Gospel Story Finder

When I was not yet 30 years of age, I was called to be the bishop of my ward. One of the members of my ward was a wonderful, elderly widow who was living with her daughter’s family. I had a special relationship with this dear widow.

On one evening in the wintertime I had left the bishop’s office and was on my way home. It was about 10 o’clock at night. I had a strong impression to go visit my special friend. I looked at my watch and said to myself, “It is too late. It is snowing. I will go see her first thing in the morning.” I went to bed and, as you would suspect, had a hard time getting to sleep.

Early the next morning I went to see this dear sister. Her daughter came to the door, and I could see that she had been crying. She greeted me with these words: “Oh, Bishop, thank you for coming. Mother passed away two hours ago.”

Now, can you see this picture? Here I am on the doorstep, and of all the people in my ward who deserved to have her bishop hold her hand and give her a blessing of peace and comfort, it was this dear sister. I missed that opportunity because I didn’t listen. I reasoned away this strong prompting from the Spirit.

I share these two examples with you graduates of not responding to the promptings of the Spirit because these experiences have taught me to pay attention to the Spirit and to respond without argument. Learn to know when you are being prompted to do something. It may be a simple, small thing, like sending a note to someone or making a phone call to someone in need. Learning this will serve you well all the days of your life.

Henry
Like Sister Eyring, I feel an eternal debt to my parents. That is particularly so of my mother. I was born when she just 21. Within nine years, she was the mother of four headstrong sons, who adored her but were a handful to manage. Then came a period of nine years of pregnancy miscarriages and grieving. When her youngest son, John, began the first grade, Mother filled her daytime hours with private ministering. She also wrote several children’s books, one of which won a state-wide award. But she put her writing aside with the births of two wonderful daughters. When I asked why, she solemnly replied, “More important things came along.”

As I have reflected back to when I was your age, I remember being a new missionary serving in England. My companion and I had the opportunity to go to the temple. We arrived late in the evening. Early the next morning after study and prayer, we crossed the temple grounds. The temple president, Selwyn Boyer, was a very dignified man with white hair. He had come out of the temple and was walking towards us. He looked at us and seeing our missionary badges pointed his finger at us and said: “Matthew 5:48, do you know that scripture?” My senior companion stated, “Be ye therefore perfect even as your father which is in heaven is perfect.” President Boyer said, “That is correct.” He then said, “Elders, are you living that commandment?” We started to stammer; we knew we were not perfect! He started to help us. He asked questions starting three days earlier. He asked when we went to bed, when we got up, did we have individual and companion scripture study, did we go out proselyting on time? He then said, “I am sure you are not perfect, but you have made perfect choices for the last three days and that means you are moving in the right direction.” He then left us thinking about the importance of the questions he had asked.

My mission president, Elder Marion D. Hanks, taught me that it is the small decisions or choices day by day that are important.

Some years ago, some close friends of ours loaned us their cabin in Island Park, Idaho. When we arrived at the cabin, we found that the key that we had been given to unlock the front door didn’t work. We tried to undo windows and pry open screens, all to no avail.

Suddenly our son Steven, who was about seven years old at the time, shouted to us that he had just successfully opened the front door. Steven, with a big grin on his face, was standing triumphantly inside the front doorway. I was amazed. I asked him how he did that.

He responded with wonderful, childlike spontaneity: “I bowed my head and prayed. When I looked up, my eyes spotted this big rock by the front steps, and I thought, ‘There is a key under that rock.’ And sure enough there it was.” The prayer of a child had been heard. I thank the Lord for his mother, who had taught him to find keys in moments of crisis.

Micah serves as an ambassador at his school. An ambassador helps new students. They give school tours, show how the curriculum works, and help new students fit in.
“I helped one of my friends when he first came to our school,” Micah says. “During lunch, he asked me questions about school, and I answered them. I tried to make him feel comfortable. It’s nice to stand up for friends who might be feeling down, sad, or lonely. It makes me feel like I’m becoming more like Jesus Christ.”

Almost four years ago Marilyn and I attended a district conference in Kanazawa, Japan. The theme for the Saturday evening session was “The Atonement of Christ.” We spoke about the Savior’s sacrifice, his knowledge concerning each person, his invitation to have a “one by one” relationship, and his desire to help each individual overcome the trials and temptations in his or her life. At the end of the Sunday morning session, a young Japanese woman sought me out. She wanted to share a special experience she had had during the morning session. While listening to the sermons, she had reflected on the message of the previous evening. Suddenly she realized that the Savior knew the songs of her heart. He knew how she felt about the gospel. He could read the thoughts and feelings that were hers. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she told how wonderful it was to know that the Savior of the world knew her.

At Christmas time we often hear people talk about already being in the Christmas spirit or not yet. The prospect of a white Christmas, a visit to a Christmas market and preparing presents or that special Christmas feast are popular ways to summon that legendary festive cheer.
Unfortunately, the actual meaning of Christmas is often lost along the way. I was able to learn this lesson very intensively on my mission. In December 1997 my companion and I were transferred to a small town in Wales and settled in together. There was a very small, loving ward there. We enjoyed our time there and worked hard, hoping to tell people about Christ. During the second half of December we noticed how all the companionships, in a virtually competitive atmosphere, reported where and how often members invited them for dinner. It almost seemed like a sport, cramming as many Christmas dinners as possible into the two Christmas holidays. Many of the more experienced missionaries spoke about how delicious the traditional Christmas dinner was and could hardly wait for that special day to arrive. Amidst all this gladness, my companion and I realised that we had not even received a single invitation yet. Something was wrong. But we did not want to impose ourselves either and kept hoping that someone might yet invite us for dinner. Nothing happened, while Christmas was approaching fast. Just before Christmas we held a zone conference, where all the missionaries serving in Wales came together. A wonderful spirit permeated that conference. But what mattered much more to us missionaries were our packages from home that were given to us. Giddily, my companion and I returned to our flat. Defying all my parents’ rules and admonitions on the package, I opened it that same night. It contained a few small presents, a letter from my parents and Christmas sweets. I was delighted! It was a great evening, with both of us enjoying the goodies received from home. With the small caveat that it was not actually Christmas yet.
Sadly, we had not received any dinner invitation by the 24th of December. To make matters worse, the 24th happened to be a preparation day and we had planned to play football (soccer) with all the other missionaries, after which everyone would go straight to their respective dinner appointments. We were very disappointed to learn that the other elders had forgotten to give us a ride to the event. My companion and I walked the streets of our town in the rain, just to kill time. We were anything but in the Christmas mood.
Tired and disappointed, we returned home in the evening to prepare a meal. I remember vividly stepping into our flat, the heating broken yet again and the Christmas packages from our families long unpacked and consumed. Gloomily, I stood in our living room, feeling very lonely and unhappy indeed. All I could do was turn on some Christmas music. So I did. Handel’s Messiah was on and my gaze wandered to a picture of our Saviour and older brother, Jesus Christ. A picture as it can be seen in thousands of missionary flats: taped to the wall crooked, without a frame. And all of a sudden, it was Christmas! I knew why I was here. I knew what we were celebrating and what really mattered.
I have celebrated many wonderful Christmases in my life and beautiful memories abound. That Christmas in Wales in 1997, however, has probably been my most intense Christmas yet. The real gift I received that Christmas was a more intense love for my Saviour and friend, Jesus Christ.

It is sometimes really tough to know how to deal with people who pick on you. I had long ago decided that the best way was just to ignore them. But sometimes this just didn’t seem to work. Earlier that school year, two girls in my science class had hurt me so much with their cruel words that I finally burst and fired similar cruel words right back at them. This landed me in detention, and I spent a miserable afternoon picking up trash. Worse than the actual punishment was how horrible I felt inside. I knew my actions weren’t Christlike, and that hurt me more than anyone’s awful words ever could. After that, I stuck like glue to my old policy of keeping silent and expressionless, hoping people would get bored with me. But Megan still hadn’t given up trying to have fun at my expense, and I had been wondering recently if there were something more I could do besides just turning the other cheek.

Looking down at the candy canes in my backpack, I realized that the Spirit had just given me a solution to my dilemma. I thought of Matthew 5:44, in the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ says, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.”

“Well,” I thought, “it’s worth a try.” Even though the thought of doing such an unusual thing scared me, I told myself it couldn’t make the situation any worse.

I almost chickened out. It was the very end of the class period before I had the guts to approach Megan. When I called her name, she turned and looked very surprised that I was speaking to her.

“Here, this is for you.” I held out the candy.

She looked at me very suspiciously. I could tell she was trying to figure out what the trick was. I knew she thought I was trying to do something mean because she knew she’d never done anything nice to me. So I smiled and said, “Merry Christmas,” hoping she would trust me just a little bit.

She took the candy. When I turned to walk away, and it was clear that there were no strings attached, she said, “Thank you.”

I wish I could say Megan and I became friends after that. We didn’t. But she left me alone the rest of the school year, and her eyes lost that hard, malicious glint when she looked at me.

I like to hope I gave her more than just candy that Christmas. I hope that’s what happened, but maybe it didn’t. Maybe she never thought about it again. But I was changed for life after that simple exchange. I was filled with the joy of having done what Jesus would have done. The gift I gave her paled in comparison to the gift I received—a taste of charity, the pure love of Christ, a feeling sweeter than all the Christmas candy in the school.

I had come to my office the other night a beautiful mother and seven children. I think I am far enough away, and probably no one would guess of whom I am speaking. She is a very talented young woman, but she said, “I have come to a time where I believe that I must think of divorcing my husband.” So I began to ask about her husband. In answer to my questions, she said he was kind to her. He was a good provider, but somehow the luster of the romance of marriage, now that their children were pretty well grown, had now brought her to a point where she had begun to think that maybe if she were footloose she could do better than she was able to do with the husband who was the father of her children. We had quite a talk about it; but the other morning, after the first session of the conference, this lovely young woman met me and she said, with tears rolling down her cheeks, “I have had the answer to every problem. This session has changed my life. I am a woman different now, because I have understanding that I never had before. I am going back. I am going to take care of my family. I am going to love my husband, and I am going to correct the mistakes that are in me, where I think most of the problem lies.”

Many believe that King Solomon was the wisest man who ever lived, and, therefore, that his writings in the book of Proverbs comprise the world’s greatest textbook on wisdom.
The book of Proverbs is conveniently divided into 31 short chapters, and I learned a simple practice years ago from my father. As part of my daily Bible reading, I read the corresponding chapter of Proverbs—meaning I will read through the entire book every month, 12 times every year.
I would estimate I have now read through the book of Proverbs some 300 times—and the Holy Spirit still gives me fresh insights almost every week. He also brings occasional humor. One morning I was reading my Bible while my wife was getting ready.
“Read me whatever you’re reading today,” she said.
Glancing down at the chapter of Proverbs I was about to read, I noticed the chapter heading and said, “It’s about ‘the wiles of the harlot.’ Do you still want to hear it?”
“No,” she replied, “but I want you to hear it!”
When our son finished high school two years ago, I wrote him a letter and gave it to him the night before his commencement service. The next day there was a note from him on my desk thanking me for my letter. He closed that note with a P.S. I’ll never forget. It said, “Dad, I’ve been reading Proverbs every day since eighth grade because of you.”
If I do nothing else as a father, I will have achieved something special by passing along a Bible-reading habit learned from my father years earlier.

In the Atwater Ward (Merced California Stake) the youth decided to go floating. It all began when they entered a float in the annual Atwater Fourth of July parade. Bonnie Regan, a Beehive girl, was chairman of the float committee. John Howe from the teachers quorum, and Sister Terry Latey, the Young Women secretary, worked with Bonnie. They decided to hold a contest for the design of the float, and a vote was held during activity night to determine which one the young people liked the best.
The theme for the parade was “America’s Bright Horizons,” so the young people inscribed on their float: “The family is the future of America. Loving families will produce good citizens. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints teaches that the family is the basic strength of society and that members of families can become strong and united through unselfishness, love, and service.” A backdrop across the float read, “America’s Future: the Family.” The back of the float was covered with an original painting of the Oakland Temple done by Sister Lois Moore, the Laurel adviser. Beneath the temple were the words “A Family Can Be Forever.”
The float committee organized bake sales to earn the money to build the float. Priests and teachers were assigned to build the frame using materials from a prop that had been used by the stake in the regional dance festival the previous week. The ingenious Beehive girls were in charge of covering the float with white paper napkins. Their problem was finding enough napkins and still staying within the budget. A couple of large bags full of wrinkled napkins had been left from the dance festival, and someone came up with the idea of ironing the used napkins. The Beehive girls set up a production line, with some young women spraying the paper napkins with water and other young women ironing them.
The Mia Maids were assigned to make the paper flowers. It took a lot of time and a lot of young women to make the 53 large paper flowers for the float and the 20 small flowers for the wedding bouquet. The girls thought it would be a fun activity for nonmembers, too, and invited their nonmember friends to help. The Laurels and deacons were in charge of making the letters. Everyone pitched in to draw, cut, and glitter the letters.
The Mutual held the week before the parade was called “Make a Float, Have a Float,” and of course, root beer floats were served to the hardworking float builders. Work began at 1:00 P.M. and lasted all afternoon and evening. Several adults and Primary children from the ward joined in the work also.
The float committee especially wanted the float to be useful in helping people learn more about the gospel, so permission was received for the full-time missionaries working in Atwater to hand out pamphlets about the family to the parade spectators. They circulated among an estimated 10,000 people who were viewing the parade.
From among 98 units entered in the parade, the Atwater Ward float won first prize in the youth division.

While my father met with customers, I had to either sit in the lobby, wait in the car, or walk around outside. I would frequently get tired of waiting for my father to finish working, so he decided to keep me busy. We went to a bank and bought 40 rolls of pennies and a collection booklet. I sifted through all the pennies and sorted them by year so I could fill up the collection. If I had finished sorting all those pennies by the time he got out of his meeting, we would find another bank and swap pennies.
My father said that if I gave the bank tellers my word that each roll of pennies I was trading had 50 pennies, I wouldn’t have to wait for them to count them. They would simply give me new rolls to replace them. Sure enough, I learned that if I said, “I’ve counted these. I promise that there are 50 pennies in each roll,” the bank tellers trusted me. I learned the importance of living up to my word. I also realized that some other little boy had probably counted the pennies I received, and that I had to rely on him to be honest as well. I never received a roll with fewer than 50 pennies, so I learned to trust others and to be trustworthy in all that I do.

Several years ago I picked up the desk pen in my office at Brigham Young University to sign a paper that had been prepared for my signature, something I did at least a dozen times each day. That document committed the University to a particular course of action we had decided to follow. All the staff work had been done, and all appeared to be in order. But as I went to sign the document, I was filled with such negative thoughts and forebodings that I put it to one side and asked for the entire matter to be reviewed again. It was, and within a few days additional facts came to light which showed that the proposed course of action would have caused the University serious problems in the future.

At 16, after being a paper boy for five years, I was somewhat surprised when the manager of circulation asked me to be the assistant manager and act as the supervisor of all the newspaper boys in the city. It was quite an honor because of my youth, and I remember how grateful I felt to the Lord. I saw it as a direct blessing from the Lord in allowing me to grow and obtain additional development.
I worked as the assistant manager for about two years, and I will never forget the great challenge that then came to me. I had been paying my tithing regularly during that time and certainly believed in the principle, but I did not have as sure a witness of that principle as I was about to attain.
One Saturday afternoon after finishing work, the manager told me that starting a week from the following day, on Sunday, it would be necessary for me to work every Sunday morning. The manager was an inactive member of the Church at the time, and he knew that I was not going to react favorably to the suggestion. But he was quick to tell me that even though I would miss priesthood meeting and Sunday School, I could find some other means of attending meetings, and thus it would not be all that serious to skip those meetings. He then attempted to entice me by telling me that my pay would be increased by 30 percent, thinking that this might change my mind about the principle of not working on Sunday.
I remember how strongly those words fell upon my heart, but I also remember my response: “I am quite certain that I cannot work on Sunday.”
“Well,” he said, “you will have to work on Sunday or I will find another assistant manager.”
I left the office rather teary-eyed that day. I remember asking the Lord why I should lose my job as a result of the Church. I had been working hard to save enough money to support myself on a mission, and now I was going to lose my job unless I were willing to work on Sunday.
I talked to my father to ask his counsel, and all he would tell me was, “I am sure you will do what is right, whatever that may be.” I was left with the weight of the decision. I spoke later to my bishop and asked him what to do, and his advice was the same as my father’s. However, he added that if I decided to work on Sunday, there might be some possibility of my attending another ward for priesthood meeting as the neighboring ward was holding them in the afternoons at that period of time in the city where I lived. After talking to these two men, the feeling came over me that there was no way to resolve this matter except by finding out what the Lord would have me do.
The following Saturday I went in and announced to the manager that I would not work on Sunday. He informed me that since that was my choice, I would have one week and no longer as the assistant manager, and then I would be replaced by a young man who was “really willing to work.”
I left work that day with a very heavy heart, realizing that in five or six days I would be without a job. In one more year I was to go on my mission, and I did not yet have sufficient funds to support myself. I prayed much that week.
The following days at work seemed very long, and there were very few words spoken between my boss and me. I waited for the next Saturday, which was to be my last day.
Friday finally arrived. As I was finishing work that evening, the manager approached me and said, somewhat emotionally, “Gene, you are right in what you are doing, and I am wrong in asking you to work on Sunday. I have found a young man of another religion who is willing to work on Sunday, but I still want you to be my assistant manager. And by the way, that 30 percent increase will be given to you anyway, even though you will not be working the seventh day. You are a very good young man.”
My young friends, I will never forget the feeling of gratitude that came over me at that moment. I will also never forget my feelings that month as I paid more than an honest tithe and faithfully attended to my responsibilities on Sunday.

You ask how I am so confident about that fact, and I will answer your question. I know someone—very much like Terry Crapo—who also had cancer, came very close to death, but, unlike Terry, survived. I may not always be as appreciative as I should of the fact that I don’t currently have a cold, or that the electricity is working, or that four years have passed since I had a broken ankle. But an appreciation for life itself, and the fact that at the end of October 1987 I was able to take Janet’s hand and walk out of that hospital—bald, nauseated, and weak, but nevertheless alive—is in an entirely different category. Literally, never a day goes by—not one—without something happening (and usually it happens several times each day) that serves as a pointed reminder of how grateful I am to be alive, to have a range of mobility greater than four feet from an I.V. pole, and the freedom to go where I want to go, do what I want to do, associate with the people of my choice, run with my friends, live with my family, watch them grow, and, generally, to participate in the joys of this earthly experience.

“Today we are going to learn a new song,” Sister Reid announced. “It’s called ‘Baptism.’ Everyone close your eyes and listen to the music.”
I closed my eyes and relaxed in my chair. The pianist started playing a melody that sounded soft and graceful, like flowing water. Then Sister Reid started singing: “Jesus came to John the Baptist, in Judea long ago, and was baptized by immersion in the River Jordan’s flow.”
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I tried to wipe it away before Mom could see, but it was too late. Mom was the Primary president, and she always saw everything. I saw Mom look at me and smile sadly. She knew why I was crying.
After church, my little sister, Julie, hummed the song the whole ride home. I stayed silent.
“Do you want to color with me?” Julie asked when we got home.
I shook my head. “Maybe later. I’ve got to do something first.”
I found Dad in the living room. He was sitting in his favorite chair with a book open on his lap. He liked to read while Julie, Mom, and I went to church.
I took a deep breath. “Dad?” I said. “Can I get baptized?”
Dad closed the book and asked me to sit by him.
“Oh, Sadie. We’ve talked about this. My answer is still no,” he said.
“But I really want to!” I said. “I turned eight a few months ago, and I’ve thought about it a lot. I know the Church is true, and the longer I wait, the more I know I want to be baptized.”
Dad shook his head. “I still think you’re too young to make such a big decision. But you know I love you.”
“I know,” I said. I knew Dad wanted what was best for me. He just didn’t think I was ready to make this choice.
I ran to my room and bowed my head. I prayed harder than I ever had before. “Heavenly Father, I really want to be baptized. Please help Dad understand.”
At first nothing happened, but I stayed on my knees. The melody of “Baptism” ran through my mind. After a while, I didn’t feel so sad. Instead, I felt peaceful inside. I started thinking about all of the things I could do, even though I couldn’t be baptized yet.
I could keep praying and keep going to Primary. I could be an example for Julie, and maybe I could even ask Mom to fast for me next week.
The peaceful feeling stayed with me as I headed down to dinner. I didn’t know when, but one day I would be baptized. And it would be worth the wait.
Six months later, two days before her ninth birthday, Sadie’s dad gave her permission to be baptized.

A week later my mother died. How would it be in a motherless home, without the encouraging look of a proud mother to push us along when times got rough? I thought mothers were always supposed to be there. Who was going to teach me all the things mothers are supposed to teach their daughters? Who was I going to have those special talks with? Why did it have to be my mother?
My father knew it was up to him. It must have been like a building falling on him to have all the responsibility of raising the family. After losing the woman he loved so dearly, he had to be strong to set the example for his family. He did. I remember him standing there and asking us if we understood about paradise and heaven. We all hesitated, as if a nod of approval to his question was an approval for her to die, but then with great effort he told us she was gone. My father’s a big man, but he was even bigger then, when I knew that inside his heart was broken and he was full of loneliness.

Richard, 13, loves to get an open shot and seems to have a knack for eluding defenders and being in the right place when a decisive pass is made. Of course, part of the knack comes from practice. Lots of practice.
Go to the elementary school behind his house in Simi Valley, California, and chances are you’ll find Richard playing in a game or dribbling the ball through the grass with his older brother John, 15. That is, unless he’s busy with a Church project. Richard is the deacons quorum president, and his conviction of his calling keeps him constantly on the phone dialing reminders of activities and responsibilities to his friends and fellow priesthood holders. (He’s in the Simi Valley Third Ward, Simi Valley California Stake.) With Church duties, as with sports, Richard knows it’s necessary to spend time to do a good job.
Richard isn’t the only family member involved with soccer. Besides John, Susan, 10, and David, 7, will rush to the fireplace mantel to show their trophies when the sport is mentioned. And when any of the children play in a game, the whole family goes to watch. That means nine passengers in the station wagon, but it also provides a private cheering section on the sidelines.
The Penrods’ interest in soccer is increasingly typical of American families, including those in the Church. Soccer, long a favorite sport throughout the rest of the world, is finally storming into popularity in the U.S., with youth leagues organized in every state. Many stake athletic programs now include ward soccer teams.
Richard’s father, a junior college professor, says, “We were looking for a game we could get the whole family involved in, without risk of a lot of injuries and without having to buy lots of equipment. This seemed ideal.”
Brother Penrod was right. Soccer is a relatively safe sport, with emphasis on ball handling and finesse, not on body contact. A small player can often outmaneuver and outshoot larger opponents. Rules are uncomplicated, and soccer can be played almost anywhere, just by marking boundaries on the ground. Modified versions of the game can even be played indoors.
Out on the field, Richard makes the game look simple. He feints, counterfeints, and passes. He sees an opening and sprints for it, waving his hand to let fellow players know he’s in the clear. On defense he shouts instructions and directs traffic as though he’s been playing all his life—which is just about the truth. His expertise, along with his scholarship in school, have qualified him for two trips abroad with soccer teams—one to Glenrothes, Scotland, another to Den Haag, Holland. While there, Richard lived with families and attended school, as well as playing exhibition soccer.
Of course, there have been embarrassing times, too. Like slipping and falling in the mud, or getting clobbered with a lopsided score, or losing every game during the season when Dad was the head coach. But some of that has to be expected.
How Richard plays in a particular match is determined by two things: which position he’s playing (he plays three), and which team he’s playing for at the time (he plays on four). On the ward team the ages vary significantly. So do the skill levels. But there, playing is mostly for fun. On the all-star team or in league competition, games are closely contested, and each move makes a difference.
Richard and John will talk for hours about their favorite sport. John plays forward, an offensive position that puts him on the front line of attack. Richard usually plays halfback, the midfield position, which challenges him by requiring both offensive and defensive skills. However, Richard has also played forward, as well as fullback (the last defender between the ball and the goalie).
They disagree about which is the ideal position to play. John says forwards have the most enjoyable job on the field because they go where they want. “It’s kind of like playing hide-and-seek with the defense,” he says. But he also notes that forwards often take the blame for missed goals. Richard counters that halfbacks have the fun of playing at both ends of the field, which, though it demands endurance, allows them power to control the tempo of the game.
John says fullbacks get the most rest, that their main task is to steal the ball and relay it to the opposite end of the field. Richard notes, however, that the defense is often outnumbered, and the fullback’s role is vital in preventing goals. Both agree, however, that the goalie may have the roughest assignment. He’s expected to analyze each shot-on-goal correctly and position himself properly to block or deflect it, often diving face down on the turf in the effort.
The two young men also discuss dreams, like playing on a professional or Olympic team, or even more immediate wishes, like attending a soccer clinic at BYU.
At a home evening recently, Richard brought out a scrapbook he keeps; it’s full of his souvenirs. He passed it around the family circle, describing photos he took himself and clippings from newspapers. The rest of the family joined in with other stories, laughter, and warmth. It was clear that they were all involved in learning lessons through their Church activity and through sports. They were learning about brotherhood by working together; they were learning to plan their time to be able to do things they enjoy and still meet school, Church, and household responsibilities; they were learning about family love, caring, and sharing; and they were learning about fixing goals for themselves. It was clear that they’re involved with soccer—and with each other—for more than just the kicks.

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.”