Gospel Story Finder

My wife, Jean, and I had prayed that October morning in 1986 that we would be led to someone we could influence for good. When I received the message that afternoon to visit a man about an insurance problem, I made no connection between the assignment and our prayer. But that is how I met Larry.
Early in our visit I learned that Larry had also knelt that day, asking Heavenly Father to send someone to help him. Larry had recently been arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol and had lost his driving privileges until he took a driving course. These humiliating events brought him to kneel at the end of his living room couch.
As we talked, a special relationship quickly developed between us. I discovered some interesting facts about Larry. He was 82 and a member of the Church, but he had not been active for 60 years. His wife had died three years earlier without joining the Church. He lived in my ward, but apparently no one knew he was a member. The ward had no record of him.
I lost no time in asking if he would like to go to church with my wife and me the next Sunday. He agreed. I explained that since he had lost his driving privileges, he had no need for insurance at the moment. I offered to drive him places when he needed a ride.
When we picked him up the following Sunday, Jean took an instant liking to him, as I had. Larry, who walked with a cane, had a noticeable limp, so he rose with difficulty when I introduced him in priesthood meeting. He surprised me by telling the brethren how grateful he was to be there. As we drove him home later, he commented that he had enjoyed the meetings and the people. He said he would like to go to church the next week.
Each time I visited him, I learned more about his life. He was born in Ephraim, Utah, and could remember being baptized as a boy. He had been ordained a deacon by his uncle. I reported this information to the bishop and asked that Larry’s Church records be requested from Salt Lake City. In the meantime, Jean and I received permission to teach Larry gospel lessons in his home.
He finished reading the Book of Mormon we gave him in what seemed record time. So I suggested he read it again because it would mean more the second time. We also gave him a Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price to aid his study.
We continued the lessons and took him to church with us for several weeks. Then one Sunday morning the bishop stopped Larry and me on our way to priesthood class and said, “Larry, we can’t find your records.” I made a lighthearted remark about his possibly needing to be rebaptized.
Something about the situation offended Larry. As we came out of the high priests group meeting, he looked me in the eye and said, “Don, I will never set foot in this church again. And when I make a promise like this, I keep it.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “The bishop doesn’t want me here and says I don’t belong here, and I won’t be back,” he added.
He wanted me to take him home. During the drive, I tried to explain that he must have misunderstood what the bishop meant. When Larry got out of the car, I asked if we could still give him a lesson that week; he said no. I was sick inside for several days.
Wanting to do something, I decided to call Church headquarters to check on Larry’s records. The record of his ordination as a deacon was located immediately, but the woman who helped me could not find his baptismal record. She told me to call back in two days. By then, she had also located the baptismal record and was sending a membership record to our ward.
I was elated! Now I had a reason to go see Larry. He was thrilled to receive the dates of his baptism and ordination and to renew our friendship. My hopes of helping him back into activity were rekindled.
About this time, Larry found he needed surgery to have his hip replaced. I asked him if he would like a priesthood blessing beforehand.
“What’s a blessing?” he asked.
I explained, and Larry said he would like one, so I called the bishop to help. The bishop pronounced the blessing. Larry has remarked many times since about the warm sensation that passed through his body and about the peaceful feeling that remained with him through his operation and quick recovery.
When he was released from the hospital, he convalesced at home, with daily visits from a home health-care nurse. I also visited him daily, as did others. Sisters from our ward brought in meals for a week.
During the three or four weeks of Larry’s recovery, we had ample opportunity to learn more of each other. Many times he expressed gratitude for the help given him. I learned of his strong love for the Church, for the bishop, and for the members who had visited him.
I could see that it was time to help Larry come back to Church meetings. He responded to my wife’s invitation and began attending. The test of his resolve came one weekend when Jean and I had to attend a stake conference out of town. I asked Larry if I could get someone to take him to church, and he replied, “No, I believe I’ll stay home this Sunday.” That was a disappointment! As soon as we returned, we visited him and learned that a neighbor had asked if he could take Larry to church that day. Larry had gone with him. Once again, the Spirit had intervened to help.
Larry’s experiences strengthened our testimonies as we saw the hand of God move in his life. This once-forgotten man was led out of darkness into light. He has said many times that since we met, he has never had a desire to have an alcoholic drink, even though drinking had been a long-standing habit for him.
Because Larry’s record had remained clean during the period his driver’s license was suspended, his driving privileges were restored without further action. After his license came in the mail, he told me, “You won’t have to pick me up for church. I’ll meet you there.”
Not long afterward, he was ordained a high priest. It seemed the right time to bring up the idea of going to the temple.
The temple, of course, had come up in the lessons we had taught in his home. One day I had taken Larry to the cemetery to retrieve some wreaths from the grave of his wife, Billie. I was surprised to see an engraving of the Salt Lake Temple on her headstone. He explained that although he had not been active in the Church at the time of her death, it had seemed to him then that the engraving of the temple “ought to be there.”
So when I raised the subject of taking him to the temple for his own endowment, it was gratifying but not surprising to hear him say, “Yes, I want to go.” I asked if he wanted me to talk to the bishop about preparing him to go. “No, Don,” he replied. “I believe I should start standing on my own. I’ll talk to the bishop Sunday.”
It was a beautiful summer morning when Jean and I picked Larry up for the drive to the Salt Lake Temple. We later learned that he had lived in Salt Lake City as a young man, had seen the temple many times, and had wished someday to go there. Once inside, he was awestruck by the ever-increasing beauty of each room. The kindness and love of the temple workers warmed him. “If heaven is like this,” he said later, “that is where I want to go.”
Larry has been an inspiration to me, and he moves me to be better. He is kind and caring and has a knack for complimenting people. He is a young man for his years, with a positive outlook. It has been a privilege to know him.

When our daughter was five years old, she had a battery-powered model car and loved to drive it around the house. One evening, she came to me and said, “Daddy, my car no longer drives. Could we get some gas from your car to put in it so it can drive again? Perhaps it needs gas like your car to drive.” I later observed that the battery power was down, so I said we would get it to drive in about an hour. With so much excitement, she said, “Yes! We will take it to the gas station.” I simply connected the battery to an electric source to charge, and after an hour she was able to drive the car, powered by the charged battery. She thereafter learned that it is important to always recharge the battery by connecting it to an electric source.

“Dear Dad,” I started the most important e-mail of my life. “Since Allie is about to turn eight, I was wondering if you would let all of us get baptized together.”
My brother, sisters, and I had known our entire lives that baptism was out of the picture until we turned 18. My father is not a Church member, and my mother has always hoped for the day when the entire family would be able to fully embrace the gospel.
That e-mail marked the first time I had gathered the courage to ask my father’s permission in a straightforward, sincere manner. I’d fasted and had so much hope that this would be the time he would agree. His answer of “no” followed by an explanation of his personal beliefs and why he felt so strongly about having us wait was disappointing.
Even though I was not a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I was an active participant. I had stood by as my friends were baptized at age eight. I missed the trips to the Idaho Falls Temple when others my age participated in baptisms for the dead. Although discouraged, I kept my faith and activity. I knew someday I, too, would enter the waters of baptism.
On January 25, 2008, I arrived home late after a school skiing trip. I was very tired and inattentive during family scripture time, only half-listening to my mother read from the Book of Mormon. Suddenly Mom’s voice said, “I talked to your dad today.” My ears perked up mildly because he had recently moved to the East Coast. She continued, “He has decided to let all of you get baptized.” I sat up on the couch and stared at my mother in disbelief.
One week later my siblings and I were each baptized by our maternal grandpa. He had not baptized his own children, and this was his first experience performing a baptism. Humbly, my grandpa took me by the hands as I was immersed in the water into an unbelievable moment. The next day my uncle confirmed me a member of the Church and I received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Later I joined the youth in my ward on a trip to the Idaho Falls Temple to do work for those who had also waited for baptism.
It took the same courage as before to contact my dad, this time by phone, and thank him for allowing me to be baptized. He gave me a quick but sincere “you’re welcome” as we moved on to talk about other things. Even though most of this conversation seemed a usual chat with my dad, I know this was one of the most special phone calls of my life.

“Dad is a twin and always shared things with his twin brother. His brother contracted rheumatic fever when they were in school and could not work, so when Dad worked, he would share his paycheck with his brother.”

The room was small. Mirrored darkly in the panes of a tall china closet, it seemed even smaller. The deep afternoon hinted of spice, cedar, and old wool. The creak of a rocking chair and the ticking of a clock seemed quieter than mere silence.
Serious young men in the uniforms of two wars, flanked by snapshots of lacy babies and an embroidered rose, looked down out of their gilded frames onto a couch overflowing with pillows. The room was full of time-worn furniture and the dainty odds and ends a woman can accumulate in a lifetime.
Two windows spread sunlight through white curtains covered with moving leaf-shadows, highlighting here a ceramic ballerina on her crocheted doily, there a white pin jar, elsewhere a flight of plaster angels flapping up one wall toward a high ceiling.
In the best light a white-haired lady sat working, her knitting on her lap. She hummed softly to herself and glanced from time to time at the hands of the clock. When the door chimes sounded, she soon had the door open. “Come in,” she said warmly to the three smiling girls who stood outside, “I’ve been expecting you.”
Inside the house of the white curtains, the three young ladies complimented their hostess on her hand-painted china, broke the ice with a little small talk, and again explained their mission. Soon the tape recorder was set up, one young lady had her pen poised above a notebook ready to take notes, and the good sister started talking about her girlhood and her life. On the rare occasions when she ran dry momentarily, the girls were ready with well-conceived questions to start the flow again.
As they listened and the cassette turned, a wonderful thing happened. Years blurred and ran together, and the Laurels were no longer in the little house of sunlight and painted china. They were in Heber City, Utah, around the turn of the century, seeing life through the eyes of a young Mormon girl. They knew the bitterness of the winters, the headiness of mountain springs, the crushes, hopes, and secrets of being young. They met and loved all the old forgotten people, old and forgotten no more, who had filled a girl’s childhood. They visited a sawmill on the Utah-Wyoming border where she had spent some summers and smelled the sweetness of clean-sawed pine. They lived with her her first time away from home.
“It’s an awful thing to be homesick,” she said, closing her eyes and remembering, but with a smile. And then, in the present again for a moment, she leaned forward and asked, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Have you girls ever been homesick?”
Suddenly there was no generation gap—no time barrier between Utah then and California now—as the girls realized more fully than ever that people don’t stop being people just because they grow old. They forgot all about tape recorders and oral history for a while and talked friend to friend about homesickness, and family, and love, and all the other things that never stop mattering, and for a moment they glimpsed a more eternal perspective of existence and saw time as the sham it is.

Our Sunday School class of 13-year-olds was not exactly known for our reverence. However, we had a wonderful teacher who tried her best to teach each lesson by the Spirit. One such lesson was on reading the scriptures.
At the end of the lesson she gave us a challenge. It was meant for all of us, but for some reason she looked directly at me as she said, “I challenge you to read from the Book of Mormon every single day!” I thought to myself, “I will show you. I will do it!”
I began 1 Nephi chapter 1 that very night and continued reading every day. I probably did not have a proper attitude when I began, but over time I began to like the way reading the Book of Mormon made me feel. Reading each night became an enjoyable habit.
Months later I came to Alma 32 and was impressed by the idea of a faith experiment. In school we had just learned about conducting scientific experiments, so I kneeled down and told Heavenly Father that I was beginning the experiment. I asked that I would come to know whether the Book of Mormon was true.
In hindsight, I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayers many times. Reading daily from the Book of Mormon gave me increased capacity to overcome evil. I felt closer to my Father in Heaven. I felt strengthened by the power of the Holy Ghost to overcome obstacles. What Alma said about experimenting with God’s word is true: “It beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me” (Alma 32:28).

I will forever remember the day a child new to our neighborhood knocked on our door and asked if our children could come out to play. I explained to him, as to others young and old, for the thousandth time, that we didn’t have any children. This little boy squinted his innocent face in a quizzical look and asked the question that I had not dared put into words, “If you are not a mother, then what are you?”

One day my little brother’s friend was at our house. He asked who the picture of Jesus was in my room. He asked if it was Heavenly Father. My brother and I told him it was Jesus. This friend said that Heavenly Father and Jesus were the same person. We told him that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were three different people. I was glad we shared a little bit of the gospel with him.
Taelor and Owen T., ages 10 and 7, Idaho, USA

I learned how Nephi made a boat (February 2020), so I wanted to make one myself to understand how Nephi felt. At first it was difficult, but I learned to not give up and to trust the Lord as Nephi did.
Ian D., age 9, Veracruz, Mexico

Several years ago we were returning home to the East Coast of the United States from a summer trip to Utah. Our family van started to “hiccup” somewhere in Missouri, and it got worse as we drove into Tennessee. Finally, climbing the hill leaving Chattanooga late that night, the motor died.
As we sat in the dark, wondering what we could do, it occurred to me that this was a great time for our entire family to unite in a prayer of faith. My wife and I calmed our four children and invited them to exercise their faith as we prayed.
Immediately after the prayer, the van started and we continued up the hill. But within a mile it started running badly again. We took the first exit, thinking we would find a motel room for the night. But despite checking with four different motels, we couldn’t find a vacancy.
We returned to the freeway and soon came to an exit that didn’t look like it would have any motels, but something whispered to me to take that exit. I did, but I could see nothing that I thought would help solve our problem. The exit led to a four-lane highway, and we quickly came to a stoplight. I was desperately wondering what I could do for my family in our predicament.
Suddenly my wife pointed out a sandwich shop that was still open on a side road and suggested we stop and get the kids something to eat. I pulled up to the shop, gave our oldest son some money, and sent the other children in with him while my wife and I sat and pondered.
We were tired. We had been traveling since 5:00 that morning, and it was now close to 9:00 p.m. I started asking questions in my heart about why our prayer hadn’t worked and why all our efforts to live the gospel didn’t seem to be having an effect for us in our time of need, when suddenly it came to me that something just wasn’t right.
I looked up and realized that the sandwich shop’s outside light wasn’t turned on. “How did you spot this shop?” I asked my wife. “Was there a sign out by the highway?” She said no, that she had had a sudden impulse to turn her head to the right, and there it was.
I nodded, my mind racing, and quickly summed up. We were trying to live the gospel, raise our children right, be faithful in our callings; we had prayed in faith, followed a prompting, and here we were. It came to me then that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. We just hadn’t figured out what the Lord had for us here.
And then I knew. Somebody must be here who could help us. I looked into the sandwich shop, and in the first booth was a young family. From my seat in the van I could tell that the father had grease stains on his hands.
I got out of the car, walked into the shop, and approached the family. “Are you an auto mechanic?” I asked.
Surprised, he answered, “Yes.”
I explained my problem, and his wife turned to him and said, “That’s just what my car did last week!” He told me what to do to get my car running well enough to reach Atlanta that night. There we had the car repaired and then made it home no worse for wear.
Our children learned that night—and I did too—that faithful prayer does work, but often you have to trust in the Spirit to help you understand the answer.

What do the students think of your accent?
“I thought the accents down here were kind of funny at first, but then they told me I was the one with the weird voice. I sat by this boy in art the first day, and he made fun of me for rolling my r’s and for holding onto my words too long. The people here talk so fast I couldn’t understand them at first. I had a date with a boy, and he couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand him. We really had a communication problem, but it was fun.”

Tomás looked at the money in his hand and sighed. Two hundred pesos—not nearly enough. There were three fifty-peso pieces, two twenty-peso pieces, and one of the five-sided coins that Tomás called “cuadrados (squares).” The ten-peso coin wasn’t really square, of course, but Tomás liked the way the word sounded. He looked around him. The streets were almost empty now; soon it would be dark. With another sigh, Tomás picked up his shoeshine box and started home.
It was 1985, and Tomás lived in Santa Maria, a small town in northern Mexico. Every day after school, he walked up and down the dusty, unpaved streets looking for shoes to shine or odd jobs to do. He had to help his mother; his father had been killed two years ago in an accident at work. Tomás had four sisters and a brother, and his mother didn’t make enough money doing washing and sewing to feed everyone. But Tomás never complained. He was proud to be considered the man of the house at such an early age!
“Hola (hello), Tomás.” Doña Eva was standing beside her gate, holding a soda bottle. “Will you do me a favor? Anda (go) and bring me a drink from the store. You may keep the change, but please don’t be too long—I am very thirsty.”
Tomás put down his box and took the bottle. “I’ll be right back,” he called as he raced down the street.
Most of the adobe houses were dark. Santa Maria was so small that only the school and one store had electricity. Most of Santa Maria’s people didn’t even want electric lights. Here and there, oil lamps made strange, dancing shapes on the street.
Tomás was almost at the store when he stopped in astonishment. Two huge, shiny trucks were in the tiny plaza. Surrounding the trucks were villagers, some of them with armloads of clothing or blankets. With surprise, Tomás saw his own mother handing a brightly colored serape to a man in the truck. The long, narrow blanket was his mother’s favorite, a gift to her from his father. “Mamá! What are you doing?” he cried, running over to her.
“Remember how we heard of a great earthquake farther south? There are many who have lost both loved ones and homes. I cannot give much, but I want to send something that will help.”
“But you love that serape! Papá …”
Tomás’s mother smiled. “Your father would want to give something, Tomás. And I love my sisters and brothers too. Remember that as children of God, we are all family, hijo (son). I want to send a little love and comfort to someone who needs it more right now.” She saw the soda bottle. “That must be for Doña Eva,” she said. “She’s always impatient for her soda, Tomás. Run; do your errand for her.”
Tomás did as he was told, but not happily. He felt guilty about his very selfish thoughts, but he couldn’t help them. “How can anyone have less than we do?” he asked himself. “My mother never has anything new. We eat only beans and tortillas. Someday I will have much money, and then I will give. Not now!”
In the store, Tomás paid for the soft drink. He counted his change to be sure it was right. He was very proud of his reputation for integrity.
“Send Tomás,” Doña Eva always said when someone needed an errand run. “He’s a good, honest boy.” Remembering that the change was his, Tomás carefully put it into his empty pocket. He was about to go, when he noticed the newspaper on the store counter.
There were pictures of the earthquake damage—fallen buildings and huge cracks in the streets. In one corner was a picture of a tiny child. Tears filled Tomás’s eyes as he read the caption: Brave Boy Loses Life to Save Baby Sister. Tomás thought of his younger brother and sisters. They were noisy little pests, but he was glad that they were there, filling the small house with happiness. Tonight he would tell them that he loved them!
When Tomás passed the plaza again, all the villagers were gone. The trucks were still parked there, and Tomás stared at them. The coins in his pocket were heavy and cold. He had planned to put aside ten percent of his money for tithing, a few pesos for his savings, and give the rest to his mother. The money was important to his family, and it wasn’t enough to help anyone, anyway.
He couldn’t forget the picture in the paper, though. Why had he looked at it? But his mother was right—he had a lot. He had her, his brother, and his sisters. Tomás smiled a little. He even had dreams, big dreams. What was it his father used to say? “If you have dreams, and if you have faith, you have much.” He turned and walked back to the nearest truck. “It’s only a few pesos,” he said, holding out all except his tithing money.
The man took the coins and smiled at Tomás. “Thanks, son. It’s more than you know. There are people in need of medicine, even babies without food. Believe me, every peso will help someone live. Thank you!”
Tomás thought of the baby in the picture. Maybe his money would help her. But the important thing was that it would help someone. He said good-bye and hurried on toward Doña Eva’s house. “Thank Thee, Father, for giving me so much!” he prayed aloud.

In Paraguay, Uruguay, Chile, and Argentina, Elder Gerrit W. Gong shared principles from the scriptures and from the teachings of President Nelson—including themes of ministering, staying on the covenant path, personal revelation, proper use of the name of the Church, and using the gospel to find answers and overcome challenges and obstacles.

Soon my 12th birthday came. I was ordained a deacon. Around this time, my family moved to Madison, Wisconsin, USA. I missed my friends but wanted to make new ones. Madison was much bigger than Manti. My new school was large. There weren’t many members of the Church. One day some popular kids invited me to a party. But the party was on the same night as a Church activity. I had learned from my experience in Primary that good things happen when I am faithful in attending my Church meetings. So I thanked them for inviting me and explained why I couldn’t come.
I am glad I went to the Church activity. The next day, everyone at school was talking about the party. Some kids had been drinking alcohol, they had damaged some furniture, and everyone who went got in a lot of trouble! I was so grateful that I had been where I needed to be.

It’s amazing how the Lord works. I had been going through a phase in my life where I had no self-worth, thought I was ugly, and didn’t think I had any talent. When the April New Era came, I sat down to have lunch and decided to read it while I ate. I flipped through the pages to Q&A, because that is the first thing I read. There was my answer. The Lord had sent it to me through the New Era, because He knew I always read it. Thank you for doing such a good job on the New Era. It is surely an inspired work of the Church.Name withheld

5. Kirsten is one who seems to be able to eat all she wants without a worry. She can wear anything she likes too—she can, that is, unless she minds looking like a football player, just another of this year’s bulky, shoulder-pad fashions.

5. Kirsten looks more feminine now with her ruffled sleeve.

When Marcus Martins and his wife, Mirian, received their calling to the Brazil São Paulo North Mission, the Laie, Hawaii, USA, residents were counseled by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles that there would have to be sacrifice, but he told them not to sacrifice too much.
The Martins went home and prayed to know how they could afford to accept this opportunity. They sold everything. “The blessing—we sold everything in one day,” Sister Martins said. “It was a miracle for us.”

If we see life through the lens of spirituality, we can see many examples of the works of God being furthered through the adversities of His children. I often visit the American War Memorial in Manila. To me, that is a sacred place. It is the burial place of over 17,000 soldiers, sailors, and airmen who lost their lives in World War II battles in the Pacific. The memorial also honors over 36,000 other servicemen who also lost their lives but whose bodies were never recovered. As I walk past the beautiful walls where are inscribed their names and the state of their origin, I see many that I suppose were faithful Latter-day Saints.
Reflecting on the wartime deaths of so many worthy and wonderful members and how much suffering this has caused their loved ones, I have thought of President Joseph F. Smith’s great vision recorded in the 138th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. He saw “an innumerable company” of righteous spirits, “who had been faithful in the testimony of Jesus while they lived in mortality” (D&C 138:12). They were organized and appointed as messengers, “clothed with power and authority, and commissioned … to go forth and carry the light of the gospel to them that were in darkness, … and thus was the gospel preached to the dead” (D&C 138:30). Reflecting on this revelation and remembering the millions who have fallen in war, I rejoice in the Lord’s plan, in which the adversity of the deaths of many righteous individuals is turned into the blessing of righteous messengers to preach the gospel to their countless comrades-in-arms.

In the Philippines, a man who had seen the Church grow quickly with very young leadership, responded when called, “Oh no, not me. I am too old.” When it was pointed out that some members of the Twelve were three decades older than he, he accepted and served very well.

Mr. Henry lived alone in a small house. He hardly ever went anywhere and he didn’t talk to many people because he really didn’t have any friends. He thought people didn’t like him. Every day he tended his garden in back of the house and his apple trees in front. Everyone knew that Mr. Henry grew the most beautiful apples in town.
On warm summer evenings Mr. Henry sat on his porch watching people go by. But most of the time no one stopped to visit the lonely man.
In the winter he sat by the fire and thought about the way his mother used to surprise him with treats on holidays. He remembered how happy he was when someone gave him a nice surprise. But now there was no one to give him anything and Mr. Henry was sad.
On Valentine’s Day, however, an idea came to him. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it, so he hurried out to his storehouse. He gathered up some of his juicy red apples, picking out only the best he could find, and put them into sacks. He chose some of the odd-shaped ones that looked almost like big hearts.
Carefully, he rubbed and polished each apple until they all were bright and shiny. Then after dark he took the sacks and left one on the doorstep of every house on the street. On each sack he wrote this message: Happy Valentine’s Day—A Friend.
When the last sack of apples was delivered, Mr. Henry went home with a good feeling inside. “They’ll never know who did it,” he told himself as he climbed into bed. “But that’s the fun of it!” Soon he drifted off to sleep.
Now, a curious thing happened after that night. When people walked by his house they would stop and say, “Hello, Mr. Henry,” or “Nice day, Mr. Henry.” And one Sunday, Mrs. Corey brought him a piece of chocolate cake.
“I wonder how they knew?” Mr. Henry asked himself. “It’s strange how sharing a few apples can change a person’s life.”
When Valentine’s Day came the next year, Mr. Henry took apples to his neighbors again, and the next year, and the next. In fact, he took apples to his friends every year.
Now each fall the children come and help him pick his apples. It is fun for them to pretend they don’t know who leaves apples in sacks at their homes on Valentine’s Day. And Mr. Henry is happy too. Everyone in the whole neighborhood has somehow become his friend.