs.
I struggled with an ever-increasing addiction, and my life felt like some sort of bad movie I could not turn off. Although I wanted to stop, I found I had hardly any control over my thoughts or actions. It wasn’t until I was serving a prison sentence for a drug-related crime that I found what I had lost. I had a copy of the Book of Mormon and came across Alma 5:7: “Behold, he changed their hearts; yea, he awakened them out of a deep sleep, and they awoke unto God. Behold, they were in the midst of darkness; nevertheless, their souls were illuminated by the light of the everlasting word.”
I knew I was in the midst of darkness, and I wanted to have my heart changed.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried changing before. I had participated in various recovery programs. I had tried quitting for myself and for my family. Those things all worked for a little while, but I always slipped. This verse in Alma offered me hope in Jesus Christ—hope that even if I didn’t have the power to change myself (and I knew I didn’t), He could change me.
I remember turning the burden of my addiction over to the Savior. I prayed and admitted to Heavenly Father, “I cannot do this on my own.”
I entered the LDS addiction recovery program, a 12-step class taught by two missionaries, a husband and wife. What they taught in that class saved me. They nurtured the seed of faith that had been planted many years earlier, when as a child I attended church with my mother. The missionaries taught me about repentance and forgiveness. More important, they showed me love and told me I could find even greater love from my Heavenly Father and Savior. I felt “a mighty change wrought in [my] heart” (Alma 5:12), and I found that the happiness I had so long been searching for had been in the gospel all along.
It has been six years since I decided to turn to my Savior. It has been a lot of hard work, but through the strength of the Lord, I have overcome many obstacles.
I never would have imagined the happiness and joy I now have in my life with my wife and children. I hold the Melchizedek Priesthood and have received temple ordinances. I attribute these positive life transformations to Jesus Christ. He is the power to change.
I testify to others who are struggling as I did—and to those who love them—that change is possible and that it’s very real. You need not give up hope. There is a way to return to happiness, and it is through Jesus Christ.

I was a boy during the Great Depression. I remember children wearing galoshes because they had no shoes and going hungry because they had no food. These were difficult times.
A bright light of hope shining amidst the gloom was Primary. I was 10 years old. I had a marvelous teacher. I look back upon that year as my finest in Primary, and I must say it was because of my wonderful teacher. It wasn’t because the boys in the class were particularly enlightened or unusually well behaved; on the contrary.
The laughter of the boys and the chatter of the girls at times must have been most disconcerting to our Primary leaders.
One day as we left the chapel for our classrooms, I noted that our Primary president remained behind. I paused and observed her. She sat all alone on the front row of the benches, took out her handkerchief, and began to weep. I walked up to her and said, “Sister Georgell, don’t cry.”
She said, “I’m sad.”
I responded, “What’s the matter?”
She said, “I can’t control the Trail Builders.* Will you help me?”
Of course I answered, “Yes.”
She said, “Oh, that would be wonderful, Tommy, if you would.”
What I didn’t know then is that I was one of those responsible for her tears. She had effectively enlisted me to aid in achieving reverence in our Primary. And we did.

At last it was the day before Christmas. Manuel’s mother smiled as she took the little box of Christmas money down from the shelf. “Do you know how much we have saved, Manuel?” she asked.
“Enough to buy a big fish for two people, I hope,” Manuel replied.
Manuel’s mother smiled, but then the smile quickly faded. “We have enough money to buy a big fish for four people,” she said softly. And Manuel knew she was thinking of his father, who was dead, and of his brother Tomás, who had been away in the army for many months.
Mamá smiled again as she wrapped all the coins in a handkerchief. “Manuel, my son,” she said, “since we only need a fish for two, there will also be enough pesos (money) to buy yourself a Christmas present. You have been wanting a pocketknife, no?”
Manuel’s heart soared at her words. He felt as he did when he chased the gulls in the sunny foam along the beach. “Thank you! Thank you, Mamá!” he shouted. “Feliz Navidad” (Merry Christmas)!”
“Feliz Navidad!” added a familiar voice behind him.
Manuel and his mother both jumped in surprise. “Tomás! Tomás!” shouted Manuel. And he ran to hug his brother.
“How did you manage to come home, mi hijo (my son)?” asked Mamá, her black eyes shining with sudden tears of happiness.
“I have been ill,” answered Tomás. “So I was given a little rest holiday. I have three more days.”
“Manuel, hurry!” said Mamá. “Go down to the central market and bring back our Christmas fish. This is truly a time to be joyful.”
Manuel took the knotted handkerchief from the table and ran down the cool dark hall to the door. Outside, his sandals smacked on the stones—slippety-slap, slippety-slap! Then suddenly Manuel stopped, for all at once he thought, If I buy a fish big enough for three people, there will not be enough pesos left for a knife. And I cannot buy a fish too little, or Tomás will not feel properly welcomed. What am I going to do?
When Manuel got to the marketplace, he had not yet decided. Silently, miserably, he drifted amid the cheerful crowd. He watched people buy bananas at the fruit seller’s, peppers at the vegetable stand, cookies at the bakery stall, and ribbons at the cloth vendor’s shop.
Finally he wandered down a narrow aisle and stood staring into the case where Señor Fernandez kept his pocketknives.
“Hola (hello), Manuel, are you thinking of buying that knife for Christmas?” asked Señor Fernandez. The shopkeeper knew just which one Manuel wanted because he had often let him hold it.
“I don’t know,” replied Manuel. Then he turned to look at the fish seller’s stall that was not far away. An old man was piling gleaming fish of all shapes and sizes in big tubs filled with ice. And as Manuel watched, the old man picked up a big fish from the basket he was unloading.
“Aayy!” he exclaimed in distress. “What kind of a fish is this? It looks like somebody stepped on the tail of this beautiful fish and now it is ruined. Some of its tail is gone. How can I sell a fish like this?”
Manuel knew what he could do. The fish had a good flavor, and it was a much bigger fish than he or his mother had ever planned to buy.
“Señor!” Manuel called as he ran to the fish vendor’s stall. “Señor, do not feed that fish to los gatos (the cats). I will buy it from you. I will give you ten pesos.”
“Ten pesos!” shouted the man. “Why this fish is worth three times that amount!”
“But you just said that it does not have all its tail,” replied Manuel. “And it is getting late. How many people will want a fish with only part of its tail on Christmas Eve?”
“Very well, very well,” grumbled the old man and he pushed the fish into Manuel’s bag.
After buying the fish, Manuel visited other stands in the market, where he bought several more fine things to eat. For once he had made up his mind to spend all the money on a real Christmas feast, he did not stop until it was gone.
The evening breeze had started to come in off the sea by the time he hurried up the sandy lane to his house.
“Manuel!” exclaimed his mother when he came inside. “Where have you been? I was getting worried.”
“Shopping, Mamá,” explained Manuel. “I had to get us a Christmas fish.”
“But what are all these other packages?” asked Tomás.
“You must open them and see,” answered Manuel. Then he watched while Tomás and Mamá, with much laughter and contentment, unwrapped his purchases. And Manuel felt his heart swell within him, like the times he watched the sun sink into the sea.
“Feliz Navidad,” he said softly, to no one in particular. “It is so good to be happy at Christmastime.”

During my first Christmas as a bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to earn enough money, but often she could not.
Raising three young boys by herself was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. I remember removing them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family and wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son, who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in amount, but remarkable relative to his modest income, of which I was well aware, I knew that this gift meant a sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons.
I also agreed to honor his request that his name be kept secret.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has kept this experience in my mind had yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews when I heard a soft knock on the office door. I opened it to see, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I think is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and that they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends and that he was sorry that one of the coins was of less value than the other two, so they could not be divided evenly between the three boys.
What lessons originated in that moment! A father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child obviously without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a quarrel with the boys who would soon be receiving his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to cover my now obvious tears and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is alright so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.