Gospel Story Finder

When I was a student at BYU twenty years ago, I often heard President Wilkinson refer to one of Karl G. Maeser’s teachings about honor. The example was so vivid and applicable that I often recalled it after I left BYU. I will share it with you:

My young friends, I have been asked what I mean by word of honor. I will tell you. Place me behind prison walls—walls of stone ever so high, ever so thick, reaching ever so far into the ground—there is a possibility that in some way or another I may be able to escape. But stand me on that floor and draw a chalk line around me and have me give my word of honor never to cross it. Can I get out of that circle? No, never! I’d die first! [Alma P. Burton, Karl G. Maeser, Mormon Educator, p. 71]

The door burst open. Cold winter air rushed into the hall with Billy. Mike, his older brother, crowded in behind, followed by Mom and Dad.
“Grandma! We’re here for dinner!” Billy shouted. He hurried into the kitchen, smelling spicy pumpkin pie, roasted turkey, and sage dressing.
Grandma smiled. “It’ll take a while to get dinner on the table, boys,” she said. “You’ll find crayons and paper on the hall table. How about a picture?”
At the table, Mike began coloring, but Billy peered into the living room. It was full of porcelain figurines, an old sugar bowl, and other treasures. Grandma called them heirlooms. Each had its own pioneer story.
Billy’s gaze fastened on a small mirror on a shelf. Billy loved the mirror most because its story was his favorite.
Billy turned away from the living room and was reaching for a red crayon when the big oval mirror at the end of the hall caught his eye. He forgot about the crayon, walked to the mirror, and stretched as tall as he could.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Trying to see a child of God.”
“Too short, huh?” Mike said. Under the mirror, a low shelf held Grandma’s prized Boston fern. “I’ll give you a boost up to the shelf.”
With Mike’s arms around him, Billy kicked his feet in search of the shelf. He found the shelf, but knocked the fern to the floor. Black dirt spilled all over the carpet. The fern was smashed and broken, its bare roots sticking into the air.
Suddenly the shelf gave way. Billy bumped heads with Mike as he fell, then landed facedown in the dirt.
“What will we do?” Billy whispered, pushing himself up.
“Sometimes the cat gets on the shelf,” Mike said. “Maybe Grandma will think the cat did it.”
“But it wouldn’t be the truth,” Billy said. “We did it, so we should tell.”
“OK, but let’s wait until after dinner.”
“Wash up and come to dinner, boys,” Mom called.
When the two boys sat down at the table, Grandpa said the blessing. Everybody started to eat, but the food tasted like rubber in Billy’s mouth.
“Is something wrong?” Dad asked.
“I don’t like peas very much,” Billy mumbled.
Dad frowned. “How did you get the bump on your forehead?”
“Excuse me,” Billy mumbled, and fled to the bathroom.
Mom and Dad followed him. “Are you sick?” Mom asked.
Billy shook his head. “I stood on Grandma’s shelf. It broke. When I fell, Mike and I bumped heads. I just wanted to see a child of God in the big mirror.” Billy’s chest heaved. “Grandma’s fern is ruined. I feel awful—not at all like a child of God.”
“I helped him get on the shelf,” Mike said in a soft voice from behind Mom and Dad. “We didn’t know it would break. I don’t feel like a child of God either.”
“We thought maybe you’d think the cat did it,” Billy said. “We decided to tell the truth after dinner.”
“Well, now,” Grandma said, joining them. “No matter what you do, you are always a child of God. But I’m glad that you chose to tell the truth.”
Grandpa looked at the bent brackets that had held the shelf to the wall. “I reckon this can be fixed,” he said. “Grandma’s fern can be repotted. It looks pretty bedraggled, but it’ll likely grow out again.”
Grandma put the broken fern into the pot. “Even if it doesn’t grow, I can get a new plant,” she said. “But I could never replace these two children of God.”
“Look,” Dad said, holding Billy up to the mirror. “See the child who was tempted to blame the cat, but didn’t? How about giving him a smile?”
Billy managed a weak smile.
Back at the table, Billy noticed that everything—even the peas—now tasted delicious.
After dinner, Billy held the little mirror as Grandma told the story of how it had comforted the girl who was his long-ago grandma.
When the story was finished, all of them took a turn telling something each was thankful for. Billy looked into the little mirror and said, “I’m thankful to be a child of God.”

That help came to my father years ago when his work took him to Australia. He was alone on a Sunday, and he wanted to take the sacrament. He could find no information about Latter-day Saint meetings. So he started walking. He prayed at each intersection to know which way to turn. After walking and making turns for an hour, he stopped to pray again. He felt an impression to turn down a particular street. Soon he began to hear singing coming from the ground floor of an apartment building close by. He looked in at the window and saw a few people seated near a table covered with a white cloth and sacrament trays.

Now, that may not seem like much to you, but it was something wonderful to him. He knew the promise of the sacrament prayer had been fulfilled: “Always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).

I grew up in a home where my father was not a member of the Church and my mother was less active. That all changed later, and they spent much of their life as temple workers. With that background I didn’t know much about the Church, even though I thought I did. When I was about to graduate from the university, the Lord brought an angel into my life. Her name was Jeanene Watkins. She was a beautiful girl. It took me a long time to date her because so many others recognized her wonderful qualities. As we began to date, I discovered that she was all I had ever dreamed of finding. I fell completely in love with her. I could tell she had deep feelings for me also. One night when we were talking about the future, she carefully wove into the conversation an important comment. She said, “When I marry, it will be to a returned missionary in the temple.” I don’t remember anything else she said. I hadn’t thought much about a mission and didn’t understand much about temple marriage. I went home and couldn’t think of anything else. I was awake all night. I couldn’t do anything at the university the next day. Soon I was at the bishop’s office, having prayed about the importance of a mission. Jeanene and I both went on missions and when we returned were sealed in the temple. Much later I came to realize that she would have left me had I not made the right choices. Jeanene’s courage in standing up for her dream of a temple marriage to a returned missionary, regardless of her love for me, has made all of the difference in our lives together. I will never be able to thank her adequately for not compromising her righteous dreams.

In one ward I lived in, I had a neighbor who would often sit in the church foyer during the second hour. One Sunday, I was surprised to see him in class. During the class discussion, my neighbor offered his perspective. The things he shared strengthened my faith, helped me feel the Holy Ghost, and provided an answer I needed at that time. I do not know the reasons why my neighbor did not regularly come to class, but I wondered how my life would be different if he had not attended and participated that day.

When I was elected junior class vice president of Edgemont High School, I wasn’t just surprised, I was in temporary shock. I had entered the race at the last minute for the experience. At least that’s what I had told myself. When I actually won, it seemed impossible, incredible! What seemed even more incredible was that I had apparently won by a landslide. At least that’s what Molly Pratt claimed.
“Boy, Mark, are you ever popular. You got almost every vote. I helped count them.”
I shook my head for the hundredth time. “I just can’t believe it. It’s incredible.”
“Not really,” Molly said smiling.
Although I couldn’t figure out how it had all happened, I did know one thing: I planned to do a good job—a great job. I didn’t want anyone to think he’d made a mistake by voting for Mark Bennion.
Just a few days after I’d talked to Molly, I was standing by my locker cleaning out some of the election handouts when I heard a soft voice behind me. I knew whose voice it was even before I turned around. Although she was in my history class, Rhonda Jackson had never spoken to me before, and I could feel my face getting warm. Up close she was even prettier than at a two-row distance. A sprinkle of small, delicate freckles peppered her nose, and her warm smile made me quiver.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual but sounding more as if I had just swallowed a baseball.
“We’re having a little get-together at my place tomorrow night,” she said. “We’re going to study for the history test. Well, just for a little while. Then we’ll have some fun. You know, talk a little, dance or something.” She touched my arm lightly with her forefinger. “Would you like to join our group?”
“I, uh, I can’t think of any reason why I couldn’t. Yes, sure.” I knew about her little group. Who didn’t? It was the elite group at Edgemont. The thought of being included seemed unreal. Just last week I had thought of myself as a Joe-average with just a few friends, like the guys I palled around with in the neighborhood. Now hundreds of students seemed to know me and find me important. And I had a chance, a real chance, to belong to the most exclusive group at school.
“Oh, by the way,” Rhonda smiled again and looked straight into my eyes. “We’ve got a copy of the test so you won’t need to bring your book. We’re just going to memorize the answers. We’ll probably be able to get copies of some of the other tests coming up, too.”
“Oh?” Her words hit me like a thud. “How did …”
“Don’t ask.” She put her hand over my mouth and giggled softly. “Let’s just say we have connections. See you tomorrow night.”
I watched her walk away. She turned and smiled, fully aware that I was staring after her. Wow, she was beautiful. I sighed. “Too bad.”
The next day I was prepared to tell Rhonda that I couldn’t make it to the get-together. I couldn’t afford to go and then make a fool of myself by being a goody-two-shoes and refusing to participate in the cheating. I wouldn’t say the word cheating or make any accusations. But when I saw her walking toward me with that appealing smile, the brave words began slipping from my mind. I wanted her to like me. Oh, how I wanted Rhonda Jackson to like me.
“You’re coming tonight, I hope,” she said, emphasizing the words “I hope.” There was a nice lilt to her voice.
“Well, I’d really like to, but …
“I’d really be disappointed if you didn’t come. You’ve just got to come. Everybody’s going to be there. Bill Spilker, Audrey Madsen, Nicki Simmons, and Frank, you know, Frank Lake. They’re all going to be there, and you really should get to know all of us better.” The names she had mentioned were familiar to me—familiar to everyone at Edgemont. They were the officers of the school, the “in-group” of in-groups.
“I have a little secret to tell you,” Rhonda began whispering in a confidential manner. “Frank said something about you.”
“What was that?” I asked, impressed that my name had even come up in conversation. Frank was the student-body vice president.
“He thinks if you play your cards right you could be president of the school.”
“Oh, sure.” I felt myself blushing in pleasure.
“You don’t know how popular you are, do you, Mark? You have a lot of power already. A little more, some friends in the right circles, for instance, could put the presidency right in your pocket.”
“You really think so?”
She looked down dramatically, then up into my eyes. “Believe me, I know so. See you tonight about eight or eight-thirty.”
As I watched her walk away I stood grinning. Again I sighed.
Come on, I thought. Me, president of the whole student body? Me, in Rhonda Jackson’s league? This is all too incredible. I shook my head. “Nah,” I said out loud. But then I began wondering. With some friends in the right circles, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so farfetched. I had won junior class vice president by a landslide. Maybe further miracles were also possible. I’ve been pretty naive, I thought. There are probably a lot of things going on in this school that I know nothing about. Everyone probably cheats once in a while to keep up the old grade-point average.
In my mind, I went over the people Rhonda had mentioned would be at her house. Slowly it began registering that everyone was matched up—except Rhonda. My face grew warm again. Could it be Rhonda had me in mind for herself? “Impossible!” My stomach did a backflip, and I walked to my locker to get rid of my history book. I wouldn’t need it tonight!
Later in the day, while I was on my way to study class, I passed my last year’s history classroom. Mr. Hancock was just closing the door to his room. As I nodded a hello, he motioned that he wanted to talk to me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m glad you walked by, Mark. An interesting thing happened that I wanted to tell you about. Can you come in for a minute?”
“Sure thing.” As I sat down by his desk, I looked around at the pictures of some of the presidents and other historical figures I could remember learning about in his class. My sophomore year in Mr. Hancock’s class had been quite the year for hero worship.
“I don’t know if this will mean anything to you,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “What happened?” I was curious now.
“Well, a few days ago I gave a test, and my last question was ‘What great person, living or dead, would you most like to use as an example in your own life?’ I mostly got the kind of answers I was expecting: Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin; but a most peculiar thing happened.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys put your name.”
“My name?” I was confused. “Why would he do that?”
“I guess he thinks you’re a ‘great man,’” he said, smiling. “Thought you might want to know.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, staring at him.
“Glad it makes a difference to you. You’ve been getting quite a bit of attention lately, and I wasn’t sure you’d care; but, well, I thought I’d tell you.”
I nodded and kept staring. Then I looked around the room and nodded again. There was a knot beginning to form in my stomach. “It makes a difference,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Hancock.”
“Good to talk to you, Mark, and good luck to you.”
“Thanks again,” I said. I felt two feet taller as I headed toward the door. Without hesitation I turned down the hall in the direction of my locker. I had a history book to retrieve and some hard and fast studying to do. People were counting on me, wanted to be like me. There was no way I was going to let them down!

In 1984, at the age of 15, Elder Cordón and his older brother left their home to attend school in another city where they could study technology. Living on their own, Valeri recalled his mother teaching him to always serve, so once they were established in their new home, he went straight to the bishop and asked for a calling. Since he was very young, Elder Cordon served in several callings, as a member of Aaronic Priesthood quorum presidencies, Sunday School president, auxiliary secretary to the bishopric, then at age 19, he was called to serve a mission in El Salvador.

While attending school in Guatemala and studying computer science, the textbooks were all in English, and by the time they were translated to Spanish, the information was obsolete. Realizing that learning English would be a critical skill, he figured out a way to move to Texas to attend the University of North Texas for six months, with a focus on learning English. He returned to Guatemala, received his computer science degree, and later, in part because of his newly acquired English skills, was hired by a British pharmaceutical company located in Costa Rica.

President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) left a lasting impression on Elder Cordón during one of the videos that aired between sessions of conference, in which the prophet simply said, “Improve your education”. As a result, he took every opportunity to follow this counsel.

When the opportunity arose to enter an MBA program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, he commented to the area president about the educational opportunity , saying, “This is going to help my career” to which the president replied, “No, this will help the Church.”

Now Elder Cordón feels strongly about sharing his testimony to always be prepared, look for opportunities to improve yourself, and the Lord will bless you for those efforts.

When our daughter Erin was in junior high, a hugely popular movie swept the country. It went on to win several major awards, and everyone was talking about it - including my daughter’s friends. Of course, Erin wanted to see the movie and begged to be allowed. I was aware of some inappropriate content and didn’t think it was a good idea. While struggling with this issue, I felt inspired to leave the decision to her. This was NOT something I was used to as a parent. She was our oldest, and so far, things had gone pretty well with the parents making all of the decisions!
We sat down at the computer together and read several reviews which described what kind of violence, sexuality, nudity, and profanity the movie contained. At first, she was defensive because she thought I was simply trying to pile on facts in order to further my side of the argument, but then I told her it would be her decision. She was as shocked as she was elated.
A few days later, she came to me and said, “Dad, I wish you had just told me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ about the movie. Now that it is my decision, it’s a lot harder.”
To her credit, Erin eventually decided not to see the movie. We both learned valuable lessons from this experience. I learned just why agency is so important to our Heavenly Father’s plan. My daughter learned that once we take responsibility for our choices, everything is different. Once we realize that we are “agents that act and not objects to be acted upon,” the game changes.2 Taking responsibility for our choices is a monumental step in spiritual maturity.

When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found it awkward to say the full name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And they continued to use the term “Mormons.”
I wanted to make my interactions feel more natural. But this turned out to be more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be embarrassed or lazy about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling members of the Church “Mormons.”
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do, but I make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church.

Kevin sat on the kitchen floor trying to tie his shoelaces.
“Over and under and pull both ends,” he said to himself. Then, he carefully made a “bunny-ear” loop with one lace and wrapped the other lace around it. He tried to find the place to poke the other bunny ear through but it had disappeared.
Kevin felt as though he had too many fingers. “I can’t do it,” he said to Mother who was washing the breakfast dishes. “I’ll never be able to tie my shoelaces.” He yanked off his shoes and threw them angrily on the floor.
“I’m sure you can tie them,” Mother said smiling. “Just try and try again.”
“No, it’s too hard. I’m tired of trying.”
Kevin went to his closet and pulled on his cowboy boots. He put on his T-shirt with a picture of a smiley face on it to make him feel better. Then he went outside and sat on the front porch steps. He was still too upset to play.
Then Kevin thought of something. If he could learn to ride his tricycle, maybe he could learn to tie his shoelaces too.
He thought of the little gray spider trying over and over again to start its web. It didn’t give up, and now it was busy spinning itself a home.
He thought of the tiny ant struggling to carry a heavy bread crumb home to its family. And the ant finally made it! The ants were probably having a dinner of bread crumbs right now.
Kevin went back into the kitchen, sat down, and put on his shoes.
For a long time he fumbled with the laces on his left shoe. But he didn’t give up. At last, two loops stood out like perfect bunny ears on each side of the shoe.
“I did it! I did it!” Kevin shouted to Mother. She turned off the mixer that she was using to whip up a pudding for lunch.
“You did! You tied your shoe!” Mother said excitedly. “I knew that all you had to do was keep trying.”
“I just tied and tied again,” Kevin said with a big smile. And he and Mother both laughed as Kevin began tying his other shoe.

With their permission, I’d like to share some of Justin and Amber’s story. Justin is my younger brother and Amber is his wife. They have four kids. Justin had a hard time at BYU-Idaho when he first came here after his mission. He did his best, but financial challenges and anxiety impacted his grades and he eventually left the university without graduating. Later in life, Justin’s employment situation was not sufficient to provide for his family in the way he wanted. He started and stopped at least 8 times at different community colleges or universities over a period of 12 years. Each time something would get in the way, his anxiety levels would rise, and he would withdraw.

In what he describes as his final attempt at finishing a degree, Justin enrolled in BYU-Idaho’s online program. He and Amber didn’t tell anyone—not even their kids. They were juggling multiple jobs, taking care of kids, callings, and now a very demanding program of study. Their lives felt like the left side of our sketch looks.

In this video clip, Justin describes how Amber helped him through this time.

My wife supported me by providing all the materials that I would need, even some that I didn’t, just to help me get excited for school. It’s always fun to get new pencils or whatever, backpack or something. She set up my calendar. She had no idea what the interface was for their online program, but she went through it and learned it and put all the assignments on my calendar so I knew when they were due, so I didn’t overlook things. She even put them all on different calendars for each class, so I didn’t have to see them all at the same time. . . . She told me that I could do it, that she supported my efforts, and that she believed in me.

It’s not totally clear from the video, but Amber really did buy my 30-something-year-old brother brand new pencils and a backpack for school. Did you notice how he kind of lit up when he talked about that? How did Amber know that would help? She listened. By that, I don’t mean she listened to what he was saying. My brother is a pretty tough guy, and I doubt he ever said, “Hey, honey, I’m worried about school. What I could really use is a fun, new backpack just like when I was a kid.” She listened in the sense that she observed what was going on. She listened by seeing that he was experiencing the turmoil on the left of the drawing. By listening, she realized separate calendars and a backpack and some cool pencils might help.

Some weeks ago a bewildered father asked, “Why is it I seem to be able to communicate with everyone except my own son?”
I responded with, “What do you mean you can’t communicate with your son?”
“It’s just that whenever I try to tell him anything, he tunes me out,” he replied.
During our private discussion which followed, and very often since, I have concluded that perhaps one of the principal reasons we fail to relate appropriately with family members is because we fail to apply some basics of personal communications. In Hebrews 13:16 we read, “But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” Communications in the family will often be a sacrifice because we are expected to use our time, our means, our talent, and our patience to impart, share, and understand. Too often we use communication periods as occasions to tell, dictate, plead, or threaten. Nowhere in the broadest sense should communication in the family be used to impose, command, or embarrass.
To be effective, family communication must be an exchange of feelings and information. Doors of communication will swing open in the home if members will realize time and participation on the part of all are necessary ingredients. In family discussions, differences should not be ignored, but should be weighed and evaluated calmly. One’s point or opinion usually is not as important as a healthy, continuing relationship. Courtesy and respect in listening and responding during discussions are basic in proper dialogue. As we learn to participate together in meaningful associations, we are able to convey our thoughts of love, dependence, and interest. When we are inclined to give up in despair in our efforts to communicate because other family members have failed to respond, perhaps we would do well not to give up, but rather to give and take in our conversations. How important it is to know how to disagree with another’s point of view without being disagreeable. How important it is to have discussion periods ahead of decisions. Jones Stephens wrote, “I have learned that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow.”
Let me share with you seven basic suggestions for more effective family communication.
A willingness to sacrifice. Be the kind of a family member who is willing to take time to be available. Develop the ability and self-discipline to think of other family members and their communication needs ahead of your own—a willingness to prepare for the moment—the sharing moment, the teaching moment. Shed the very appearance of preoccupation in self, and learn the skill of penetrating a family member’s shield of preoccupation. Sad is the day when a daughter is heard to say, “My mother gives me everything except herself.”
Too early and too often we sow the seeds of “Can’t you see I’m busy? Don’t bother me now.” When we convey the attitude of “Go away, don’t bother me now,” family members are apt to go elsewhere or isolate themselves in silence. All family members on some occasion or other must be taken on their own terms so they will be willing to come, share, and ask.
It takes personal sacrifice to communicate when conditions are right for the other person—during the meal preparation, after a date, a hurt, a victory, a disappointment, or when someone wants to share a confidence. One must be willing to forego personal convenience to invest time in establishing a firm foundation for family communication. When communication in the family seems to be bogging down, each individual should look to himself for the remedy.
If we would know true love and understanding one for another, we must realize that communication is more than a sharing of words. It is the wise sharing of emotions, feelings, and concerns. It is the sharing of oneself totally. “Who is a wise man and endued with knowledge among you? let him shew out of a good conversation his works with meekness of wisdom.” (James 3:13.)
A willingness to set the stage. The location, setting, or circumstances should be comfortable, private, and conversation-conducive. Effective communications have been shared in a grove of trees, on the mount, by the sea, in family home evening, during a walk, in a car, during a vacation, a hospital visit, on the way to school, during the game. When the stage is set, we must be willing to let the other family member be front and center as we appropriately respond.
Months and years after the score of a baseball game is long forgotten, the memory of having been there all alone with Dad will never dim. I’ll not soon forget a ten-year-old girl excitedly telling me she had just ridden in the car with her daddy all the way from Salt Lake to Provo and back. “Was the radio on?” I asked. “Oh, no,” she responded, “all Daddy did was listen and talk to me.” She had her daddy all to herself in a setting she’ll not soon forget. Let the stage be set whenever the need is there. Let the stage be set whenever the other person is ready.
A willingness to listen. Listening is more than being quiet. Listening is much more than silence. Listening requires undivided attention. The time to listen is when someone needs to be heard. The time to deal with a person with a problem is when he has the problem. The time to listen is the time when our interest and love are vital to the one who seeks our ear, our heart, our help, and our empathy.
We should all increase our ability to ask comfortable questions, and then listen—intently, naturally. Listening is a tied-in part of loving. How powerful are the words, “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath:
“For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.” (James 1:19–20.)
A willingness to vocalize feelings. How important it is to be willing to voice one’s thoughts and feelings. Yes, how important it is to be able to converse on the level of each family member. Too often we are inclined to let family members assume how we feel toward them. Often wrong conclusions are reached. Very often we could have performed better had we known how family members felt about us and what they expected.
John Powell shares this touching experience: “It was the day my father died. … In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when … my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I … told my mother … :
“‘It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.’
“She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: ‘Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.’
“Somehow I knew … that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
“Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her:
“‘I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he was proud of me. He never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied of his heart, but he never told me.’” (The Secret of Staying in Love, Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1974, p. 68.)
How significant are God’s words when he took the time to vocalize his feelings with, “This is my beloved Son,” yes, even the powerful communication, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” (Matt. 3:17.)
Often parents communicate most effectively with their children by the way they listen to and address each other. Their conversations showing gentleness and love are heard by our ever-alert, impressionable children. We must learn to communicate effectively not only by voice, but by tone, feeling, glances, mannerisms, and total personality. Too often when we are not able to converse with a daughter or wife we wonder, “What is wrong with her?” when we should be wondering, “What is wrong with our methods?” A meaningful smile, an appropriate pat on the shoulder, and a warm handshake are all-important. Silence isolates. Strained silent periods cause wonderment, hurt, and, most often, wrong conclusions.
God knows the full impact of continuing communication as he admonishes us to pray constantly. He, too, has promised to respond as we relate to him effectively.
A willingness to avoid judgment. Try to be understanding and not critical. Don’t display shock, alarm, or disgust with others’ comments or observations. Don’t react violently. Work within the framework of a person’s free agency. Convey the bright and optimistic approach. There is hope. There is a way back. There is a possibility for better understanding.
Let a common ground for personal decision be developed. “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more” (John 8:11) are words that are just as gentle and effective today as when they were first uttered.
Avoid imposing your values on others. When we can learn to deal with issues without involving personalities and at the same time avoid bias and emotions, we are on our way to effective family communications. When a family member makes a decision which may be inadequate or improper, do we have the ability and patience to convey the attitude that we don’t agree with his decision but he has the right of choice and is still a loved member of the family?
It is easy to point out mistakes and pass judgment. Sincere compliments and praise come much harder from most of us. It takes real maturity for a parent to apologize to a child for an error. An honest apology often makes the son or daughter feel surprisingly warm toward the mother or father or brother or sister. “For in many things we offend all. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.” (James 3:2.)
A willingness to maintain confidences. Be worthy of trust even in trivial questions and observations. Weighty questions and observations will only follow if we have been trustworthy with the trivial. Treat innermost trusts and concerns with respect. Build on deserved trust. Individuals who are blessed to have a relationship with someone to whom they can confidently talk and trust are fortunate indeed. Who is to say a family trust is not greater than a community trust?
A willingness to practice patience. Patience in communication is that certain ingredient of conduct we hope others will exhibit toward us when we fail to measure up. Our own patience is developed when we are patient with others.
“Be patient; be sober; be temperate; have patience, faith, hope and charity.” (D&C 6:19.)
“I get sick and tired of listening to your complaints” and “I have told you a thousand times” are but two of many often-repeated family quotations that indicate patience is gone and channels of communication are plugged.
It takes courage to communicate patiently. We constantly need to express pride, hope, and love on a most sincere basis. Each of us needs to avoid coming through as one who has given up and has become totally weary in trying.
The correction of family members in front of others is to be avoided. Much more notice is taken in quiet, private conversation. Calm endurance is a priceless virtue in one’s relationship with all family members.
When family members tune each other out, communication is not taking place. Words spoken are unheard, unwanted, and resisted when we fail to understand the basics for proper interchange. Each must be willing to do his part to improve, since the family unit is the basic foundation of the Church. Proper communication will always be a main ingredient for building family solidarity and permanence.
I pray our Heavenly Father will help us to communicate more effectively in the home through a willingness to sacrifice, a willingness to listen, a willingness to vocalize feelings, a willingness to avoid judgment, a willingness to maintain confidences, and a willingness to practice patience. “How forcible are right words!” (Job 6:25.) Yes, how forcible are right words shared at the right moment with the right person.
May our gracious and kind Heavenly Father help us in our needs and desires for more effective family communication. Communication can help build family unity if we will work at it and sacrifice for it. For this goal, I pray in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I grew up on a farm in Washington State, where my parents raised kids and cattle. I was the youngest in our large family, and at 14 I was busy trying to balance chores at home with my budding social schedule.
Each day after school it was my responsibility to feed and count all 60 head of cattle to make sure that each was safe. To a 14-year-old girl, this was a tedious chore, so I avoided counting them. In the winter it wasn’t as dangerous because none of the cattle were calving, but when the spring hit, it was critical that the pregnant heifers that had never given birth were each watched carefully. But I was too busy worrying about my hair and braces to be bothered about a few cows.
I clearly remember the day I was pulled out of school and rushed home to help. One of our young heifers, my very own actually, had been in labor for three days, hidden in the woods, suffering with no food, no water, and no help. The unborn calf had perished days before, and the cow had been unable to birth it. So, with the help of a vet, my father and I had to remove it from her.
When I pulled up in the truck and saw my father standing there, I was sure he would be angry with me. He had told me thousands of times to count the cattle, always asking if they were all there and all safe. But I was too busy to listen. I was too busy with things I thought were more important, like basketball practice. Or I would wait too long and feed them in the dark, making it impossible to count the herd. At the time, my own things really did seem more important. I didn’t understand; I didn’t have the big picture yet.
When I looked at that poor animal suffering from starvation, crippled and ruined, never again to bear a calf, I knew my father had been right. I had chosen not to listen to his simple instructions, and the consequences affected far more than my own life. I spent the next two months nursing the animal back to health, working her through the paralysis, and doing my best to repair the damage I had caused.
My father? He loved me. He put his arms around me and knew that I would never do it again. He knew that I had learned the lesson the hard way, but it was learned. If only I had listened. It was my own laziness, my own selfish insistence on my personal comfort that had kept me from following my dad’s simple instructions that would have saved a life.

The earliest instance of which I have recollection of spiritual feelings was when I was about five years of age, a very small boy. I was crying from the pain of an earache. There were no wonder drugs at the time. … My mother prepared a bag of table salt and put it on the stove to warm. My father softly put his hands upon my head and gave me a blessing, rebuking the pain and the illness by authority of the holy priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. He then took me tenderly in his arms and placed the bag of warm salt at my ear. The pain subsided and left. I fell asleep in my father’s secure embrace. As I was falling asleep, the words of his administration floated through my mind. That is the earliest remembrance I have of the exercise of the authority of the priesthood in the name of the Lord. …

Sue Ellen sniffed the acrid smell of burning leaves and felt the wind blowing her curls. She looked up through the gold and red leaves still on the maple trees in her backyard and thought she’d never seen the sky so blue. Today was Saturday and she was restless. “Mom,” she asked, “what’ll I do?”
Her mother laughed. “Why, Sue Ellen, on a nice October day like this, I’d make a house of leaves.”
“Oh, Mom,” Sue Ellen said, “how can anyone do that?”
“It’s easy and lots of fun,” her mother said. “Get your little rake from the toolshed and rake up a big pile of leaves. Then when you get tired of jumping into them, let me know and I’ll show you how to make a house.”
Sue Ellen’s best friend Linda lived next door. She couldn’t think of anything to do either until she saw Sue Ellen raking an enormous pile of leaves.
“Can I help, Sue Ellen?” she called.
“Sure, Linda. After we make a big pile, Mother’s going to show me how to make a house of leaves.”
Soon their pile of leaves was higher than both of the girls.
“Let’s run and jump right in the middle!” Sue Ellen shouted.
“Let’s!” agreed Linda.
They ran and jumped plunk into the middle. When they got up, there were leaves in their hair, down their necks, in their shoes, and some were even sticking out of their ears. And they laughed and laughed. “How do you make a house of leaves?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know, but Mother will show us,” Sue Ellen replied.
Sue Ellen’s mother came out with the big rake. “Now then, how many rooms will your house have?” she asked.
Sue Ellen said, “We’ll want a kitchen so we can make gingerbread men and a dining room—”
“And we need a living room and two bedrooms, one for Sue Ellen and one for me,” Linda interjected.
Sue Ellen’s mother raked a square of leaves. Then she said, “We need a door to the porch and one to the dining room and lots of windows.” Then she raked away some of the leaves for the doors and windows.
“Oh, oh, I see!” cried Sue Ellen. “Come on, Linda, let’s make the rest of the rooms.” And soon they had a kitchen and a dining room and a living room and two bedrooms and a porch.
When their house was finished, Sue Ellen said, “Now we need some furniture for our house.”
“I know!” declared Linda, clapping her hands. “Let’s get our dolls and doll furniture and play house.”
After the girls had everything arranged, it was time for lunch and their nap. When their naps were over, Sue Ellen and Linda decided to make a different house. So they raked their leaves up into a pile again and made an even grander house.
About three o’clock Sue Ellen’s mother came out and said, “Knock, knock. May I come in?”
“Oh, Mrs. Anderson, how nice to see you,” Sue Ellen answered. “Do come in.”
“Please have a chair,” Linda said.
“Thank you, I will,” Mrs. Anderson replied. And she sat on a little pile of leaves in the living room.
“I came over to ask if you ladies would take tiffin with me.”
“Oh, yes, we’d love to!” they both answered, giggling.
“I have it all ready, and I thought we could have it at your house. I’ll be back in just a minute.” And faster than you can say one, two, three, she was back with a tray of hot chocolate and hot gingerbread men.
After they finished eating, and when Mrs. Anderson was leaving, she said, “What a lovely house you have!”
“We think so,” Sue Ellen and Linda answered. “Thank you very much for tiffin, and do come again tomorrow.”

In October 1959, President Hunter was in Salt Lake City for general conference.
“At the conclusion of the first session, my counselor, Daken K. Broadhead, told me that President David O. McKay’s secretary wanted to see me. …
“President McKay greeted me with a pleasant smile and a warm handshake and then said to me, ‘Sit down Pres. Hunter. I want to talk to you. The Lord has spoken. You are called to be one of the special witnesses, and tomorrow you will be sustained as a member of the Council of Twelve.’”
President Hunter could not speak. Tears came to his eyes as he humbly sat in the presence of “that great, sweet, kindly man—the prophet of the Lord” (Church News, Nov. 16, 1974, p. 5).
The next day, in delivering his first general conference address, President Hunter said, “I want you to know that I have a firm, uncompromising conviction that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that the gospel was restored in this latter dispensation by the instrumentality of the Prophet Joseph Smith. …
“I do not apologize for the tears that come to my eyes on this occasion because I believe that I face friends, my brethren and sisters in the Church, whose hearts beat the same as mine today, in the thrill of the gospel and in service to others” (Improvement Era, Dec. 1959, p. 962).

I remember as a youth walking with my mother up the dusty road to the bishop’s house in a day when we often paid tithing from our animals and produce. As we walked, I said, “Why do we take the eggs to the bishop?” She answered, “Because they are tithing eggs and the bishop receives the tithing for Heavenly Father.” My mother then recounted how each evening when the eggs were brought in, the first one went into a small basket and the next nine went into a large basket. I first learned the law of tithing from my beloved mother.

As the mourning doves cooed, most of her tribe awakened happy for this day. But Little Twist’s lips trembled as she leaned against the wall and pulled at the bark and grass thatching that layered the dome-shaped hut.

“I won’t go today,” she muttered defiantly to herself. “I’d rather be alone, even though it is a feast.” She reached down and tried to rub the ache out of her twisted foot.

Squanto, the Pilgrims’ friend, had brought the message: All Wampanoag Indians were invited to the Plymouth village for a big feast. Chief Massasoit had accepted the invitation for the tribe. She especially remembered that day because her father, one of the tribal leaders, had stroked her loose black hair as he said, “Even you, Little Twist, she who hides from strangers, shall go. We shall show our friendship for our white friends.”

The morning sun warmed her skin, but even the colorful autumn beauty failed to warm her spirits. Standing, Little Twist briskly brushed the dust from her soft deerskin skirt, causing the bottom fringes to dance and swing about her legs.

Looking up, she saw Spotted Fawn walking past the red maples toward the creek. Spotted Fawn was small and graceful, the image of her name. Oh, how Little Twist hated her own name! It never let her forget her deformity for a minute. It was bad enough that she could never join the other children in their games—they weren’t unkind about it, but they ignored her and left her alone.

Why can’t I have a new name, she wondered, one that describes something good about me instead of calling attention to my foot? She tugged at her wampum belt. The touch of the polished beads made her feel better as her fingers traced the intricate pattern. With great patience she had carved the white and purple shells into beads, then strung them carefully under Grandmother’s instruction. When the belt was finished, she was proud of it, and Grandmother had even said that it was the best wampum belt in the village.

In the distance the men of the tribe had gathered. As Little Twist watched them, she noticed that Running Fox, her brother, was helping prepare for the feast with the Pilgrims. She smiled as she saw her father dressed in his new deerskin clothes for the occasion. He truly looked like a tribal leader, and Little Twist was proud as she remembered how she had helped her mother prepare the skins and stitch them together.

“Daughter, why aren’t you helping Grandmother?” Little Twist’s mother interrupted her happier thoughts. “Must I always coax you?”

Her mother’s reprimand hurt, adding to the hurt that she already felt. She could not hold it inside any longer. “I will stay here,” Little Twist told her mother. “I cannot endure the stares that will come when they hear my name and see that I am crippled. It is hard enough to bear the stares of my own people.” With desperation in her eyes, she asked, “Cannot I have a new name? Then maybe people won’t stare at me so.”

“A new name must be earned,” Mother chided her gently. “We will talk about it later. Right now we must think of other things. Please go and help your grandmother.”

Little Twist limped over to where Grandmother stood waiting. Baskets of multicolored Indian maize, green beans, and golden squash lay on the ground next to her feet. “Ah, little one,” she said, “it is time to carry the three sisters to the feast.”

Little Twist couldn’t help but smile back as she gave her usual reply: “Corn, beans, and squash are funny sisters.”

Grandmother’s eyes twinkled, but she just nodded and slowly bent to pick up one basket. “It will be good to give thanks for them and for all the harvest with our new friends.” She squinted against the glaring sun, then walked toward the white man’s village.

Reluctantly Little Twist picked up the other two baskets and shuffled after her. Upon reaching the feast site, she put down her burden where it was sure to be found, then returned to the edge of the clearing and let the dimness of the forest hide her. Resting against a cool boulder, she massaged her tired foot.

The crisp breezes brought her fragrant odors of roasted wild turkey, duck, venison, and other succulent dishes, and hunger rose inside her. Even so, she would rather be hungry than join the feast.

Suddenly Running Fox was standing next to the boulder. Little Twist smiled, always surprised at how her brother found her secret places.

“Our hunters shot five deer for the feast,” he bragged, kneeling next to her and massaging her still-throbbing foot. “Come, little sister. It is time to eat. Afterward you can watch me win the race.”

“I want to stay here,” she told Running Fox. “And races are no fun for me. But I wish you luck.”

“Thank you for your kind wish, Little Twist. But you must come. Father sent me for you. He says that it would be rude for you to stay away.” Standing, Running Fox carefully helped his sister to her feet and steered her to a place where she could feel relatively unnoticed. She flashed him a grateful smile when he brought her a plate of food before leaving to compete in his race.

As the hours passed, Little Twist watched many games and competitions. Finally she began searching for her mother. Approaching the Pilgrims’ cabins, she found her among the women who were laughing together while putting away the leftover food. Their happiness sounded like a flock of songbirds clustering in a berry bush, and Little Twist forgot her foot for a while as she enjoyed their gaiety.

Soon a number of women gathered in a circle at one side of the clearing. Grandmother and Mother and Little Twist went over to see what was happening.

Within the circle, a white woman stood holding an iron kettle. Several fur pieces, moccasins, and shelled necklaces had been placed before her in offering for a trade. The white woman examined them carefully but seemed dissatisfied.

Seeing how long her mother gazed at the iron kettle, Little Twist pulled closer to her and whispered, “A kettle like that would be useful.”

Her mother nodded, then shrugged. “I brought nothing to trade. To interest the white woman one must present something of value, for surely that kettle will not go cheaply.”

Little Twist had only one thing of real value—her wampum belt. But how could she give up her treasured work? And even if she were to offer it in trade, she’d have to walk into the circle, exposing her limp. Pressing her lips firmly together, she unconsciously tried to hide her bad foot behind her good one as she waited to see if anyone’s offer would be accepted.

Unexpectedly Spotted Fawn stepped forward. She carefully stretched her own wampum belt across the grass, displaying her beaded artwork for appraisal.

While everyone else admired the white and purple beads glistening in the sunlight, Little Twist saw that the beading was not as evenly tied as hers. The pattern was a bit unbalanced, and the beads were irregular because the seashells hadn’t been carved small and round enough.

“Ah, little one, what do you think?” Grandmother whispered in her ear.

Little Twist turned and saw Grandmother’s eyes dancing and sparkling as they challenged her. Drawing in her breath for courage, the girl’s fingers shook as she untied her belt, hobbled forward, and placed it next to Spotted Fawn’s.

Silently the white woman studied Little Twist’s belt. Then she reexamined all the trade offers one by one. Finally she made up her mind. With a warm smile she extended the iron kettle to Little Twist and picked up her beautiful wampum belt to complete the trade.

Little Twist was proud and happy as she turned to give the kettle to her mother.

Her mother was equally proud and happy. She stepped into the circle and announced, “My daughter has earned a new name. No more shall she be called Little Twist. Now she shall be known as Seashell.”

For three days the Wampanoags stayed and feasted with the Pilgrims. And during that time the people forgot Little Twist and her crippled foot. Instead, they spoke to and about Seashell, the tribe’s best wampum maker.

My family went on a sailing trip and didn’t see land for over three weeks. After the first two weeks, we were hit by a crazy storm. Our sails broke in the wind, and waves crashed onto the deck, completely submerging the front of the boat. On top of all that, we were almost out of drinking water—so if we survived the storm, we still had that to worry about.
My family crammed down into the only dry part of the boat and prayed for almost an hour. I didn’t know if we’d survive the night, but I knew that, no matter what, I would be with my family because we were sealed together.
When we finished the prayer, we saw that the wind had settled down and the waves had stopped. Soon after, it started pouring rain, which is extremely rare in that part of the ocean. We used a tarp to fill our tanks and miraculously got enough water to finish the trip.
That experience showed me how powerful prayer can be and how much Heavenly Father cares about us. When I think back on that storm, I know the gospel is true and real.

I squinted against the huge snowflakes falling around me as I replaced my gas cap. Even the auto parts store across the street was a mere shadow in the incessant snow. Ducking my head, I tromped through the slush to the door of the Last Stop Gas and Grub.
“Eighteen-fifty on pump six,” I announced, setting a $20 bill on the counter.
“Where you headed?” the cashier, a man in his mid-50s with thinning gray hair, asked.
I pocketed the change. “St. Mary’s Cross.”
“Over the mountain?” He shook his head and chuckled. “The snowplow left 10 minutes ago. He was going up to close the road.”
“Close the road?” I’ve got to get to St. Mary’s Cross tonight. It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“You got family in St. Mary’s?”
I hesitated. “I don’t have any family,” I grumbled bitterly. “I’m seeing a friend.”
“You’re pretty young not to have family,” the man commented.
I shrugged. I had no desire to explain that I’d left home a year and a half ago, two weeks after graduating from high school. I recalled my words as I stormed out the door while Mom and Dad begged me to reconsider: “Stop treating me like a kid!”
It hadn’t been a new conflict, just a continuation of the old one over too many chores, staying out late, reminders about church and seminary, and other festering irritations I had magnified.
Stubborn pride squelched every shadow of regret and made my resolve strong. I had traveled to Phoenix with my best friend, Kevan Powers, and landed a construction job with his Uncle Ray. We had both been fiercely determined to make it on our own. But a year ago November, Kevan had gone soft and crawled home. Now he was in South Korea on a mission. He had even written to me, suggesting that I talk to the bishop and reconsider a mission.
As long as Kevan had been with me, I received letters from home because Mom got my address from Sister Powers. Mom assured me in each letter that every night and morning when everyone knelt for family prayer, I was mentioned. At first I was irritated by her comment, but then I derived a strange comfort from it. I wanted to forget them, but I did not want them to erase me.
When Kevan left, I moved and the letters stopped because Mom didn’t have my address. Oh, I’d started a few letters, but I always ended up tossing them, determined to prove my point. But there were times on Sunday afternoons or Monday evenings when I was alone and couldn’t force my thoughts away from those quiet memories of home.
“Who knows when the road will open,” the cashier said. “My name’s Burt. Both our motels are already full, but you can stay here as long as you want. I don’t have anyplace to go. It’s just me and the wife, and she’s visiting family in Denver.”
I looked around. Across the aisle from the register was a long snack bar. The back wall was a series of glass doors opening to the beverage coolers. There were a couple of aisles with chips, candies, and emergency items.
“I wish there was a better selection of sandwiches and eats,” Burt remarked, “but folks cleaned me out earlier.”
I peered out the window as a white car trailing a gray haze from the exhaust chugged up to one of the pumps. “That car needs a good doctor,” Burt commented. “Or maybe a mortician.”
A woman I guessed to be in her late 20s stepped from the car and started pumping gas. She was joined by a seven-year-old boy in short sleeves who sloshed casually through the snow toward the store. The woman hung up the hose, snatched a little girl from the back seat, and charged toward the store. The three burst inside at the same time.
“Five dollars,” she gasped, pushing a wrinkled bill across the counter as the boy and girl wandered toward the candy. “Mark, we don’t have money for treats. We have to get to St. Mary’s.”
“Nothing’s going over that mountain, ma’am,” Burt announced. “Road’s closed.”
“Closed?” she moaned. “It can’t be. Not tonight.”
“You can stay here,” Burt added sympathetically. “This young fellow is.” He nodded toward me, but I looked away. “I’m Burt. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Melanie Parkes,” the lady muttered. Although she looked a bit haggard, she was pretty. But there was also a shade of hardness about her eyes and mouth.
“I’ve got to make it to St. Mary’s Cross,” she said. “I have a job starting the day after Christmas. I have to move into my apartment before then.”
“Are you having car trouble?” Burt asked.
“It just has to get me to St. Mary’s. After that I don’t care.”
For the next 20 minutes Burt puttered about his store and Melanie, her two kids, and I browsed up and down the aisles and watched the snow bury the world outside.
Retreating to the couch in the waiting area, I slumped down and closed my eyes. I was haunted by the memory of my Christmas a year ago. I’d spent it alone, suffocating on solitude while everyone else was with family.
I’d been determined to avoid another Christmas alone, so when Jace Peters called me and invited me to spend Christmas in St. Mary’s, I jumped at the chance. I had just finished a job in Colorado and was going to start another one in Las Vegas the Monday after New Year’s, so I had some free time.
Someone sat on the couch next to me. “It’s Christmas tomorrow,” a boy’s voice spoke.
“Mark, shhhhhh. The man’s resting.”
My eyes opened a crack. Melanie sat in the nearest booth with her little girl, peeling the plastic wrap from a hoagie sandwich. Mark didn’t move. “He’s not bothering anything,” I murmured.
For a long time Mark sat next to me without speaking. I pretended to sleep to discourage conversation. Finally I sat up and glared toward the window.
“This year I don’t think I’m getting anything for Christmas,” Mark whispered so his mom and Tracie couldn’t hear. “Ever since Dad left us last summer, it’s been pretty tough. Mom says things will get better, but she doesn’t want me to plan on anything. She says Santa won’t know where we are since we’re moving around a lot.” He thought a moment and added, “But I don’t believe in Santa. My friend Brandon explained all that Santa stuff to me last summer.”
Mark had big brown eyes that peeked out from under his thick, ruffled mop of long hair. I looked away because he reminded me too much of my youngest brother, Tanner. I wondered what Tanner was doing tonight. I wasn’t in the habit of feeling sorry for anybody, but I felt a twinge of pain for this little guy, who was bracing himself for Christmas morning instead of being wild with anticipation.
“A guy can be wrong about something like Santa,” I remarked.
“You don’t have to try to make me feel good,” he said, sounding older than his years. “Mom talked to me. But I’m okay. Where’s your family?”
“I don’t have a family.” The words were out before I even had a chance to think about them. I’d grown accustomed to telling people that lie, but I felt bad about repeating it to Mark. “Let’s just say I don’t have a family anymore,” I muttered.
A worm of guilt twisted inside me as a picture of the family flashed in my mind. They would be kneeling around the kitchen table about now. It wouldn’t matter who prayed. Whoever did would make the plea: “And, Heavenly Father, please bless C. J. wherever he is and help him to know we care.”
“You’re not getting anything for Christmas either?” Mark asked. The question took me off guard. I thought of my self-purchased Christmas out in the truck. I’d bought a top-of-the-line radio, CD, and tape player. I had picked out a new jacket, a pair of binoculars, a new watch, and several other smaller items as though things could purchase peace and ward off loneliness. Suddenly I was irritated for wasting my money.
I stood up and began thinking of home, only 180 miles away. But I couldn’t go back there, not without turning soft like Kevan. Besides, what would I say to them if I walked through the door? I shook my head, knowing I wouldn’t have to say anything. Mom, Dad, Tanner, and all the others would say everything. There would be no criticism—just open arms and welcome. But I couldn’t do that.
It was the waiting that was driving me crazy. I glanced outside again and my gaze went to Melanie’s car. I turned back to her where she sat in the booth with Tracie dozing in her arms. “You want me to take a look at your car?” I offered. “I’m a pretty good mechanic.”
Melanie smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t think anybody can do much with it. It’s been choking and jerking for days now. And I don’t have any money to fix it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need much,” I grinned. “And I work cheap. Give me your keys and I’ll have a look.”
Mark followed me outside. Five minutes was enough to confirm Melanie’s suspicions. “It needs a new air filter. The fuel filter and pump need changing. The carburetor could use some work. I’ve got a tool chest in my truck but no parts. I could do something if that store across the street were open and …”
“The guy that owns that parts store is my neighbor,” Burt spoke up. “He owes me a favor or two.” He reached for the phone.
“No,” Melanie called out, “I don’t have any money.”
I smiled and shrugged. “It’ll only cost a few bucks. I’ll cover you. It’ll be my Christmas present to you.”
Melanie protested, but Burt ignored her and called his friend. I ended up buying the filters and pump, four quarts of oil, solution to clean the carburetor, and new spark plugs. I worked for the next two hours. When I was finished, I was surprised by the way the car sounded, even though my hands were numb and I was wet clear through. But there was a strange warmth too, reminding me of another time and place.
“Christmas is the Savior’s season,” Dad used to say. “It’s not so much about bright lights and tinsel as it is about helping folks out. That’s what the Savior would do. It’s the service that softens men’s hearts and opens their eyes to Christ.”
“It doesn’t sound like the same car,” Burt commented, grinning at Melanie. “You might make it to St. Mary’s after all.”
Melanie had tears in her eyes. “How can I ever thank you?” she choked. “I’ll pay you every penny as soon as I get a few things squared away.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Shoot, I’d have gone crazy sitting around in here with nothing to do. Forget it.”
“I guess you’re our Santa,” she said.
It was midnight and the road was still closed. Mark and his sister were sacked out on the sofa, and Melanie had rigged a makeshift bed in the booth.
I couldn’t rid my mind of Melanie’s forlorn remark that I was the only Santa they’d have this Christmas. I puzzled over their predicament.
Soon the coat, the CD player, the binoculars, and the watch were arranged neatly on the table with all the other items and a scrawled note: “To Melanie, Mark, and Tracie.”
As I stared at the small collection of gifts, I thought of home. “There ought to be a tree,” I commented softly to Burt.
“The store down the street has one. Maybe they’d let you borrow theirs,” Burt said.
I didn’t even wait to think about it. I just headed that way. When I entered the convenience store, there were a half-dozen truckers standing around complaining about the weather. I spotted a small, four-foot artificial tree in the corner. Next to it was a giant three-foot-tall white Christmas bear. I thought of Tracie.
“Um, what’s the chance of borrowing the Christmas tree for an hour?” I hesitated as I spoke to the cashier.
“The tree’s not for sale,” the man responded.
I wet my lips and glanced about self-consciously as several of the truckers stopped talking and listened. “I just want to take it down the street.” The cashier shook his head. In desperation I pressed, “It’s not for me. It’s for a lady and her little boy and girl. They’re stuck here until the road opens.” The man still shook his head. “I just want to give them a little Christmas,” I burst out. “I thought the tree …”
“It’s not for sale,” the man growled.
“He just wants to borrow it,” a big trucker snarled. “It’s Christmas, man.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Maybe I’ll just take it,” the trucker threatened. “What would you do then?”
“Yeah, just take it,” another trucker called out, laughing.
“Take the bear too,” a third trucker said, chuckling. “The little girl will like it. I’ll even help pay for it.”
“I’ll sell the bear,” the cashier volunteered, attempting cooperation in the face of this sudden support for me.
“I’ll throw a few bucks in to buy a little girl the bear,” a trucker said.
I stood there in shock as these rough, grumpy men bought the bear and a couple of bags filled with soft drinks and treats. They then took up a collection of money. Soon they were laughing and goading each other into contributing more until I had a plastic bag with about a hundred dollars. Caught up in the Christmas euphoria, I put in another 50 of my own. Even the cashier pulled out a five and tossed it into the bag.
Two of the truckers helped me carry the bear, the tree, and the bags of treats back to Burt’s place. Melanie and her kids were still asleep when we crept in. Burt helped us set up the tree and arrange the gifts. “Everybody’s got to have a Christmas,” he whispered, winking.
I was almost too excited to sleep, anxiously anticipating Melanie and her kids’ surprise, but I eventually dozed off. The next thing I knew there were squeals of surprise and wonder. I jerked awake, and there was Mark staring at me through the binoculars.
“I don’t understand,” Melanie said. Tracie, clutching the bear, picked up the sack of money and flung it into Melanie’s lap. “But where? And how?”
I felt a lump in my throat. “And you said there wasn’t a Santa Claus,” I grumbled at Mark, unable to keep the smile from my lips. “Even in a blizzard he found you.”
“I guess a guy can be wrong,” he answered sincerely.
I stood and ruffled his hair and couldn’t prevent the mental picture of what was going to happen in a few hours with my own brothers and sisters. Suddenly more than anything I wanted to be there. I wanted to feel all of that again. “How are you going to get all this loot into that car? Your mom will have to leave you and your little sister behind.”
For the next 15 minutes the kids went crazy. Mark insisted that Melanie try on the jacket, Tracie hugged the giant bear, and everybody ate candy and drank soda. That’s when the snowplow pulled up. The driver stomped in for a drink and announced, “The road over the mountain is open. You have to take it slow, though. If anybody’s going, I’m heading that way.”
There was a mad scramble to get everything crammed into Melanie’s car. Burt assured me that he’d return the tree to the store. Melanie walked over to me as I started brushing the snow from my windshield. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she accused, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It was Christmas enough when you fixed the car. But then all this?”
I coughed. “You’re as bad as Mark,” I said. “You should believe in Santa. Sometimes good things just happen.”
“This wasn’t Santa Claus. This was better than Santa Claus. This is what Christmas is all about.” She reached up and put her arms around my neck and then kissed me once on the cheek. “That’s for your mom. She’d do it if she were here. You’re the greatest guy, and I don’t even know your name or where you’re from. All I know is that you’re God’s gift to me and my family on this very special Christmas.”
“Are you going to follow us?” Mark asked me. “We’ll see each other in St. Mary’s, won’t we?”
I studied Mark and then glanced at his mom. I looked toward the road leading to St. Mary’s Cross and then glanced back the other way. With the roads bad, it would be at least four hours, maybe more. It would mean saying I was sorry and turning soft, just like Kevan, but that didn’t matter any more. I had softened, and it felt good.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to St. Mary’s,” I answered. “I guess I’m going the other way.”
“The other way?” Mark questioned, surprised. “Why?”
“I’m going home. A guy ought to go home for Christmas.”
“But you said you didn’t have a home.”
I smiled. “And you said that sometimes a guy can be wrong.” I gave him a thumbs-up sign and added, “Take care of your mom and Tracie, Mark. And you have a merry Christmas.” And then I climbed into my truck and headed home.