sMall tHoughts

Be➜Do➜Have

2012-01-15T20:41:00.002-07:00

I was recently introduced to the idea of Be➜Do➜Have. The concept has evidently been around for awhile in various forms. The basic premise is this: Before we can have we must first do. That seems obvious. The part I thought was most relevant was the idea that before we do, we must first be.

Another way of thinking about this is what we sometimes we refer to as having an eye of faith. One of my favorite verses in Ether 12 is verse nineteen: "And there were many whose faith was so exceedingly strong, even before Christ came, who could not be kept from within the veil, but truly saw with their eyes the things which they had beheld with an eye of faith, and they were glad."

In other words, they "saw" the thing they desired with spiritual eyes before they saw it with their physical eyes. It is no different for me.

As I work toward having goals, dreams and desires come true, I'm slowly learning that I must first be the person I want to become. Who I am will then affect in a much more permanent way what I do and will likewise determine what I have. Elder Scott's wonderful insight comes again to mind: "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become each day."

I think this could have significant implications in my life. This is a simple sequence to understand, but a hard one to deeply absorb. Being what it is I want to become is hard work and ripe with opportunities to make mistakes or to fall short. Having the understanding that I must first be whom I want to become will hopefully help me to more resolutely do. This will then help me to get the things I want to have. Something to chew on...

Laying hold on "every good thing"

2012-01-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

A question I often wrestle with is this: How do I get the things I want? By things I don't mean "things," i.e. stuff. I mean dreams, hopes, desires, longings, goals. The things I think about when there's nothing else to think about.

The next question then comes close behind: Does God want me to have the things that I want to have?

Yes. Absolutely. 100%. Without question.

"God is anxiously waiting for the chance to answer your prayers and fulfill your dreams, just as He always has. But He can't if you don't pray, and He can't if you don't dream. In short, He can't if you don't believe.”Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

So how is it done? How has God made a way for us to "lay hold on every good thing"? Mormon asks just this question:

And now, my brethren, how is it possible that ye can lay hold upon every good thing?

And now I come to that faith, of which I said I would speak; and I will tell you the way whereby ye may lay hold on every good thing.

For behold, God knowing all things, being from everlasting to everlasting, behold, he sent angels to minister unto the children of men, to make manifest concerning the coming of Christ; and in Christ there should come every good thing. (Moroni 7:20-22)

In Christ there should come every good thing. Including the things that I want and wish for. My hopes, dreams and desires.

Men and women who turn their lives over to God will find out that he can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He will deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their souls, raise up friends, and pour out peace.

God loves us, he's watching us, he wants us to succeed, and we'll know someday that he has not left one thing undone for the eternal welfare of each of us. If we only knew that there are heavenly hosts pulling for us--friends in heaven, whom we can't remember now, who yearn for our victory. This is our day to show what we can do--what life and sacrifice we can daily, hourly, instantly bring to God. If we give our all, we will get his all from the greatest of all. President Ezra Taft Benson

If I turn my dreams and desires over to Jesus Christ, I have the promise of Jesus Christ's help in obtaining them.

As I think about the year ahead and about goals yet to be reached, I take hope in the knowledge I have that "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." He wants me to "lay hold on every good thing." He is able to show me what I should do, where I should go, and whom I should know.

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back-- Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now." W. H. Murray

Merry Christmas Everyone!

2011-12-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

More Important Than Santa

2011-12-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

By Susan S. Spackman

On the morning that Santa was coming to preschool, my daughter, Eliza, woke up early and was ready hours before preschool, which would start at 11:00 A.M. At about 8:00 A.M. Brenda, one of the young sisters in our ward whom I visit teach, telephoned me to see if I could take her to the doctor because the person who was going to do it had the flu. Brenda, who was only 24, had cancer. She said it was a routine visit and would only take 20 minutes. I was happy to help. Since the appointment was at 9:00 A.M., I was certain we could be back in plenty of time for the Santa party. After all, Eliza was ready to go.

When I saw Brenda, she seemed to be worse than I remembered. She was so sick and frail that she couldn’t walk without help. It took my breath away to help her into the car. When we arrived at the doctor’s office, we found out he was going to be late. By 10:00 A.M. I was starting to get worried. Santa would be at the preschool at 11:30 A.M. for a 30-minute visit. If I had known we’d have to wait so long, I could have arranged for someone else to take Eliza. I felt torn knowing how much Brenda needed me yet not wanting Eliza to miss the party.

Eliza did not complain. In fact, she sat by Brenda and talked to her about the pictures in the magazines. They always got along well. Brenda especially enjoyed it since she was anxious to have a family of her own. At 10:50 A.M., Brenda finally got in to see her doctor. It seemed to take forever. By 11:15 A.M. I was rushing a weak and nauseated Brenda to the car. She could barely make it.

I said, “Well, just let me get Eliza to preschool, and then I’ll take you home.” I probably sounded slightly impatient.

Once on the freeway, Brenda asked me to stop. I pulled over just in time for her to get out of the car, crouch down, and throw up. I got out of the car and stood beside her. She was so sick, and I felt helpless and frustrated. My daughter didn’t say a word. She could see that we were stopped in freeway traffic with emergency lights flashing and cars zooming past. Finally, Brenda was able to get back into the car. By now it was 11:45 A.M. Eliza would miss the party. It seemed that I could do nothing for either Brenda or Eliza.

Once at Brenda’s apartment, we helped her get situated on the couch, where she could stay until her husband came home. I fixed her some broth, and then we left. In the car I had just started to apologize to Eliza when she said, “Mommy, it’s OK. Brenda is more important than Santa Claus.”

I felt such love for Eliza as I heard those words. They put the whole morning into perspective and reminded me of what I already knew: Brenda was more important than Santa Claus.

Unexpected Guest

2011-12-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

By Elsie May Rock

Monday morning is usually taken up with washday chores. But on the Monday before Christmas my thoughts were on the lovely Christmas centerpiece I wanted to make. I felt compelled to drop everything and make the journey to purchase the materials.

Preparing to cross the road to the bus stop, I suddenly changed my mind and decided to walk. I had gone two-thirds of the way when I saw a lady coming toward me in a self-propelled wheelchair. She was not a member of the Church, but I recognized her as the spokesman for the elderly citizens of the borough in thanking our ward for the yearly concert we presented for them.

I greeted her, and as we chatted I learned that she would be alone at Christmas. So that was why I had felt prompted to go out that morning! I invited her to join with our family. The decorations were unimportant now, though I did continue on and purchase them.

Then, having committed myself to an extra guest, I panicked. What would my nonmember husband say? We had already invited six relatives to come (two were elderly and two were children), in addition to our household of four. How would they all respond?

At first my husband was not comfortable with the idea at all. Christmas is a time for family, he reminded me, and this lady was a complete stranger. Yet I felt she had been sent to us by inspiration, so I fasted and prayed about it and asked my Relief Society visiting teachers to do the same. By the next day there was a sunny atmosphere in our home again, and the coming of our special guest was accepted by all.

We enjoyed sharing our Christmas with her. She brought a sweet spirit into the house with her testimony of the Savior. As she testified to our nonmember relatives of her belief in the second coming of Christ, I was able to concur with her faith and to explain much more of the gospel than had ever been possible before. Our new friend had paved the way.

The Christmas Cup

2011-12-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Christmas Cup

By Wayne G. Geilman

It was Christmas Eve and we’d all met at grandpa’s house. From his big rocking chair by the fire, grandpa presided over the exchange of small gifts, told jokes, and selected songs for us to sing. My gift was a plastic wallet with a horse’s head on the side of it. It was just about time for grandpa to bring out his homemade pink popcorn when my mother said, “Father, why don’t you tell the children about your Christmas cup?”

The smile on grandpa’s face changed to a look of quiet reverence. Then he rose from his chair and walked out to the kitchen. He stretched his large frame to the top shelf of the cupboard, and we could hear the clinking of glasses; then his big hands came back holding a small white cup.

Actually, it was more of a mug than a cup, and there was a small brown crack at the lip. As he walked past me, I could see yellowing stains of glue around the handle, extending almost to the bottom.

Grandpa moved back to his chair, and when he opened his hands we could see a small pink and yellow flower on the side of the bone-white china. He turned the cup slowly in his hands, and his eyes got misty beneath his grey-white mantle of hair.

“This cup was given to me many years ago,” he said, looking into the fire for a moment, “when I was a small boy.”

Then the words began to come easier, and as grandpa told us about his father, his deep rich voice carried us back to the time of sailing ships and steam trains, to the memory of horsecarts and cold, lonely nights by the fire. We crossed the Atlantic with him to America and watched his father fasten rivets in the boiler works of New Jersey. We saw the way the lead lining of those boilers poisoned and sapped my great-grandfather’s strength. We came west with great-grandfather as he lay strands of steel all the way to Utah; and having reached here, collapsed.

“Times were hard when I was a little boy,” grandpa told us. “I remember waking up one twenty-fourth of December and heating mother and father talking in the other room.

“‘But Ben, it’s five miles to town, and the snow will make it seem even longer,’ I heard my mother say.

“I looked out the door and saw mother hand my father the last dime we had and kiss his cheek and tell him to be careful. Then I went to the window and watched as father went out to the shed and got one of the old wooden chairs, flung it over his shoulder as a windshield, and started out over the snow-covered field. I watched as he sat by the fence at the edge of the field for a moment and let the snow swirl around him, and I wondered. Soon he picked up the chair and was gone, blending into the whiteness of the day.

“I did my chores that day trying not to think of Christmas, for I knew that St. Nicholas would not find our house that year. I went to bed wondering where father had gone, for he had not come home all day.

“But when morning came—” grandpa cleared his throat and was silent for a time. “When morning came I went out, and there, sitting beside the fire on that old wooden chair was my father. He turned to me and said, ‘Merry Christmas, son.’ And he handed me this cup.”

Grandpa held the cup high over his head.

We all sat still and looked for a moment, then one by one we edged up to grandpa and lovingly touched the Christmas cup.

Happy double-digit day, Caleb!

2011-12-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

Can this little guy really be 10? Truly the most amazing ten year-old I know. You keep us constantly on our toes, Mister Caleb. And we love you more every day. Happy birthday, Super Cal Cliff Harris Xu Dan Zhong. Love, dad and mom

Bavarian Memory

2011-12-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

Bavarian Memory

By Margaret O. Dayton

I was a little annoyed with daddy’s suggestion. For years it had been family tradition to go caroling on Christmas Eve. We had done that ever since there had been enough people in the family for at least two to sing one part, and it was our way of extending greetings to our neighbors. But this Christmas Eve, daddy didn’t really feel like caroling. Instead, he suggested a visit to the cemetery.

That year we were living in beautiful Bavaria, a southern state of Germany tucked away in the Alps. Our family had tried to learn the language and enjoy the area’s culture and traditions. We often visited little villages, Bavarian families, and places of interest away from traditional tourist routes. So a suggestion to visit the cemetery was unusual only because it came on Christmas Eve.

Bundled in our heavy coats and warm scarves, we walked up the narrow, winding road to the village churchyard. Although we had often passed chalets connected to living quarters for animals, tonight these homes seemed very much in keeping with the tradition of the season—reminiscent of that first Christmas when travelers shared quarters with the cattle.

When we reached the top of the hill, we could hear soft music coming from the steepled church. We passed the church and went on to the little cemetery tucked behind it. Although there were other families there, all was reverent and quiet. We gazed wonderingly at the scene around us.

On every grave was some Christmas remembrance: beautiful wreaths, burning candles, fresh flowers, miniature evergreens with lighted ornaments, even carvings of the nativity. We learned that these villagers wanted to celebrate Christmas with those of their loved ones who had preceded them in death. Their hearts ached for these family members, and so they had brought Christmas to the cemetery.

With only the noise of crunching snow, we silently left, almost feeling like intruders on a sacred family occasion.

The events of that Christmas Eve took on added meaning for me the next year in the winter beauty of Utah Valley. Daddy had died during the preceding year, and no one really felt like holding to the family caroling tradition; emotions were still too close to the surface. So mother gathered us children together, and again we made a trip to the cemetery. We took with us a German wreath. Our family was alone this time; no one was there to hear our songs of Christ’s birth as we placed the wreath on daddy’s grave. Around us was a thick blanket of fog, shrouding us in its quiet mystery, and we could not see much beyond the edges of the cemetery—as if the world ended there.

But oh, what joy filled our hearts as we remembered we were celebrating Christmas, that because of the Savior the world is more than it was, that life does not end with the burial of the body, and that our loved one is not alone! There, in the cemetery, remembering daddy, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, our Hope, our Redeemer; and the peace of his message was a great salve for our loneliness.

How grateful I am for those Christmas Eve experiences, for the memories they evoke, and for the increased appreciation for our Savior that they gave me.

The Most Beautiful Gift

2011-12-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Most Beautiful Gift

By Peggy Britton

Our Wendy is a very spiritual little girl. Her faith is so strong that she has helped me through many difficult times, and I have thanked my Heavenly Father often for her sweet spirit. I especially remember a rewarding experience with Wendy one Christmas when she was seven.

I have always loved Christmas—the snow, the music that fills the air, the laughter of children. But that year was different. It seemed as if everything I had to do was just too much bother. I didn’t want to make Christmas cookies. I put off shopping for gifts; my heart wasn’t in it, and everything I wanted to buy was either too expensive or they didn’t have the right color or size. Our three children had taken turns being ill since the end of October, ten-year-old Andy being the latest casualty. I was depressed and tired, mentally and physically.

Wendy had earned her own money for shopping that year, and she was really excited on the day I took her and five-year-old Brady downtown. The stores were crowded, and Brady wanted everything he saw and became cross with me when I kept telling him NO. I was getting tired and upset myself. Wendy seemed to take forever finishing her shopping, but at last it was over and we started home.

“Mommy, can I wrap my gift for you as soon as we get home?” Wendy asked.

“No, I don’t want the mess of wrapping all over the house today,” I answered, a little too sharply. Through the rear-view mirror I saw her bright blue eyes cloud with disappointment.

Once home, Wendy gathered up her packages and went to her room to hide her Christmas surprises. She remained quiet the rest of the day, which is unusual for a normally happy little chatterbox. In the evening I finally put my arms around her, feeling bad about the way I had acted all day. Even my husband couldn’t bring me out of my dour mood, which surprised him; I’m usually the lighthearted one. Something was missing, something very important.

The next morning Wendy asked again if she could wrap her gift for me. I told her that after my housework was done she could do her wrapping, but she had to clean up every speck of paper, ribbon, or tape when she finished. She joined in to help me finish the housework and then went to her room to begin her gift wrapping. The boys had done nothing but fight all morning so I sent them to their room. The phone rang constantly.

When Wendy brought her gifts in and placed them under the tree, her eyes were bright and happy once again. “I put your present under the tree,” she said.

“That’s nice,” I replied, busy with dinner.

“It’s the most beautiful gift in the world, mommy,” she said.

“I’m sure it is, honey,” I answered.

“I wish you would open it now.”

“Not now, Wendy. You know we don’t open gifts until Christmas morning.”

Her face again betrayed her disappointment. After dinner she sat by the tree holding my gift in her lap. She seemed miles away. I thought, if it means that much to her, why not open it? it won’t hurt, this once.

I went in to sit by her. “All right,” I said, “I’ll open your gift early, but just this once.” Her face lit up again.

I took the odd-shaped package that she had wrapped so lovingly and began to unwrap it. When the paper was off, I sat staring at it. I could feel a lump rising in my throat and tears stinging my eyes, Her little voice was echoing in my mind, “It’s the most beautiful gift in the world, mommy.”

“Don’t you like it, mommy?” she asked, seeing my tears.

I held the little nativity scene she had given me in one hand and hugged her close to me with the other.

So that was why I had been depressed. In all the hustle and bustle of the season, I had forgotten what Christmas really means: the birth of Jesus and his message of peace on earth, good will toward men; the coming of the Son of God into the world to redeem mankind and extend the blessings of eternity to all. Suddenly my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. Something was restored that I had lost along the way. Through tears I managed to answer her, “This is the most beautiful gift in the world. It always will be!”

$7,000 by Christmas

2011-12-19T09:45:00.001-07:00

$7,000 by Christmas

By Anne Castleton Busath

The talent auction where my sister Sue impulsively bid $20 to hear our own mother do an imitation of Jessie Evans Smith’s singing was my earliest memory of our building fund projects. Several years later, I baked over one thousand cornmeal muffins for another project. Large building fund projects were just a part of being an active member of the Church before other methods of financing building projects were established.

By 1970, when I was seventeen, we’d built the first phase of our building (font, kitchen, classrooms, and multipurpose area), nearly depleting the building fund even though many hours of labor had been donated. The multipurpose area was too small almost as soon as we moved in. So even with our depleted fund, we started on the second phase, a chapel.

By the end of October the chapel was completed, but $7,000 was still outstanding. The ward leaders decided not to use it until it was paid for, set Christmas as the goal for occupancy, and bolted the doors.

One Sunday dad stayed long after Sunday School. By the time we sat down to dinner, our stomachs were growling in unison. Dad and mother, Haydn, Laird, and Brandt sat on one side of the table, with Sarah, Sydney, Sue, and me on the piano bench. McCune was away at college. Then dad prayed, alluding mysteriously to goals and a new opportunity. As we fell to eating, dad announced that a family council would convene when the meal was over.

He began it with an announcement in his I’m-not-saying-this-twice voice. “The ward council has met and settled on a plan to pay for the chapel by Christmas. If we make it, we’re planning a special service in the chapel on Christmas morning. Part 1 is to raise $2,000 at a $20-a-plate Thanksgiving dinner. Elaine, I wonder if you’d consider accompanying me? We’d love any of you children to join us, but you must pay your own way. Part 2 is to raise the other $5,000 by giving all the money we would ordinarily spend on Christmas to the building fund.”

Five-year-old Sydney broke the silence. “How will Santa Claus know not to come?” After that, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask “if,” and we voted unanimously to support the plan.

As Thanksgiving got closer, the aroma in our home was as enticing as ever because Mother had been assigned to make the pumpkin pies. Haydn at thirteen was the only one of us to go to the dinner with mother and dad, and was the youngest in the branch to pay for his own meal.

When McCune came home from college, he spearheaded a family pep rally and brainstorming session. Brandt thought of ingenious ways to get money from mother and dad for jobs we ordinarily did for free. Mother suggested that we hire out as neighborhood odd-jobbers. McCune volunteered to write our relatives about our project, suggesting they send money in place of gifts. Laird thought we could still make gifts for each other using household materials and scraps. Sue thought we should give gifts of love by doing things that the receiver would ordinarily have to do, such as taking out the garbage for Brandt, practicing the drums for Laird, or trying to get a date for me. It began to look like we could have a semblance of Christmas after all.

Within the next few days I noticed Laird and Brandt disappearing into the basement to emerge hours later wearing secretive smiles. Laird declared, “No one can make me tell what I’ve been doing in the basement with wood, glue, and raw kidney beans.” Sarah and Syd invaded the scrap drawer, pirating ribbons, bows, and scrap paper, while Sue and I secluded ourselves in the sewing room.

It must have been McCune who first thought of the dollhouse for Sarah and Syd. Dad came up with the wood scraps, the know-how, the paint, and the patience. Mother provided the blueprint and artistic vision. When we got started, the girls’ bedtime got earlier as everyone else’s got later. Their complaints competed with the boys’ pounding in the garage. Mother taught Sue and me to be meticulous as we made drapes, lamps, and bedspreads to scale.

Meanwhile we collected money from babysitting, odd jobs, newspaper routes, housecleaning, and snow shoveling. We never knew how the building fund drive was progressing, and until Christmas Day we didn’t know if we’d raised enough. But I remember putting my $40 in a donation envelope and proudly giving it to our branch president, satisfied that I would never have spent quite that much on Christmas.

Christmas Eve, always a night filled with family traditions, found us acting out the Nativity story. After reading the second chapter of Luke, we had family prayer and unceremoniously hustled Sarah and Syd off to bed, with sad predictions about how tomorrow would be different from all other Christmases because there wouldn’t be any presents.

Dad and the boys carried in the dollhouse and placed it on the window seat where they would see it first thing from the stairs. It was two stories high with a flight of stairs, wallpaper in the bedrooms, furniture varnished and upholstered, and a bright red roof. Mother stood back, directing us on the exact placement of the tiny furnishings. We proudly surveyed our handiwork and unanimously decided that a more wonderful dollhouse couldn’t be found in any store. Dad wryly concurred: “I can’t think of any store that would sell a dollhouse like ours either!”

Our Christmas Eve sleep was deep, undisturbed by extravagant expectations.

We awoke to “Joy to the World” and dad marshalling the boys out of their bunks. In bathrobes and in order, youngest to oldest, we pranced around at the top of the stairs, while downstairs dad made an elaborate and noisy pretense of checking the living room and making sure that each string of lights on the tree was lit. While coming slowly back up the stairs, dad admonished us to be sure that each gift had our name on it before we ripped it open. Then he led us, very deliberately, down the stairs, stopping every step or two to give additional advice designed, we knew, to drive us crazy.

When the little girls caught sight of the dollhouse, they squealed and established immediate ownership of a bedroom each, and ran back upstairs to get their dolls.

With great effort, we persuaded them to join us in our living room so we could open presents, an amazing abundance of them in homey, homely birthday wrappings.

Between each round of presents, we sang a Christmas carol—picking the shortest songs and accelerating the tempo. The basement mystery was solved when I opened Laird’s six-sectioned letter holder (with four sections for all the free things I sent for) decorated with a background of glued-on kidney beans and my name traced in white rice. Brandt had made a wood-on-wood wall plaque. If I would but take the trouble to paint the wood butterfly blue, it would blend nicely in my yellow and orange bedroom.

By the time the mound of used and reused wrapping paper was over Sydney’s head, it was time for church. I dressed with care and then combed the girls’ hair, while they pranced with excitement and bombarded me with questions. “Could I take a doll’s bed to church? I won’t look at it once, I promise.” “Will Reagan feel bad if I tell her we got a dollhouse?” “What if the church is all locked up?” “Do you think they’d let us in even if there was only $6,999.50?”

In the car, we urged dad to hurry and insisted that the trees outside just weren’t going by fast enough. By the time the fifteen-minute trip was over we fairly burst out of the car and raced to the doors.

There was the chapel—doors wide open, shiny, beautiful, and ours. Members of the branch greeted each other like the brothers and sisters we had truly become. Even with all the excitement, it wasn’t hard to be reverent as we left the foyer and entered the spacious chapel.

During the service we all took turns expressing our feelings and experiences. From the eighty-year-old grandmothers down to the five-year-old boys, we all had had a wonderful Christmas. We had given ourselves, in honor of our Elder Brother, the best Christmas ever.

Alone and Freezing

2011-12-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Alone and Freezing

By Leness Keller

It was a week before Christmas, and I was finishing my day’s work. The half-moon in the sky was shining on the snow as I fed the animals and then brought an armload of wood into the house. The thermometer read fifteen degrees. I sat down to read the paper as I do every evening. It was warm and cozy, and the Christmas tree lights seemed to make the room more comfortable than usual.

Then the thought came to me, “You haven’t done your home teaching yet.” It’s very cold tonight, I protested, and I haven’t made arrangements with my young companion. I settled back to read, but once again the thought came to me, “You had better go home teaching.” Realizing it was a prompting from the Spirit, I put aside the paper and called David Kunz, my home teaching partner, who agreed to go with me.

At the Baxter home I noticed Brother Baxter’s truck was gone. Sister Baxter looked worried. “Where’s Lyman?” I asked.

“My husband went fishing this afternoon up at the reservoir and hasn’t returned yet. I’m really concerned,” she said.

“Let’s go see if we can find him,” I suggested to David.

We left immediately and drove to the Lamont Reservoir, a mile or so from town. On the south side of the reservoir we noticed a brown pickup truck parked about thirty feet from the water’s edge. As we pulled up behind it, we noticed the engine was running.

“Can you see Lyman?” I asked.

“I think he’s under the truck!” David exclaimed. “I can see his feet sticking out.”

We jumped out and ran to him. “Lyman, what’s the problem?” I heard a faint moan.

We pulled him out from under his truck and noticed that his hands and head were scraped and bleeding. His clothes were wet and nearly frozen, and he was almost unconscious. I opened the truck door and said, “Let’s try to get him inside.” The weight of his limp body and wet, frozen clothes made this task very difficult.

“You drive my truck, and I’ll drive Lyman’s,” I told David. As we drove, I tried to get Lyman to talk.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

He only mumbled, “… don’t know … sure cold!”

As we pulled into the Baxter driveway, Sister Baxter hurried out to the truck and said, “Lyman, should we take you to the hospital?”

“No, just help me into the house.” As his feet touched the ground, his legs collapsed, so we carried him in and helped him out of his wet clothes and into bed.

The next morning I drove back to the reservoir and found the fishing pole—with a trout hooked firmly to the line! I stopped by the Baxters to give Lyman his fishing pole, complete with fish. “What happened last night?” I asked him.

He had stepped from his warm truck, he said, to check his fishing rod. As he stooped to pick it up, his leg slipped and buckled, pitching him into the water. The shock of the icy water immediately

paralyzed him from the chest down. He grabbed at the sharp rocks along the water’s edge, cutting his hands and face, and finally managed to drag himself up the embankment and over to his truck. Once there, he was too weak to get in. He pulled himself under the truck, hoping for warmth from the running motor.

And there we had found him, just in time to save his life. Our Christmas gift to the Baxter family that year was a simple willingness to put aside the warm comfort of a fire on a cold evening and follow the promptings of the Spirit to do our home teaching.

Prompted to Bring One More

2011-12-16T18:04:00.000-07:00

Prompted to Bring One More

By Irma de MacKenna

We can seldom foresee how the Lord will make us instruments in his hands. One year when my visiting teaching companion was out of town, my daughter Elizabeth went with me on my visits. It was Christmastime, so we baked cookies, wrapped them in cellophane, tied them with red ribbon, and attached a pine sprig. Then we put all these little gifts in a bag and had a prayer together. At the last minute I felt a strong prompting and slipped in an extra package of cookies.

After visiting several houses, we reached the home of a sister who lived with her married son and his family, all of whom were members. Another older woman, looking very tired, was there delivering clothing. Her name was Margarita, and she earned her living doing laundry by hand. Knowing what hard work that is, I handed her the other little parcel of cookies and wished her a merry Christmas. With tears in her eyes, she told me that she was completely alone and that this would be her only gift.

I spoke to her then about the Lord Jesus Christ and told her that if he is with us, we will not be lonely. I assured her that she was a daughter of God, who was loved by him just as an earthly father loves his children and that if she sought him, he would receive her with open arms. I told her many more things. Her face lit up, and she agreed to receive the missionaries.

The next month when we went to visit that house, Margarita was there again. She hugged us and said, “Now I can really call you sisters. I was baptized last week.”

Our Christmas Came Back

2011-12-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Our Christmas Came Back

By Ronald R. Grimes

It had been a hard year for our family. I found myself working long hours to pay our bills on my meager salary. I was near exhaustion.

My wife and I prayed each night that our financial burdens would somehow be lifted and that our children would not be negatively affected by my absence and our constant denials of their requests for things that their friends had.

Less than a week before Christmas, I managed to resurrect an old plastic Christmas tree. We purchased two inexpensive gifts for each of our children. My eight-year-old son had been longing to own his own basketball, and his excitement over one box measuring approximately nine inches square nearly consumed him.

Then something happened in our lives that would change each one of us forever. Ronald and his oldest sister, Heather, had become good friends with a family up the street who had children their same ages. Eyes wide with concern, our little children told us of the family’s situation: There wasn’t a Christmas tree or presents in their friends’ home. The family wasn’t going to celebrate Christmas this year because the father was out of work.

I discussed the matter with our bishop, who said he would look into the matter personally. At first I felt relieved, but I returned home feeling there was more to be done, but not knowing what it should be. We already had spent all of our tiny budget.

After supper, we started our family home evening and shared our feelings. We decided to offer a special prayer for our neighbors and asked Heavenly Father to let us know what we could do to help them. When we arose from our prayers, two little faces bore a determined excitement as they simultaneously suggested the obvious solution to our problem: why not share our Christmas with our neighbors? There was precious little to share, but as our eyes met, we each felt a surge of excitement at the suggestion. We took a box of candy we had been given and a pumpkin pie my wife had baked earlier and met at the Christmas tree.

Then it happened! We each began to select one of our gifts to take with us. My eyes fell immediately upon my son. He sat before his gifts as if in shock. It was obvious that he was having difficulty deciding which gift he would take: the large box or the soft little package. In silence his eyes passed back and forth between the two. He looked up at his mother and then over to me. Then he looked back at the presents. He passed from one to another for a few more moments and then, quite abruptly, picked up the large box and said, “I think Jimmy would like this one best.”

With full hearts we gathered the gifts and treats and headed for the door. I stepped out first and almost stumbled over a tiny tree someone had left for us. We brought the tree inside, and Mother and the children removed some of the lights and trimming from our plastic tree while I went to the garage to make a tree stand. We hurried up the block with our bounty. We left the decorated tree and gifts with our friends and bid them a Merry Christmas.

The next evening a surprising thing happened. The bishop called and said, “I have some packages that need delivering to some of the families in the ward and wondered if you could use your station wagon to help us deliver them.”

I agreed to meet the bishop at his office as soon as possible and hung up the phone. The car was out of gas and I could find no money for gas. I remembered seeing a few dusty pop bottles in the garage that could be returned to the store for the deposit, and the children had seen more in the trash down the alley. So we gathered the bottles, and I bought a gallon of gas with the proceeds, and headed for the church.

When I arrived, the bishop had already carried many large boxes and bags of groceries to the curb. We loaded them all into the station wagon. They barely fit inside. When we were finished, he handed me an envelope and instructed me to deliver the packages to the names on the list. I agreed and opened the envelope. On a slip of paper was a single name—mine. My eyes filled with tears as I turned to the bishop and said, “Oh, Bishop, there are so many families that need this worse than we do.”

“I know,” he acknowledged, “but we have already taken care of them, and the Lord wants your family to have this.” He embraced me, shook my hand, and sent me home.

When I arrived, I called for the family to help me in with the boxes and bags. There were several brightly wrapped presents for each member of the family. At the bottom of one bag was a special gift, wrapped in a box measuring approximately nine inches square.

A special warmth and glow filled our home that night. We knew that our prayers had been answered and that Christmas that year was going to be special for each member of our family. And yes, the bishop had been aware of our friends up the street—someone had visited their home, too, and left many packages of food and gifts at their door.

Each year as we dismantle our little plastic Christmas tree and put it into its cardboard box, we threaten to replace it with a real tree. But each Christmas we keep putting it back up just one more time. Our little tree, which once shared its lights and ornaments and glory with another family, still captures for us the true meaning of the season. It was our best Christmas ever.

The Year Christmas Came to Me

2011-12-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Year Christmas Came to Me

By Sandra Drake

Just after I turned twenty-one, I was readmitted to the hospital for more intravenous antibiotic treatment of an infection that had been plaguing me for five years. I didn’t really mind, however, because Christmas was a month away. My doctors would have four weeks to clear my infection. Having spent three of the previous four Christmas seasons in the hospital, I felt nothing was as important as just being home with my parents for the holidays.

Unfortunately, the weeks passed by quickly with little improvement in my condition. On Friday, December 19, my doctors announced that I wouldn’t be spending Christmas at home after all. My hope for a Christmas filled with warmth and love seemed to disappear.

At the same time, however, a friend of mine from my hometown of Logan, Utah, was planning an excursion with some youth from her stake to Salt Lake City, where I was hospitalized. Their final destination was to be Temple Square, with its grounds aglow in lights and holiday decorations. Thinking that a detour in their trip might add joy to my Christmas in the hospital, Rae Louise contacted the nurses who cared for me at the medical center.

On the Saturday before Christmas, a large group of young women squeezed into my room in the hospital. Christmas carols rang out and changed my frown to a smile. Little did these youth know that their visit was only the beginning of my most inspiring and memorable Christmas ever.

For their concluding number, the youth sang “I Am a Child of God.” Tears rolled down my cheeks as I remembered that I, too, was a child of God, that he loved me and would take care of me. Suddenly, just knowing this fact made me feel better about staying in the hospital at Christmas. I wouldn’t be home in Logan, but I would be loved.

For family home evening the following Monday night, my sister, who was teaching school in Salt Lake City, and her roommates kidnapped me—with my doctor’s permission, of course. For two hours we cruised along the residential streets of the city, enjoying the lights strung from the many rooftops and the nativity scenes on numerous lawns. Though it banged continually against the back window, my IV bottle survived the evening.

Tuesday at noon my lunch tray failed to arrive on schedule. I didn’t think too much about it until fifteen minutes later, when the women from my doctor’s clinic walked in with pizza and garlic bread—the works. After four weeks of hospital food, that pizza tasted good.

Wednesday was Christmas Eve. Though many people had already done much to make my Christmas in the hospital special, I still awoke feeling discouraged. I was going to miss the traditional family Christmas that I love.

At six o’clock that night, however, my family walked in carrying a ham dinner with all the trimmings. They had brought the dinner eighty miles from home, and I enjoyed it as much as I would have in Logan. While I slept later that night, the nurses brought in my stocking and attached it to my IV pole. It was filled with gifts and goodies and, as always, had the traditional orange in the toe. Mom and Dad hadn’t forgotten anything!

On Christmas morning my family arrived early to open packages and spend the entire day at my bedside. It couldn’t have been much fun for them, but I have never heard any complaints about that Christmas. Each of us learned that it is not the glamour and glitter or the bows and packages that are important. If love is shared, Christmas can be celebrated almost anywhere.

Our Brothers and Sisters of the Snow

2011-12-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

Our Brothers and Sisters of the Snow

By Jean H. Freeman

The moon was shining on that cold, desolate Christmas Eve in 1968, with the mercury at fifty-nine degrees below zero and twenty-eight feet of snow on the ground. We could hear the sounds of plows and trucks working unceasingly to keep the roads clear. When the Indians had named their fishing village on this site centuries ago, surely it must have been on such a night, for the name Kitimat means “People of the Snow.”

Eight months earlier, my husband and I and our two preschool-aged children had left our home in South Africa and immigrated to Vancouver, Canada. When we first applied for immigration, Canada was experiencing a shortage of tradesmen. Since then, however, the economy had slumped, and the country now had a glut of new immigrants seeking employment.

Therefore, we were elated when my husband got a temporary job for the summer. As his fellow workers discussed the slim chances for finding permanent employment, they often mentioned a small northern British Columbian town where electricians were always wanted but where the working conditions were atrocious. The men claimed that Kitimat got thirty feet of snow during its nine-month winters and that the other three months of the year were filled with rain. Work was apparently available, but no one wanted to live there.

Nevertheless, with the end of his three-month employment swiftly approaching, my husband sent an application to Kitimat’s aluminum smelter. Within weeks, we were settled into an austere yet adequate apartment in the small town. Money was still scarce, but we were grateful for a steady paycheck. Because we had joined the Church in South Africa four years before, one of the first things we did in Kitimat was become involved with the local branch.

As winter set in, we discovered that everything we had heard about the weather in Kitimat was true. We managed to dispel our longings for loved ones in sunny South Africa by writing many letters, but then a Canadian postal strike severed the ties between us and the outside world. To add to my misery, I slipped on the ice and broke my wrist. Used to the freedom of South Africa’s endless summers, our two housebound children became cranky. My husband’s working conditions were as difficult as the rumors had suggested they would be.

On Christmas Eve, we sat halfheartedly watching a secondhand television that my husband had managed to purchase for my birthday some months before. The small Christmas tree in a corner of the room looked sparse and scrawny, and the few wrapped presents we had purchased for our children, Lynda and Glen, appeared out of place in this bleak setting.

A knock at the door startled us. When my husband peered out, the hallway was deserted except for a large box adorned with bright paper and ribbons. When we saw that our family name was printed on it, we eagerly pulled it into our apartment.

Inside, we found a homemade Christmas cake, hand-dipped chocolates, a baked ham, a turkey, and boxes of sugar cookies. Farther down, we found beautifully wrapped gifts not just for the kids but for my husband and me as well. Though we found no note or card, we knew this was a gesture of love from our new friends in the Church. This was their way of making us feel accepted and loved. They neither expected nor wanted thanks.

As we sat marveling at the goodness of our fellow Saints, another knock came at the door. We opened it to find Pat and Manuel Cordeiro from the branch, along with their two children, who were the same age as our two children, and a charming if slightly bewildered elderly couple. Pat hugged me tightly and explained that their grandparents had just arrived in town for Christmas. Passing our apartment, the family had decided to visit us. “We brought your kids some Canadian grandparents to share Christmas Eve with!” Pat said.

Our attitudes about Kitimat changed: not only is the scenery breathtaking and the fishing out of this world, but the people there are among the best you can find on this earth. Twenty-five years have passed since that first Christmas in Canada. But the real spirit of Christmas has never been stronger for our family than it was that cold, wintry night when we shared in the bounty of the generous, loving people of Kitimat.

Coming Home to Charity

2011-12-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

Coming Home to Charity

By Tracine Hales Parkinson

Three days before Christmas, I wearily disembarked from an airplane with my two-year-old asleep on my shoulder and several carry-on bags hanging from my arms. I made my way to a pay phone and called my husband at work to tell him we would be waiting in the luggage area. After fishing a snack out of one of my bags for my son, Sam, I sat down to wait for our suitcases to arrive.

Behind us, two men were leaning against a rack of rental luggage carts. Without actually staring, I soon realized they were homeless. Glancing sideways, I saw that one wore clogs and the other wore dirty tube socks with thongs. Both were unshaven and odorous. I couldn’t help but overhear them discuss their plans for retrieving rented luggage carts from the airport parking lots and collecting the twenty-five-cent deposit for each. The two men weren’t waiting for a handout; they were trying to earn a little cash.

The luggage carousel started to move, and pieces of baggage began to emerge. I watched a woman load her rental cart with bags and pull it toward the exit doors. The man wearing the clogs followed her at a lengthy distance, waiting for an opportunity to retrieve her rental cart. The man in thongs stayed behind.

As I collected my suitcases, I wondered how a person could go from being properly sheltered and fed to living on the streets. How was it that while I was waiting for a loving spouse to come take me to our comfortable home, they were waiting merely for the opportunity to pocket some spare change? This was the first time I had ever seen less fortunate people trying to help themselves. I wondered how they would be spending their Christmas.

My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed an airport employee pushing a stack of rental carts into the area. As he loaded each cart into the rack, I heard a coin drop into the coin return tray. When all the carts were loaded, the worker scooped up the coins and put them in the pocket of his clean, white pants.

I looked at the man in thongs to see what his reaction would be. His face expressed only silent acceptance, as though he had expected this to happen. A part of me suddenly ached for him, and I pulled out my wallet and looked inside.

In my mind I could hear my mother’s voice say, “You don’t have much money to spare,” but still I picked out a bill and stuffed it into my pocket. When I looked up, I saw my husband coming through the doors. He, Sam, and I had a brief but glorious reunion, and then he picked up my bags and carried them to our car at the curb.

After the luggage was stowed and Sam was safely locked into his seat, I told my husband I had to run back inside a moment. When I returned, the man in thongs was still sitting on top of the luggage cart rack. He seemed so alone.

Taking a deep breath and whispering a word of prayer, I reached into my pocket for the bill and approached him.

“Why don’t you take this and get something to eat,” I said, handing him the money.

The man looked up. I expected hostility or sullen indifference, but he met my gaze squarely. With genuine gratitude and utter clarity, he said, “Why thank you, thank you so much!”

I was stunned. The eyes that met mine were clear and vibrant and warm. This unshaven man with dirty tube socks and mismatched clothes had a noble countenance. I felt that I should be thanking him for not feeling rancor at my having more and his having less.

I turned around and headed for the car. Next time, I will not be so hesitant to reach out, I thought, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude for the Lord’s blessings in my life.

Lessons Learned at Shepherds’ Field

2011-12-09T00:00:00.000-07:00

Lessons Learned at Shepherds’ Field

By Vickie H. Randall

As we got off the bus, we saw a tent belonging to a bedouin family. Farther from the road, two or three children were watching a flock of sheep grazing there on the hills outside Bethlehem. Our tour group was finishing a two-week stay in Israel, and we had come to Shepherds’ Field for a testimony meeting.

As we sat on the rocky hillside and looked in one direction, we could see Bethlehem. If we looked slightly to the left in another direction, we could see Herodium, a fortified mountain atop which Herod the Great had built a luxurious palace complete with pools, gardens, and two hundred white marble steps. We had visited it earlier in the day. Now, looking at it, I felt as if it represented all the material successes one could ever wish for. On the other hand, the village of Bethlehem seemed to symbolize everything I had learned about Jesus during our visit to the Holy Land.

I looked back and forth, from Bethlehem to Herodium. The question came to me: Which am I choosing? Of course I want to follow the Savior. But are my day-to-day decisions and actions taking me in a different direction?

As we sang Christmas carols and shared testimonies, I thought of how easy it is to make the wrong things our first priority. How easy it is to expend a lot of time and worry on things that are of little consequence in an eternal frame of reference. How easy it is to pretend that material possessions are forever! And how difficult it is to remember that Jesus said, “No man can serve two masters.” (Matt. 6:24.)

The question would not go away: In which direction am I going? Then, over and over again, almost like a prayer, I heard the words of the shepherds: “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem.” (Luke 2:15.)

I have thought of that experience often since returning home—the sun dropping behind the Judaean hills, the flock of sheep nearby, and the peace I felt as I recommitted myself to worry less about the things of the world and to seek more diligently the kingdom of God.

Sometimes still I can hear the shepherds from that long-ago night on a hill far away, saying, “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem.” And I remind myself to choose wisely. Herodion lies in ruins, but Bethlehem remains.

“You’re the Future of the World”

2011-12-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

“You’re the Future of the World”

By Jerry Borrowman

It was cold, dark, and damp, and as we pulled up in front of the small Catholic nursing home, our thoughts were centered more on hot chocolate and popcorn than on Christmas caroling. We missionaries had spent a wonderful day singing in hospitals and nursing homes throughout southern Dallas. But now it was late, and our voices were tired. We were glad to arrive at the last stop of the day.

Inside it smelled musty. We huddled for a few minutes in one corner of the foyer while the Catholic sisters brought their patients in wheelchairs to hear us sing.

As we started the first carol, a remarkable thing happened. In spite of our hoarse throats, our singing sounded more clear and true than at any of the other performances we had given that day. A feeling of warmth enveloped us. We were filled with a sense of peace and reverence.

After we finished the last song, the nurses asked us to wait while they returned the patients to their rooms. A few minutes later, the sisters came back to thank us for coming. Sensing that they didn’t want us to leave yet, we volunteered to sing one more song for them. Rather than a traditional carol, we softly sang:

  I know that my Redeemer lives.       
  What comfort this sweet sentence gives!       
  He lives, he lives, who once was dead.       
  He lives, my everliving head.       
  He lives to bless me with his love.       
  He lives to plead for me above.       
  He lives, my hungry soul to feed.       
  He lives to bless in time of need. …       

  He lives, all glory to his name!       
  He lives, my Savior, still the same;       
  O sweet the joy this sentence gives:       
  “I know that my Redeemer lives!”       

(Hymns, no. 317.)

With tears in their eyes, the nuns, who were selflessly spending their lives serving others, rushed forward to thank us. One sister, the supervisor of the others, took my hands in hers and said, “You’re the future of the world, do you realize that? You young men are the future of the world!”

As a young missionary, I sensed her sincerity—and the new hope and faith we had brought into her life. For a moment our differences disappeared, and we all received a witness, borne by the Spirit of God, that Jesus Christ does indeed live.

Merry Thanks and Happy Respect

2011-12-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

Merry Thanks and Happy Respect

By Kelly Strong Thacker

When I was two years old and my brother was six months, our father was lost at sea as he piloted a jet in a storm near Japan. He and my mother were both twenty-six years old at the time. My mother didn’t remarry for many years, but I never felt during my childhood that my family was different or that I was missing out on anything. Our home was happy and loving in every way.

Christmas was happy and loving, too. My brother and I looked forward to Santa Claus and gifts and sweets and, most important, to celebrating Jesus’ birth.

Although it was hard for our young mother to provide us with the things little children want at Christmas, it seemed to be a wonderful time for her. She would save all year to buy us what we asked for, only to hear us praise Santa for his generosity.

The Christmas when I was nine and my brother Greg was seven, Mother was very ill. By this time in my life I had my doubts about Santa and his reindeer. It upset me to think my mother was probably Santa in disguise and that she was feeling so ill she probably couldn’t do much for Greg and me for Christmas. To think she had spent all of those shopping days sick in bed, forgetting about us and our wants and needs at Christmastime! I was sure Christmas morning would prove to be a big disappointment.

We went to bed Christmas Eve, and I found myself unable to sleep because I was so unhappy. I was still awake when I heard Mother get out of bed and quietly make her way into our darkened living room. Judging by her slow movements, I could tell that she was still feeling very ill. The front door opened a few minutes later, and Mother whispered, “Quiet, Brent—the kids must get their sleep so they won’t be tired in the morning.” A rustling sound told me that Mother’s younger brother, my Uncle Brent, was bringing in bags of gifts.

“Isn’t it a blessing that I started my shopping so early, Brent? I tried to organize my time better this year …” She sounded sick, probably getting much worse by the moment. She was doing too much!

As I lay in my bed, I began feeling for her rather than for myself. As I heard her slowly taking packages from the bags and placing them under the Christmas tree, I prayed that she would feel better; and as I heard her delight when she discovered treasures for us that she had forgotten about, I hoped she was feeling better already. I cried for her, and was ashamed of myself.

Uncle Brent left, and I expected Mother to go quickly back to bed. Instead, she stayed in the living room, with the Christmas tree lights on, making sure that every gift was placed properly and that both stockings were filled as full as they could be. She was seeing it as we would see it early the next morning, and hoping that we would be pleased. I fell asleep before she left the living room.

On Christmas morning, I awoke changed and happy. As Greg and I went to greet Mother, I couldn’t wait for the day’s activities to begin. This Christmas morning was unlike any other, because I wanted to make my mother happy. I couldn’t wait to show her my joy at what she had done for us. I wanted it to be her most wonderful Christmas.

As we entered the living room, I found the tree greener, the lights brighter, the gift wrapping more beautiful than ever before. But more than that, the real meaning of the day and the awareness of Heavenly Father and his Son came to me so strongly that I felt enveloped with his love, and with the love of my beautiful mother.

The Horse That Saved Christmas

2011-12-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Horse That Saved Christmas

By Jane Brooking Flint

On our tree each Christmas hangs a little horse-shaped ornament made of dough. To my family, it is the horse that saved Christmas. How did a four-inch tall, cream-colored rocking horse with a glittered bridle save our Christmas? It’s a story we will never forget.

Christmas had always been special when we lived in Kentucky, full of traditions and memory-making hours with cousins and grandparents. Christmas Eve was spent with my husband’s parents, opening gifts, then listening as Granddaddy Sullivan read the Christmas story by flickering candlelight. We would then travel to my mother’s house, where we would spend the night. Christmas morning meant running down her long staircase to find what Santa had left, followed by a day playing with twenty cousins who lived in the area. Aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, “in-laws and outlaws,” as Mama called her seven children and their spouses, spent the day enjoying each other’s company.

Then came the year that a recession in Kentucky forced us to move to Texas, where my husband was able to find a construction job. We spent Christmas that year in Texas with only our immediate family.

“Next Christmas we will go to Kentucky and spend it with Mammy Mae in cousinland,” we promised the children.

Next fall came, and with it the Texas monsoon. The weekly paychecks were small because of workdays missed. When December arrived, our savings were depleted and there was no obvious way we could make the trip to Kentucky for the holidays.

We paid our tithing rather than using the money to make the trip, knowing that Christmas in Kentucky would not be worth withholding from the Lord to get there.

The next week brought more rain clouds to match the one brooding over my head. In despair I went to our bedroom, closed the door, and on my knees poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven.

“Please, Father—I need a miracle. We have five little ones who are counting on us to take them to Kentucky for Christmas. They have three loving grandparents who are counting on us to get them there too. I can’t leave my babies and get a job. I pray that I might know what to do!”

Immediately I felt a surge of energy, and with it came a plan. In my mind I saw the little cream-colored rocking horses I had made for my oldest son’s fifth-grade class the year before. They were salt-dough ornaments I had cut out, watercolored, then dipped in varnish. The horses were personalized with a name across the rocker. I had learned the craft in a Relief Society Homemaking class, and the ornaments were inexpensive to make. I knew, with ten willing hands to help and with the Lord on our side, we could make more of the ornaments and sell them.

We met in family council and agreed we would need to sell three hundred horses at one dollar each. Our total cost for the project would be twenty dollars. The three school-aged children each took a horse to school the next day to show to their teachers. Word spread, and it seemed everyone had a dollar to spend for a cream-colored rocking horse.

Our kitchen became an assembly line, with each family member taking part in painting, glittering, or dipping each ornament in varnish. By December 15 we were well on our way to reaching our goal. A friend at the bank got one hundred orders. Eli, our eleven-year-old, sold sixty-five. Jacob, the nine-year-old, sold twenty-five, and even seven-year-old Mae sold twenty-one horses. Still, we were almost ninety horses shy of our goal.

That weekend, I was scheduled to speak at the Saturday evening session of stake conference about “living within our means.” I felt inspired to include in my talk the story of our family’s project to let the members know how the Lord was helping us meet a financial goal. After the meeting, a brother from another ward whom I had never met approached me and asked, “Do you have any more of those horses?”

“Oh, yes, we still have to sell about ninety to reach our goal,” I answered.

“Good, I want a hundred,” he said.

We delivered the one hundred horses Monday afternoon and started discussing who we wanted to see first after we crossed the Kentucky state line.

Our project taught us many lessons. We learned that family members grow closer as they work and sing together, and that honest work is the answer to a financial need. We also learned that the Lord will inspire us when we worthily plead for ideas, and he will help us to fulfill our righteous desires.

That Christmas the children made the most of every minute they spent in Kentucky. We gave Mammy Mae twenty-six rocking horses, each one bearing a grandchild’s name. It was our last Christmas with Granddaddy Sullivan. He passed away the following summer.

I am thankful to Heavenly Father for the wonderful Christmas we enjoyed as a result of his inspiration to make a little cream-colored rocking horse.

To Give and Give Again

2011-12-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

To Give and Give Again

By Rebecca Strand Russon

Christmas that year had promised to be one of our best ever. We had expected that soon after his graduation from dental school, Jim would open his own practice. I had dreamed of new clothes, new Christmas decorations, fruit cake baking in the oven, and gifts for everyone.

Instead, our lives had been in turmoil for months. Leaving our cozy apartment and good friends in Los Angeles to return to Utah had been more difficult than I had imagined, and it had depleted what was left of our scanty bank account. We had comforted ourselves with the belief that money would soon be coming in from Jim’s new practice.

Then I became pregnant, nearly lost the baby, and was required to severely limit my activities. Jim was gone for what seemed endless hours, working late night after night getting the new business in order. When he was home, he was cheerful and good company, but I had never felt so alone.

The business opened its doors in November of that year—one month later than we had planned—which left us behind on our bills. We ate a lot of beans during that time. I prepared them countless ways, but they were always beans.

I became more depressed as Christmas approached. We squeezed a few dollars from the budget to buy some storybooks and a toy for our eighteen-month-old son, Erik. I told myself that gifts under the tree were of no real importance, that the spirit of Christmas was what truly mattered. But I couldn’t catch the spirit.

I wrapped the books and the toy and placed them under our much-used, second-hand, artificial Christmas tree. We set out our cardboard manger scene and strung a few mismatched ornaments from the dining room light.

When Christmas morning arrived, we carried Erik downstairs to the tree to open his presents. There was a lump of sadness in my throat as he opened his gifts. Where was the joy I was supposed to feel?

Jim put his arm around my shoulders and placed a small package on my lap. My fingers trembled as I tore away the paper to find a red velvet box. I couldn’t believe it! Only expensive gifts came in boxes like that. Where could Jim have found the money? As I opened it, my heart seemed to stop. Inside I saw the pendant Jim had given me the Christmas we were pinned so many years before. A note was enclosed which read, “With love—again. Jim.”

My eyes filled with tears as I realized that the pendant represented his love for me. The ache in my heart vanished and was replaced by a feeling of inexpressible love and joy, and I felt the spirit of Christmas at last.

I will never forget the lesson a compassionate husband taught me that Christmas morning—that love is the most precious gift of all.

The Most Beautiful Gift

2011-12-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Most Beautiful Gift

By Peggy Britton

“Mommy, can I wrap my gift for you as soon as we get home?” Wendy asked.

“No, I don’t want the mess of wrapping all over the house today,” I answered, a little too sharply. Through the rear-view mirror I saw her bright blue eyes cloud with disappointment.

When Wendy brought her gifts in and placed them under the tree, her eyes were bright and happy once again. “I put your present under the tree,” she said.

“That’s nice,” I replied, busy with dinner.

“It’s the most beautiful gift in the world, mommy,” she said.

“I’m sure it is, honey,” I answered.

“I wish you would open it now.”

“Not now, Wendy. You know we don’t open gifts until Christmas morning.”

I went in to sit by her. “All right,” I said, “I’ll open your gift early, but just this once.” Her face lit up again.

“Don’t you like it, mommy?” she asked, seeing my tears.

I held the little nativity scene she had given me in one hand and hugged her close to me with the other.

Christmas, Second Time Around

2011-12-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

Christmas, Second Time Around

By Steve D. Hanson

As we planned our ward’s youth calendar for the year 1978–79, we wanted to emphasize service. So in that spirit it was decided that this year our Young Men—Young Women Christmas party would be replaced by a service project—that of providing Christmas for some needy family. A youth committee was organized and an LDS family outside of our ward selected.

A needier family could not have been chosen. The mother, who was divorced, was a recent convert to the Church and lived with her three children and her own aged mother in a small, one-bedroom house that was scarcely bigger than most people’s living room. There was no furniture to speak of, and the family’s sole source of entertainment and relaxation came from a small black-and-white television set. The woman worked nights to provide a meager sustenance for her family, with no surplus to purchase either a Christmas tree or presents for her children and their grandmother.

Our youth committee set to work planning this very special Christmas activity. They wanted to go all out—a Christmas tree, Christmas dinner, and presents for each member of the family. Each Young Men and Young Women class was assigned a specific area: the Explorers would purchase the Christmas tree and buy presents for the young boy; the Laurels would provide the food, including a turkey for Christmas dinner; the Venturers would buy presents for the mother; and on it went until each class had an assignment. A super Christmas for a deserving family was assured.

To make this an even more meaningful experience for our young people, we asked them to earn the money they would be contributing. Mother and dad’s money would not be acceptable on this project. It was gratifying to see how positively the majority of the youth responded to the challenge.

The gifts, beautifully wrapped, the tree, and the food were all taken by the youth committee to this special family several days before Christmas. The young people were touched by the sincere, emotional appreciation expressed by this mother on behalf of her family. And we adult leaders felt a real lesson had been learned. But this experience was to have a greater impact on the youth than we knew.

Christmas morning, as I was ushering my family into the car to go over to my brother’s for our traditional Christmas dinner, our Young Men president pulled up in front of the house.

“Did you hear what happened to the family we provided the Christmas for?” he asked.

Before I could reply, he went on: “While the mother was working Christmas Eve, someone broke into the house and stole all their Christmas presents—even took their old TV set.”

It seemed impossible! After all that work, how could this happen? My heart ached for that family as I thought how disappointing this must have been for them. Then I noticed that his car was filled with presents. Smiling, he continued:

“That’s the second batch of presents going over to the family this morning. When we found out about the robbery, we called a few kids in the ward, and before we knew it, they had contacted others—and all these kids and their families donated their own Christmas presents to our ‘Christmas family.’”

Sitting on top of the pile of presents was a small TV set. He saw me looking at it, and as he began to get into his car, he said, “One of our fourteen-year-old men donated his own TV set.”

He drove off, and I got into our car with my family.

“What was that all about, dad?” one of my children asked.

After a pause, and feeling very grateful for my association with these young people, I replied, “I’ve just learned a lesson in charity. Let me tell you a story about the true spirit of Christmas.”

Christmas Eve Miracle

2011-12-02T08:56:00.001-07:00

Christmas Eve Miracle

By Alda McDonald Strebel

I can still hear my mother’s soft voice as she related this Christmas Eve miracle. The experience was sacred to mama; she told it only on special occasions, such as the evening my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage.

The story began on a crisp autumn day in October, 1928. The huge barn behind our home in Heber City, in northern Utah, was heaped to the rafters with fresh hay, and the loft was filled with the happy laughter and shouting of romping children. I was among them, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. I found myself an inviting hay hill, and got ready to slide down. Suddenly I was falling headfirst through a chute. Down I shot to a cement floor into a feeding manger at the bottom of the barn.

I still remember the startling sensation of regaining consciousness, and the horrible frustration of not being able to cry. My brothers ran for papa. How comforting and secure his sturdy, strong arms felt as he lifted me out of the hay manger and carried me into the house. Gently he placed me on my bed.

Several days later my headache had not subsided. The condition became even more complicated when I contracted a severe cold; to this day I remember the nightmare of the accompanying high fever. Later one afternoon when the doctor made his routine call, he shook his head as he read the thermometer, and mama knew it was time to take action. She sent for papa, and we prepared to leave for Provo, forty miles away, where I could be hospitalized. Neighbors and relatives gathered to offer their assistance and assure us that my four small brothers would be well cared for.

The journey through the winding roads in Provo Canyon was long and hard, as papa pushed his Model T Ford through herds of sheep on the roadway. We arrived at the hospital late that night.

The pain was severe behind my left ear and after two more days of high fever, the doctors operated and discovered a deep-seated mastoid infection. By this time it had entered my blood stream. The next week the surgeons were compelled to lance my left arm, and the next week my right leg. For seven long weeks I endured the grueling ordeal of many operations.

Three days before Christmas the doctors called my father into the office and told him they could offer little hope for my recovery. Knowing of my intense longing for my brothers and home, my parents decided to take me home for Christmas. They located a truck to take me to the train (there were only a few trucks in the entire town) and lifted me onto a cot. In the hallway the hospital personnel gave me a lovely doll dressed in a pink, handknit sweater and cap. I clutched the doll close to my body under the blankets, and when we came out into the refreshing night air, I was hysterically happy. I thought I was leaving the whole ordeal behind me in that hospital.

Slowly the truck made its way to the depot. We boarded, the conductor shoveled a huge lump of coal into the potbellied stove in the caboose, and the train began its three-hour journey home. The sleeping powder the doctor had administered before we left the hospital soon took effect, and I slept most of the way. When the train stopped, papa stepped to the door of the car, then bent over me chuckling.

“You would never believe the crowd that is out there to welcome us,” he said. “My goodness, you would think a celebrity was getting off this train.” He chuckled again as he pulled a warm cap over my head. Mama tucked the covers under my chin, and my cot was lifted to Uncle Dode’s bobsled. Sleighbells tinkled as the horses pranced down Center Street over the smooth, icy roads.

When we reached the tabernacle corner, the sleigh stopped with a merry “Whoa.” In the middle of the main street was a large Christmas tree, adorned with electric tree lights, the first I had ever seen, How colorful and sparkly they were! The children of my primary class stood beneath the tree, welcoming me with the sacred strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” With all the faith and meekness of a child, I felt the love of our Savior in the hearts of many gentle people. Mama’s tears were mingled with the soft snowflakes that fell on my face.

A short time later, at our own front door, Mama laughed and cried as she hugged her four little sons. Seven weeks without a mother had seemed an eternity to them. Then, with hushed excitement, they led the way into my bedroom which they had adorned with red and green paper chains. A large, deep-red tissue bell hung from the single light globe. “Oh, see! The Christmas elves have been here!” Mama exclaimed, hugging the boys again.

But as the exertion of the trip took its toll, I realized the pain and suffering had not ended. By Christmas Eve my situation was critical, and the doctors told my parents that my chances of surviving the night were small. The elders administered to me, and for the first time my parents had the courage to say, “Thy will be done.”

After the blessing a special peace descended over the household. Papa and mama went into the living room with the four boys and helped them hang their Christmas stockings. Then they tucked each one into bed, assuring them that Santa was on his way.

Knowing that she was going to need strength for what lay ahead, mama was persuaded to retire to an upstairs bedroom. I loved to hear her tell of lying in the stillness of the night and of the peace that came over her as she fell into a sound sleep. She awakened, startled, just as dawn was breaking Christmas morning. She turned to my bedroom door, a silent prayer on her lips. Papa was just coming out, his tired face bathed in a relieved smile. A miracle had happened. I had been given strength to survive the night, and Mama could even see a slight sparkle in my tired eyes.

“Has Santa been here yet?” I asked.

“You bet he has,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “It looks like Santa just stumbled into our living room and all the toys fell out of his bag.”

“But the most precious gift of all,” mama would say whenever she retold the story, “was the Savior’s gift to us that hallowed Christmas Eve.”

Although the illness left me with a physical handicap—one leg was much shorter than the other—I have been privileged to lead an active life. In 1977, before he passed away, my husband, Dr. George L. Strebel, and I served in Europe, where he was coordinator of English-speaking seminaries and institutes. I now have four happily married children and fifteen beautiful grandchildren.

Four years ago I had total hip surgery—three and a half inches were added to my leg. I am now walking without crutches and with just a slight limp. My leg is getting better all the time—a modern installment to the miracle that began that Christmas Eve.

A Christmas Story Every Day!

2011-12-01T09:04:00.001-07:00

A few years back I started a tradition (I guess if it hasn't been repeated then it isn't a tradition...hmmm)

Anyway - I've decided to bring back my "Christmas Story Every Day" whatever you want to call it - starting today. Enjoy.

The Smell of a Mothball

By D. Michael Stewart

Mrs. Fruens used to pull her wagon from the store to her home a mile away. Summer and winter she was always dressed in black: shoes, socks, dress, and sweater. Her brown grocery bags leaned like tired sentinels against the sides of her squeaking wagon.

One day as my brother Stew and I were splitting kindling and gathering icicles for a family frolic, we spotted Mrs. Fruens on her way to the store. “Wouldn’t she be surprised if we chopped kindling for her monkey stove while she’s gone,” Stew burst out. The idea took hold immediately; we leaped on our bikes and sped to her yard.

Mrs. Fruens lived in a one-room frame house. A bed, table, chairs, a little carved hutch for knicknacks, a wall basin plumbed for cold water, and a stove for heating and cooking were all she had. Her husband had died thirty years earlier—shortly after they came to America.

Working quickly, we split and stacked a knee-high pile of wood, then hurriedly swept bark and twigs into a bucket for tinder. But we weren’t soon enough. Before we finished, we heard the squeaks of wheels coming down the street. I was anxious; Mrs. Fruens had been taunted and teased too much. Boys had thrown rocks and cans on her roof at night to frighten her. I was afraid we would not be welcome in her yard. Reaching the gate, she looked at us warily. Then her eye moved to the stack of kindling and the tinder bucket. She glowed. Thrusting her key into the lock, she set her bags inside, then hugged us. It embarrassed me, but it did feel good. Taking us by the hand, she exclaimed, “You good boys. You very good boys. You cut me kindling for a week.”

As we walked to the gate, she scurried into the house and emerged with a colorful can of hardtack candy. Smiling her toothless smile, she held out the can, which smelled of mothballs from having been stored in her closet with her woolens. “Take some,” Stew whispered, “or she’ll be hurt.” She threw us a kiss as we left. We pedaled home in silence.

At home, the kitchen was filled with smells of Christmas. A single candle had been placed near a note, and stretched across the table was a toboggan. We could hardly contain our excitement. We had secretly wanted a toboggan for years.

The note read: “To my boys who do the things I am unable to do. Love, Daddy.” Father had been ill for several months and died the following Easter. His chores had fallen to us.

It was a memorable season. We used the toboggan many times in heavy snows. We rode it hard—even damaging it so that the following season it retired to the rafters of the garage.

Years have passed, the toboggan is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. A freeway runs near the spot where Mrs. Fruen’s house stood. But my mind often floods with the memory of a grateful old woman and two zealous boys chopping wood. That wood has given warmth many times. Once when chopped, twice when burned, and again and again whenever I pass by or smell the odor of a mothball.

timing

2011-11-23T21:10:00.000-07:00

Christ Portrait by Joseph Brickey

The past three+ years have been vital. They've also been daunting - shaking loose many things I falsely believed were just so. It feels sometimes as if I'm continually sloughing off scales of old, outdated ideas about the way things are supposed to be. Not sure if I'm done (or even close to done) learning what I'm supposed to be learning. Even when it seems I've "learned" something, a new challenge queues up in line with little or no gaps of rest between. I think this is the new "normal." The line from "Come, Come Ye Saints" rings true: "Gird up your loins, fresh courage take." I'm girding, I'm girding.

Learning to trust God is an essential element of our having faith in Him. The challenge comes when we want something good, something God Himself has encouraged us to seek for, and yet the good thing we want seems delayed or even harder, denied. As Moroni taught, this is the moment when the real test begins.

And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith. Ether 12:6

This process of testing clearly seems to be an eternal law. Even the Savior wasn't exempt from it. As Paul taught, "Though he were a Son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered." (Hebrews 5:8) Learning to trust the Lord's timing, even when I don't know how things will turn out, is God's way of refining me, even if that refining requires both time and fire.

As Elder Maxwell put it, “Patience is tied very closely to faith in our Heavenly Father. Actually, when we are unduly impatient, we are suggesting that we know what is best—better than does God. Or, at least, we are asserting that our timetable is better than His. We can grow in faith only if we are willing to wait patiently for God's purposes and patterns to unfold in our lives, on His timetable.”

He also reminded us, “Faith in God includes faith in God's timing.” Yet one more thing to be grateful for at this Thanksgiving season - gratitude for the blessing of "not yet."

As I was saying...

2011-11-13T16:27:00.001-07:00

...like ten years ago! I can't believe it's been almost six months (6!) since I last posted (not counting my brief blurb on 9/11.) And you're thinking (whomever YOU are,) "it's been the nicest six months of my life..." I'm with you.

And to be honest, I have no real excuse. Just other priorities...took priority.

So enough with that. I'm committing myself to get back on the blogging train. So many adventures to report on. Even if I'm only talking to myself here.

And I've got some interesting things to share (hopefully) soon. Lots of life lessons. And new opportunities.

I also will be found in a new blogging location soon. This blog will continue to act as my home for the "personal" stuff, and the other site (stay tuned for a location) will be the home for my profound ruminations on becoming a writer, getting published, how to wax a surfboard, etc.

Writing I take very seriously. Myself, I take seriously not at all.

Happy trails.

I have no idea...

Oh - and a happy "Gotcha Day!" #6 to the mini, mighty Miss Ellie. So glad we "got" you six amazing years ago. Love, the dad

Ten years on...

2011-09-11T08:46:00.000-06:00

Ten years ago - everything changed. I remember going into work that day (a pointless idea, but it seemed at the time to make sense. To do something, anything, felt like my only defense.) I remember getting out of my car in the parking lot at my job and my boss happened to be arriving at the same moment. We looked at each other, our faces blank, and then - without saying a word - walked into the building.

My children were so little, it seemed. One barely a teenager. One a young girl. How do you shield them from such evil?

I sat at my desk the whole day, checking website after website, looking at picture after picture of the devastation.

The world would never be the same. I'd been a bishop about six months at the time.

I tried to imagine what I could say to my little flock to bring comfort. I had no words.

Looking back, I understand now that something shifted in my heart that beautiful September morning. I trusted both less and more. Less because there were such evil men in the world. And more because there were so many more, including 343 firemen/heroes, that were good. That knew the power of good was always - is always - greater than the power of evil.

Peggy Noonan had this insightful piece in The Wall Street Journal on Friday about how 9/11 still lives on today.

And Time magazine published an entire issue devoted to 9/11 this past week. It included interviews and images that brought back all of the hurt, but also the gratitude.

And The Atlantic published these pictures (including the one above) to capture how the world has been affected by that day.

However, of all the powerful images from that day, none affected me more than the one below:

Here's the story behind it.

Eyes don't lie.

I love my country.

The making of miracles

2011-06-12T17:28:00.020-06:00

(Thanks to my friend Kirk Richards for this wonderful painting)

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about miracles, apparently. They are still very much on my mind. I'll share just a thought or two about what I've been learning. Far more interesting to me would be to learn what others think and feel about the making of miracles in their lives. So please share.

One of the most interesting things I've come to discover about miracles is the fact that EVERY miracle requires at least two parties: The one providing the miracle (that would be God) and the one receiving the miracle (that would be us.) There is a great verse in the Book of Mormon that teaches us this truth: "For if there be no faith among the children of men God can do no miracle among them...(Ether 12:12.) How interesting that it doesn't say he won't do a miracle, but rather that he can't. This seems to be saying that part of the eternal law of miracles requires that the recipient of the miracle has a critical role to play in the miracle.

Another principle I've come to better understand about how miracles happen in our lives relates to their ultimate purpose. From what I have been reading in the scriptures, every miracle is intended to bring us closer to "at one ment" with the Savior. Whether it's the blessing of physical healing of some kind (the body becoming "at one" or "in full harmony") or the miracle of an unbelieving soul rediscovering the intimate presence of God in their lives (or spiritual "at one ment",) the ultimate purpose of miracles seem always to be to draw us closer to the Father and the Son.

One last thought as it relates to miracles is found in the following remarkable quote from President Boyd K. Packer:

“There are two kinds of faith. One of them functions ordinarily in the life of every soul. It is the kind of faith born by experience; it gives us certainty that a new day will dawn, that spring will come, that growth will take place. It is the kind of faith that relates us with confidence to that which is scheduled to happen...

There is another kind of faith, rare indeed. This is the kind of faith that causes things to happen. It is the kind of faith that is worthy and prepared and unyielding, and it calls forth things that otherwise would not be. It is the kind of faith that moves people. It is the kind of faith that sometimes moves things. Few men posses it. It comes by gradual growth. It is a marvelous, even a transcendent, power, a power as real and as invisible as electricity. Directed and channeled, it has great effect.”

I don't know about you, but the second kind of faith is the kind of faith I aspire to have. The kind of faith "that causes things to happen." To me that sounds like the faith that will make miracles.

lower-case miracles

2011-05-28T18:40:00.000-06:00

I've recently developed a new definition of the word "miracle." To me a miracle is now anything that requires the hand of God to bring to pass. In that light, every day is filled chock-full of miracles. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. A miracle. I breathe in, I breathe out. Again, miraculous.

I've also come up with a name for these kind of divine manifestations: lower-case miracles. They might not be biblical or "raise the dead" amazing, but they are amazing nonetheless.

Such not-so-little things as "finding" the resources to live on from month to month in a still punch-drunk economy. Or the miracle of children both old and young being given opportunities to learn Chinese at a special school, to attend writer's retreats, and countless other tender mercies. Some are still in development, so stay tuned...

As I've tried to pay more attention to the experiences that come to me and to my family, it has become clear that God is intimately involved in the very small and "ordinary" moments of our lives. Amazingly so. I sorrow for those that question the love of the Lord for them or even that doubt He lives. I've so many evidences that affirm otherwise.

These many "lower-case" miracles are all kind expressions of a loving and all-knowing Father in Heaven. I'm trying hard to pay more attention to them.

Uhmmm...ok?

2011-05-06T21:32:00.005-06:00

Help in the struggle

2011-05-06T10:00:00.014-06:00

I recently found this wonderful talk given By Elder Christofferson in January of this year. It included this story about a financial challenge he and his family experienced years ago:

"Some time before I was called as a General Authority, I faced a personal economic challenge that persisted for several years. It did not come about as a consequence of anyone’s wrongdoing or ill will; it was just one of those things that sometimes come into our lives. It ebbed and flowed in seriousness and urgency, but it never went away completely. At times this challenge threatened the welfare of my family and me, and I thought we might be facing financial ruin. I prayed for some miraculous intervention to deliver us. Although I offered that prayer many times with great sincerity and earnest desire, the answer in the end was “No.” Finally I learned to pray as the Savior did: “Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42). I sought the Lord’s help with each tiny step along the way to a final resolution."

"There were times when I had exhausted all my resources, when I had nowhere or no one to turn to at that moment, when there was simply no other human being I could call on to help meet the exigency before me. With no other recourse, more than once I fell down before my Heavenly Father begging in tears for His help. And He did help. Sometimes it was nothing more than a sense of peace, a feeling of assurance that things would work out. I might not see how or what the path would be, but He gave me to know that, directly or indirectly, He would open a way. Circumstances might change, a new and helpful idea might come to mind, some unanticipated income or other resource might appear at just the right time. Somehow there was a resolution."

"Though I suffered then, as I look back now, I am grateful that there was not a quick solution to my problem. The fact that I was forced to turn to God for help almost daily over an extended period of years taught me truly how to pray and get answers to prayer and taught me in a very practical way to have faith in God. I came to know my Savior and my Heavenly Father in a way and to a degree that might not have happened otherwise or that might have taken me much longer to achieve. I learned that daily bread is a precious commodity. I learned that manna today can be as real as the physical manna of biblical history. I learned to trust in the Lord with all my heart. I learned to walk with Him day by day."

Just a little reminder to me that the Lord knows what is best and that we must to learn to trust not only in Him, but in His timing.

A Garden, A Hill and A Tomb

2011-04-23T22:20:00.003-06:00

I love Easter. I love that it hasn't (at least yet) been co-opted by the marketing department as

Christmas has been, and that as such, it is still easy to find the deeper meaning of the season.

Nothing against Christmas. Without it, we wouldn't have an Easter to celebrate. For me,

Christmas was the promise and Easter was the promise fulfilled.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I miss out on the 21st century meaning of Easter.  Maybe it is

a struggle for others as well.

Easter for me is about what happened in a garden, on a hill, and in a tomb. But sometimes I

how the choices made by the Savior in each of those sacred settings apply to my everyday

struggles. It is easy to think or to read of the historical Savior and forget that He lives and

is both anxious to sustain, to strengthen, and to succor.

The specific circumstances of our lives are all included in the reach of the atonement. No sorrow,

no pain, no loss, no grief are beyond His understanding. His empathy was made perfect through

His suffering on our behalf. The Savior is thus able to not only understand the things that we

suffer, He is also able to "mentor" us through such hardships, no matter no how long they last.

By way of testimony of these things, I share the following words and video below of what has

become one of my favorite hymns. It is called "O Light of Life." I know that Jesus Christ is our

Savior and Redeemer today. I know that He is ready to assist us through all the heartaches of

life. Now.

Because of His supernal acts of love as expressed in a Garden, on a Hill, and in a Tomb, all that

we experience need not be suffered alone.

O light of life, O pure light divine
Thou art in us; our ember is thine
Kindle our flame, give hope when we fear
Deepen our love, our fire appear.
Light of our souls, love's spark at our birth
Grow bright in us, shine in all the earth.

O light of life, O true light of peace
Storms will arise, let thy light increase
Pierce through dark clouds, give pause to the proud
Let thy shafts fall, lift humble heads bowed.
Answer our pleas, melt hearts in thy flame.
Make us as one, as one in thy name.

O light of life, O sweet light of grace
Thou bids us come, we follow apace
See the bright tree, behold the white fruit
Feasting we weep, we witness the root
O light of life, O dear light of love
Come wash us clean, send forth thy white dove

Fill us with love, enlighten our eyes
Help us to love, 'tis price of the prize
Then let us come, enrobe us in white
Clinging to thee, light unto thy light

You're not going to like this

2011-03-25T11:12:00.001-06:00

Dear mothers and fathers of the world - please read this article - and watch the video below too. You're not going to like it. You may be offended by it. But it's proof that our daughters are being cheated out of their true inheritance - and they need our help to find themselves - before it's too late.

"We live in a pornographic culture"

Here's an excerpt (and a nice compliment to our faith):

"So here we are, the feminist and postfeminist and postpill generation. We somehow survived our own teen and college years (except for those who didn't), and now, with the exception of some Mormons, evangelicals and Orthodox Jews, scads of us don't know how to teach our own sons and daughters not to give away their bodies so readily."

And not everyone is happy about it:

Dear Britney, Savanna, Garyn, Olivia, Rebecca, Katherine, Taylor, Gabby, Isaac, McKenzie, and Monica

2011-03-20T17:21:00.004-06:00

Once upon a time, a thousand million years ago, when I was your age, I remember thinking that no one understand what I was experiencing. You've probably thought or felt the same thing. And guess what? You're right. No one ever has or ever will experience exactly the same things in exactly the same way that you are experiencing them. And that's awesome! That is part of what makes you the one-of-a-kind person you are. It also means that your choices matter. Hugely. Even the ones that may seem small and unimportant.

I share this because I love you. And because I've been just a bit further down the road than you have been. Just enough to know that (sorry!) things are only going to get harder. But here's the best part: God sent you here to this time and to this place. And He provided you with loving parents and friends to help you make it safely back to Him.

No doubt you've heard that you are a marked generation. But every generation has had its own work to do. Just like you have yours to do.

I want each of you to know that we love you. That we believe in you. That we pray for you. And that you need to be extraordinarily careful about your choices. Those choices are opening or closing doors in your future that you can't even see yet.

I recently read this talk given just a few years ago by a very wise and loving servant of God. They were spoken directly to you. I hope you will take the time to read them carefully.

From all of us to all of you, hold on tight. The best is yet to come. And your best is yet to come too. Please. Please. Don't let go.

This whole cupcake thing is getting out of hand...

2011-03-10T17:17:00.001-07:00

Case in point...

My wife the uber-blogger

2011-02-27T21:23:00.000-07:00

Alright folks - you just need to have some perspective on the amount of blood, sweat and Ghiradelli chocolate that is going into each and every blog post Miss Ginger is doing during her blogathon. I'm guessing the average post is taking at least 2-3 hours from conception to delivery. 

And just wait 'til you see the new baby! 

Just thought you ought to know how committed she is to "delivering" for her vast fan base.

Any thoughts on what I should make for dinner tomorrow? Kidding! 

I'm so going to pay for that one.

so small, and yet...

2011-02-06T15:42:00.001-07:00

This is amazing.

Read here to learn about what you are actually looking at in this picture. Then think about this: It was all made for you and for me. Sometimes I get in trouble for thinking that I'm "bigger" than I actually am. But most of the time (I think, at least) I believe myself to be very small and insignificant. As Moses learned in that wonderful account found in Moses 1, "man is nothing."

And yet. And yet...we are everything. The whole plan. Everything that has ever been or will that ever be...all of it. Made for us. As an inheritance.

When I look at this picture and read about the incomprehensible vastness of God's creations, I feel tiny. Tiny is probably even too big of a word to describe it. Microscopic. But at the same time, and in the same thought, I feel loved. Known. Designed.

so small, and yet...

Just amazing what people can do

2011-01-17T22:50:00.000-07:00

We live in an amazing (and beautiful world.) Aren't people so deliciously creative?

And here's "the rest of the story."

Two feet of snow

2011-01-14T21:28:00.000-07:00

Help The Marriage Garden Grow

2011-01-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

Hi there - just in case you haven't already seen the invite, I am looking for anyone who might be willing to post on hopefully a once-a-month basis at The Marriage Garden. I want to keep it going and "growing" but have too many other writing commitments right now to do the topic justice. I would hate to see it fall into the graveyard of neglected blogs.

If you are at all interested in sharing your wonderful thoughts, feelings, and insights about marriage and parenting, please let me know in your comments or via email (sleye1@gmail.com).

And thanks mucho.

The story of 2011

2011-01-04T18:02:00.002-07:00

If 2010 was the year we finally attached wings to dreams, then 2011 will be all about getting the plane off the ground.

Figuring out what you really, really want out of life and then grinding out the steps that are required to get it is tremendously daunting. But the thrill of knowing that you have a plan and not just a dream is the richest, sweetest savor there is.

If our little family were to have a single statement that captures what we are locked into, then it would have to be this: "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become each day."

And our family scripture also seems to speak directly to this:

"Yea, and cry unto God for all thy support; yea, let all thy doings be unto the Lord, and whithersoever thou goest let it be in the Lord; yea, let all thy thoughts be directed unto the Lord; yea, let the affections of thy heart be placed upon the Lord forever.

Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if ye do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day." Alma 36:36-37

Here's the things we are working on working towards at the Livingston ranch in 2011:

Faith

Family

Finances

Fitness
Food

Fun

See you in the clouds.

Now THOSE are Christmas lights!

2010-12-23T17:46:00.003-07:00

You can almost see these from our house...

Christmas is Lovely

2010-12-23T00:01:00.001-07:00

Santa goes digital

2010-12-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

In case you need some help making a case for Santa...

Fixing what's broken

2010-12-15T17:39:00.000-07:00

It IS wonderful

2010-12-12T17:22:00.002-07:00

God...

Oh, God...

Dear Father in Heaven,

I'm not a praying man, but 
if you're up there,

and you can hear me, 
show me the way.

I'm at the end of my rope. 
I...

Show me the way, God.

Two hours in a dark gymnasium in Globe, Arizona changed my life forever. It was Christmas Day, 1985. I was at the beginning of my second year of service as an LDS missionary in Arizona. Amazingly, I had never heard of nor seen the movie It's A Wonderful Life.

As I sat in the dark of that little wood floor gym, watching George Bailey discover that "no man is a failure who has friends," I knew at the same instant what I wanted to do with my life.

I wanted to tell stories. Stories that made people feel good. Or feel something. I had always making stuff up, but had never imagined myself doing that as a job. Still trying to turn that dream into a job, come to think of it. Thank heaven for a patient, believing wife. Kind of like Mary Bailey.

I'll be forever grateful for that unique Christmas gift. I still try to make it a practice to watch the movie at least once each year. It never fails to bring back the little-boy feelings of Christmas. Frank Capra, wherever you are, I hope you know that indeed, although you initially doubted whether the movie had been well received, it changed - forever - the life of at least one audience member. Even if it was almost 40 years after the movie was released. For that, I thank you.

Kids and Christmas

2010-12-08T16:42:00.002-07:00

the vine and the branch

2010-11-21T16:36:00.000-07:00

The idea of grace has been on my mind as of late. One of the definitions of grace that I love is found in the LDS Bible Dictionary:

“The main idea of the word is divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ.

“… It is likewise through the grace of the Lord that individuals, through faith in the atonement of Jesus Christ and repentance of their sins, receive strength and assistance to do good works that they otherwise would not be able to maintain if left to their own means. This grace is an enabling power that allows men and women to lay hold on eternal life and exaltation after they have expended their own best efforts” (p. 697).

I love that idea of grace being an "enabling power." It seems clear that I am in constant need of a power greater than myself to make up the difference in virtually every area of my life. I fall so far short of what I am supposed to be. I remember once hearing the analogy of attempting to climb Mt. Everest and only being able to make it a few feet before one's capacity was spent. At that instant the Savior steps in to carry us the rest of the way to the summit. I live this truth every moment of my life.

I also appreciate the idea taught in John 15 that Christ is the Vine and that I are the branch. At the moment I am spiritually cut off from Him, I die. Or as the Savior puts it in verse 5: "Without me ye can do nothing."

Although there at times seem to be so many reasons to be fearful, the promise He makes regarding His ability to lead me safely through each and every storm is a reassuring one. Even if the storms are of my own making, He is there to shelter and to sustain me.

Just as an angel was sent to "strengthen" the Savior in the awful hours spent in Gethsemane, so He sends His "enabling power" to compensate for all that I lack.

Three-year-old poetry fan

2010-11-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

Great story about Samuel Chelpka, future Poet Laureate. And here's the video.

"This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship"

2010-11-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

Anyone seen a unicorn?

2010-10-31T13:50:00.000-06:00

She's a robot

2010-10-27T09:18:00.002-06:00

Really.

detox

2010-10-24T19:00:00.006-06:00

I seem to have a natural (or odd, perhaps?) tendency to try and find the "life lesson" in experiences I have. Not sure where this comes from. Maybe it's my way of avoiding some unpleasant truths I'm unwilling to learn about myself.

I'm finding this to be the case as it relates to the "adventure" we've been going through for the past two years or so. The "I don't really have a steady job" adventure, meaning. Which has led to the "How are we going to pay for...?" adventure. Amazingly, with the continual grace of heaven and many kind and loving (and generous) family members and friends, both known and unknown, we've been able to somehow make it month after sometimes harrowing month.

All of this has made me realize that I'm in a unpleasant but necessary form of detox. This long, drawn-out process of weaning myself from the love of money and the things it "buys" has brought me to myself, so to speak. I'm finally discovering how deep this love of and desire for money has its claws in me. It's almost as if I'm coming out of a coma.

I'm seeing that much of my adult life has been based on the lie that money tells us: You can have anything in this world with money. I've been a willing believer of the lie. It is quite seductive, and at times intricately woven into the equally important truth that teaches we must strive to provide for ourselves. At what point does providing become unhealthy, or even toxic?

Another truth I must confront is the realization that I may always be in recovery from the addiction. Is there really a cure? Perhaps the only one I know of is full-time (even if only in my head), consecrated service to others.

They say the first step is acknowledging the problem. Gotta start somewhere.

8,401 days of magic*

2010-10-01T00:01:00.085-06:00

I'm amazed to think that I've been married for 23 years today. Amazed because that seems like a long time, but also because it doesn't feel at all like 23 years. Not even close. When one is lucky (or blessed) enough to pick a winner, the years seem like months, the months like days, and well, you get the drift.

Marriage certainly has a lot going for it. I'm a fan. But of the many blessings I could count because of being married to Ginger A. Livingston, perhaps the best one of all is that when we are together, we have an entire universe all to our selves.

Happy Anniversary, darling. (And even though you probably won't like the picture, I'm smiling for a reason...)

i wave the flag surrender

There's love
and then there's knowing you

There's sunshine
and then there are first rays of yellow
reflecting in eyes of deepest green

There's a kiss
and then there are whispered promises
hidden soft as I close my eyes

I know this - small as I am
I've chosen well -

So happily - totally - for always -

i raise the flag surrender

* (counting leap years ;-)

Something wicked coming...Friday.

2010-09-27T21:43:00.001-06:00

Starting this Friday, my fellow (actually mostly sister) writers and I will be serializing a scary story each and every day until Halloween at our Smashing Stories blog. Our idea is to each take turns, one day a time, writing a story that will conclude on the 31st. Should be a lot of fun. Hope you'll come by and check it out.

Oh, and it would be wise of you to lock the doors before bedtime. Just in case of...whatever. Or whomever might be lurking about outside.

days of woe and wonder

2010-09-12T18:59:00.060-06:00

I haven't drawn a steady paycheck since January 15th...

...this has been one of the best years of my life.

In case you haven't heard, the world is having a really bad Monday. Perpetually. Not that there hasn't been a massive effort to try and get back to the good old Friday night fun. But let's not talk about that silliness.

In spite of (or maybe because of) all the woe, I humbly submit the thought that life has never been as good as it is right now. Really. There's just something in the air - a buzz of ~~good~~ great things coming our way. We just have so many, many blessings to count. And so many adventures to thrill the heart - who can even keep up?

For your consideration:

Wonder #1 -

Have you noticed how amazingly blue the sky is in September? Don't you just wish you could swim in all that fine, downy azure?

Wonder #2 -
Why are these men smiling? Do they know something we don't? Actually...

Yes - and no. How sweet it is to have prophets on the earth to speak to God and for Him. And now a story, as recently shared by BYU President, Cecil Samuelson:

"Eight and a half years ago the 2002 Winter Olympics were held in Salt Lake City. At that time one of my assignments was to serve on the Public Affairs Committee of the Church. As you might know, many prominent people from around the world visited Salt Lake City. All of us at Church headquarters and many others had multiple opportunities to host these special visitors. On one of these occasions Sister Samuelson and I had the privilege of accompanying Mr. Mike Wallace—the host of the 60 Minutes television program—and his producer to the special cultural event presented at the LDS Conference Center during the Olympic Games.

You may recall that Mike Wallace twice interviewed President Gordon B. Hinckley on his television program. While Mr. Wallace could never trip up or confuse President Hinckley with his penetrating questions, they became good friends as a result of these interviews, and Mike Wallace came to Salt Lake City for the Olympics as a guest of the Church. As we sat with these good people, it was clear that they were impressed, and Mr. Wallace frequently made very complimentary comments about President Hinckley.

At the conclusion of the performance, we accompanied these VIPS to their limousine. On the way we met President and Sister James E. Faust of the First Presidency, who had also attended the performance.

As I introduced President Faust to Mike Wallace and explained the close relationship President Faust and President Hinckley enjoyed in the First Presidency, Mr. Wallace said to President Faust, “You are just the man to answer a question I have had for some time. Gordon Hinckley is the most optimistic man I have ever met. Can you tell me why?”

President Faust didn’t hesitate for even a moment and replied with a twinkle in his eye, “President Hinckley knows how all this is going to turn out.”

Mike Wallace, a self-described agnostic Jew, knew exactly what President Faust meant."

Wonder #3-

Children. I'm (slowly -'cause I'm slow) starting to notice how naturally happy children are. And how little if any of their time is spent worrying about money, jobs, houses, etc. Sure - I understand those are adult concerns. Somebody's got to pay the mortgage, right?

But maybe it's the realization that children don't want things as much as they want their parent's full attention. Even one-on-one, once in awhile. I seem naturally inclined to woe. My children - all children - seem naturally inclined to wonder - wonder as in wonderful.

Wonder #4 -
Everyone should have someone lovely in their life. Someone they can share everything with. Someone who believes in all their hopes and dreams. Someone who knows magic.

Lucky me...

Wonder #5 -

I could keep going, and likely will - some other time. But what more could there be to find wonder than in the most wonderful wonder of all - Jesus Christ, the Light of the World:

Days of woe. Days of wonder.

Days never to be forgotten.

As children of Zion,
Good tidings for us.
The tokens already appear.
Fear not, and be just,
For the kingdom is ours.
The hour of redemption is near.

Please welcome our new blogger

2010-09-01T17:53:00.002-06:00

Say hello to Ice Man Ike.

China Here We Come

2010-08-30T14:45:00.000-06:00

"I would ask that your faith and prayers continue to be offered in behalf of those areas where our influence is limited and where we are not allowed to share the gospel freely at this time. Miracles can occur as we do so." President Thomas S. Monson - October 2009

Just in case we wondered why we should pray for the doors of the nations to be opened: China.

Make Mine Mindy

2010-08-29T18:58:00.000-06:00

We're all loving our new family musical discovery: Mindy Gledhill. Her latest CD, Anchor, has been spinning non-stop around these parts. And she's got a great life story about sticking with a dream, too.

You can also hear one of her songs from the new CD in this YouTube video about Stephanie Nielson:

Do you know Ginger?

2010-08-16T10:00:00.000-06:00

How come we have to rely on words to capture the wonder of a person? They are such frail little things; so inadequate to do the job that we demand of them. And yet, today, words are the only thing I have to attempt to describe the magic of the one and only Ginger, on this her 43rd birthday.

Recently we were watching some old home movies of when Ginger was growing up with her two older sisters in Burley, Idaho. There was no sound - only video. And yet I could "hear" Ginger each and every time she appeared on screen. She was always smiling. Her fine green eyes were always bright and filled with excitement. One of the very first things that attracted me to her (and still does) is the child-like brightness in Ginger's eyes. Whether as an eight year-old or as a beautiful, vibrant mother, that same light still shines through.

In the first moments of waking each morning, I am reminded that God is good. This reminder comes easily. I need only to look at the calm, gentle face of my sweetheart nearby to know that I am exceedingly blessed.

Sometime today we'll join in singing "Happy Birthday" to you. It probably won't sound that good (too many kids!) But know, Ginger fine, that underneath the song, beyond words, is a melody of grace that hums "I love you - I need you - I claim you forever." Happy birthday, love.

A soldier's return

2010-08-15T11:47:00.000-06:00

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Was that really two years? Somedays it felt like it. Most days not. But everyday was a blessing. Every single one. The Lord was exceedingly merciful to our family as our missionary served. We will always be grateful for his service, and for the many, many blessings that came to us because he did so. We're especially grateful for the support that was given by so many. Whether in the form of prayers, checks, letters or just simply asking about our missionary, each and every expression of love was very meaningful and very appreciated.

I plan to blog soon about the experience of welcoming Isaac home at the airport. Plus everyone needs to see pictures of his very well-worn pants and sole-less shoes. But in the meantime, again, thank you. Your love has been a tremendous gift to us.

Never alone

2010-08-05T17:31:00.003-06:00

The strength of people, strengthened by God, is amazing.

My kind of Jane Austen

2010-07-28T12:31:00.000-06:00

And the "rest of the story."

dog gone

2010-07-22T05:00:00.002-06:00

Griffith

January 2, 1996 - July 21, 2010

Time at last to sleep, friend.

Adventures in the new economy

2010-07-19T09:30:00.000-06:00

I graduated from college in 1993. With the exception of a few months (including a stint as a boxboy at Storehouse Market in Provo, after I graduated) I've always been someone else's employee. I figured that would probably be true for most of my working life.

But as of the first of May, 2010, I became Scott, Incorporated. VP Ginger is the first co-worker I've ever kissed at work. Everyday has become an adventure (and not just because of the kissing.)

One week things will just be singing along swell. I get some good personal writing done, have enough time to complete assigned projects (the ones that pay actually money, not "future" money) and I even get a honey-do or two done.

Then an email comes telling me my hours are being reduced for at least a little while, and it's back to "okay, how are we gonna bounce with this one this time?"

I'm reminded of the wonderful parable Hugh B. Brown shared many years ago about pruning his currant bush:

"You sometimes wonder whether the Lord really knows what He ought to do with you. You sometimes wonder if you know better than He does about what you ought to do and ought to become. I am wondering if I may tell you a story. It has to do with an incident in my life when God showed me that He knew best.

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet (two meters) high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?”

You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”

That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’ ”

The rest of the story is just a click on the link above away. Pruning hurts something fierce, but it appears to be the best way for me to grow. Snip snip.

It ain't yer grandma's library

2010-07-16T14:19:00.001-06:00

Random randomness

2010-06-27T17:00:00.001-06:00

Case you didn't hear...it's summer. So in the spirit, here's some random wanderings through cyberspace. Crack open a beverage of your choice and enjoy -

#1 - Base-jumping into the Grand Canyon on a skateboard. Now why didn't I think of that?

#2 - Ellie's new favorite video. She thinks it's her."Cute" doesn't quite begin to describe Ms. Zoei.

#3 - I never get tired of this thing. Just so, so cool. The things people think of...and then do.

#4 - These are real answers to test questions from some quick-thinking kids. My favorite below: Kung. Fu. Midgets.

#5 A great post about living without fear - it includes the following questions:

If you knew you could not fail and those around you would not only suspend judgment, but wholeheartedly support you: What would you do?
Are you doing it?
If not: Why?

Oh, and one more question:

If your reason for not doing something is that you’re afraid of failing or being judged: How much worse would that be than never having tried?

#6 Cool story about the man in charge of archiving stuff for Disney. Wouldn't you love that job? And here are pictures of some of the goodies.

#7 - This was voted the world's funniest joke:

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator says: "Calm down, I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: "OK, now what?"

So enjoy this random wandering..back later with more.

Hold on

2010-06-18T11:25:00.004-06:00

This has always been one of my favorite talks from Elder Holland - no small task trying to chose just one.

It was originally part of a talk called "An High Priest of Good Things to Come." Needful encouragement in needy times.

Oh, and the kind man that helps young Jeffrey Holland in the movie was the man that directed my play at BYU a hundred years ago. Hey Dr. Metten!

Run a marathon - check!

2010-06-14T15:52:00.000-06:00

"The pain you enjoy." The tag line was half right: First part ("The pain), definitely. The second half? ("you enjoy") I'll have get back to you on that.

Earlier this year I wrote down a list of goals I wanted to accomplish in 2010. I've since written down those same goals every single day. One of them was to complete a marathon. Mission (almost) accomplished. I had a specific time that I wanted to finish under, so that's a goal still to be achieved.

Running a marathon is often compared to the journey of life. I "got" that concept intellectually before running one, but now that I've had the experience of making it to the next milepost (and the one after that, and...) I've gained a deeper comprehension of the connection between life and running 26.2 miles.

Congrats to Mrs. Browning for running a great race (and for the Advil.) We won't tell anybody about the "margarita shots" we enjoyed in Wallsburg, k?

Thanks much to Terri for doing what she does so well - being "other-centric." Jerky and orange juice never tasted better.

Most of all, thanks to my wonderful team, led by Miss Ginger. My first goal was to reach her and to then hopefully finish. She got me across the line - standing up. And my two little cheerleaders made it sweeter still.

Am I really already looking at doing another one? Am I crazy? As if you didn't know.

Maintaining the edge

2010-05-23T19:59:00.002-06:00

Everybody loves a good stretch. Especially when it comes after a hard day of work or after a full night's sleep (those still happen for people, right? I've heard rumors...)

Sometimes stretching can be painful, especially when its one's soul that's being stretched. It can become very easy to complain about all the hammering about and remodeling going on. This year has definitely been a huge remodeling project and it ain't even half over.

I muse about this now because it has become clear that by nature I'm spiritually quite lazy. At the slightest hint of ease or improvement in my personal circumstances, I seem to immediately begin drifting from the path I fought so hard both to get to and to stay on during more difficult days.

The simple (but not easy) basic principles can be so very easy to neglect. Stephen Covey talks about the "important but not urgent" Quadrant 2 tasks in life and how they can be quickly set aside for lesser but more "urgent" things. The daily work of keeping my edge is just that, work. If I am slothful (and I certainly am slothful) then the edge I need is dulled and I am much less useful to myself and to others. The cutting but dead-on question asked in scripture is so apt: "Can ye feel so now?"

Sometimes, yes. Far too often, not so much.

Helping your garden grow

2010-05-10T19:45:00.002-06:00

If you're among the married people, come by The Marriage Garden and check out the 7-Day Challenge. It'll get your heart-rate going, if nothing else. And it's not what you're thinking, or at least not just what you're thinking.

And a happy Monday to you, too.

Winnowing

2010-04-25T14:58:00.000-06:00

A verse that I've read often resonated with new relevance this week as I was pondering the concept of "winnowing." As pictured above, the process of winnowing is a simple one. In many countries it is still done by hand, and requires that a grain farmer manually divide the wheat from the chaff by throwing his grain into the air, which causes the chaff to separate and blow away. Because the grain is heavier, it falls safely to the ground, "winnowed" or separated from the worthless chaff that was attached to it.

The verse I read about "winnowing" was in Mosiah 23:21, which teaches that the "Lord seeth fit to chasten his people; yea, he trieth their patience and their faith." I'm confident that there has never been a time in my life when I was not deserving of chastening. No doubt there are regular meetings being held regarding how hard my head and heart are and what can be done about resolving that problem once and for all.

The process required to separate wheat from chaff seems an apt metaphor for the process I must go through if I am to become something useful. How much chaff there is that still clings to my soul is unknown. More winnowing is no doubt necessary. The separation is not pleasant but is certainly needed.

Rather than spending my time wondering "how much more?' or "how much longer?" I instead need to focus on developing the necessary patience and faith to trust in the Lord's timing and plan for me. Only then can the work be considered done.

Until then, I will try not to tremble as the Lord of the harvest approaches.

At 1:15 today...

2010-04-21T21:43:00.002-06:00

I typed word #70,781 on page 211 of my first novel. Which meant I finished it. Which means I get to start rewriting the whole thing. Starting tomorrow. But hey, it's something. The last word was "that" in case you were wondering.

Albert's Service and Up the Creek

2010-04-18T12:59:00.003-06:00

Counting blessings is getting harder and harder these days - there are just too many to number. Yesterday (Saturday) is but one example. We sent Miss McKenzie on her way back to school in Rexburg to start her junior year (?!!!) at BYU-I. Things were going along just merrily for her and good friend Shannon until they decided to stop at a rest stop in Malad, Idaho.

When they got back in the car to continue their journey, McKenzie's car wouldn't start. Our first thought was a battery problem, so we suggested she enlist someone to help her try and jump start the car. That didn't work.

We immediately began to figure out how we would get to them and arrange for their arrival at school as well as how to get the car towed and repaired. The weekend was starting to look really loooonnngggg and expensive.

I got on the computer to see about arranging to have her car towed into Malad. One of the first names that appeared on the Malad Chamber of Commerce's website was Albert's Service and Up the Creek. Feeling pretty up the creek at that particular moment, I gave Albert a call. He told me that his only tow truck was out on another job, but that he might be able to arrange a way to get to the rest stop and see what he could do. Fifteen minutes later, he was there to assess the situation.

He felt confident that it was a bad starter. He then helped McKenzie start the car by popping the clutch, and he even taught her how to do it in case the car stopped running before they arrived in Rexburg. And then off they went.

Albert, you are THE man. We were so grateful for yet another instance of the Lord providing "means" whereby McKenzie could complete her journey. Sure enough, when she arrived and turned off the car, it would not start again. But she's there, and safely.

Decisions, decisions

2010-04-14T15:07:00.000-06:00

Check out the new garden!

2010-04-11T18:29:00.003-06:00

I've been working on a little project over the last several weeks and have decided it's probably time to share. It's a new blog called The Marriage Garden. I have been very blessed in my life by the power of marriage, and have wanted a way to share what I'm learning from the journey. As the name implies, I believe that marriage is in many ways like a garden. I look forward to sharing insights from my own "garden" as well as inviting posts and comments from any and all fellow (and sister) gardeners.

It is certainly clear that the principle of marriage is under assault in our modern era. Many either believe that it is irrelevant or they believe that the definition of marriage must be broadened in order to accommodate everyone's interpretation of what marriage is or is not. Although my primary goal is not to deal directly with these issues in the blog, I do hope to speak to the value of traditional marriage as a bedrock of our past, present and future.

A word about content: I intend for the Marriage Garden to be respectful and appropriate for married followers, or for those in advanced preparation for marriage (i.e. you're engaged ;-). I also intend to talk about all aspects of the marriage garden, including the importance of intimacy in all of its forms.

I've given this part of the garden a great deal of thought. It is my belief that many married couples have misconceptions and thus struggle with this area of their marriages. If we are to claim all of the promises of marriage, we must know and live the truths upon which those promises are based. We all know there are seemingly countless inappropriate places to go for misinformation. I have tried and will continue to try and find safe and straightforward resources to provide crucial education and inspiration. You'll find links to these resources and blogs at The Marriage Garden. If you know of others, please share.

So off we go on a new gardening adventure. I hope it will be helpful. If you're willing to add a link to the Marriage Garden on your blog, I'd be most appreciative. Better yet, share it with someone you know who might be benefited from some fresh "produce." And most of all, I hope you'll be willing to share what you've learned from your own gardening efforts.

"help thou mine unbelief"

2010-04-05T21:51:00.000-06:00

Faith is hard work. Perhaps the hardest. To keep believing when all of your instincts, all of your experience, and all of your senses tell you not to believe. It is the deepest test of all to "doubt not, but be believing." Such is our present situation. When one commits to a path, trusting that it is the right thing at that time, there is the danger of trying to "finish the sentence," so to speak. In other words, although an impression may come to do something, it's important to not read into the confirmation more than was actually said. I like to call this writing a paragraph when only a sentence was provided.

At the same time, we are expected to "walk by faith," and to "bring to pass much righteousness...wherein we are agents unto ourselves." Perhaps the great test of mortality is to endure in faith regardless of what that faith leads to.

I think I am often like Thomas. He wasn't there when the Savior first appeared in resurrected form. He'd never before experienced a meeting with a resurrected being. How many of the other disciples would've had a similar response to the one Thomas had? I too sometimes want to see before I will believe.

And thus the test. To believe and then to see. To offer everything without knowing everything. To say as did Adam and Eve, "we know not save the Lord commanded us."

I say, as did the father whose son had been possessed by an evil spirit, "I believe, Lord; help thou mine unbelief."

Hope springs eternal

2010-03-21T18:02:00.004-06:00

What a long, cold winter. And I ain't talkin' about the weather, folks. I'm talking about trying to make my way through some brisk (and sometimes invigorating) waters on a quest for great things. Starting in mid-January, I've been writing down my goals for the year each and every single day. Monster goals. Things I've been wanting to achieve for as long as I can remember, but until recently have been doing very little (ok, nothing) to actually work towards reaching. But no longer, mon ami! This is the year that I've decided that the price will be paid...no matter the cost. And I'm only just now beginning to understand how high that price really is. What have I gotten myself into?

But I'm not complaining. On the contrary, I haven't felt this alive in a long, long time. It's ironic to me that in the midst of the hardest economic circumstances that we've been in since we first began Livingston, Inc., I'm more hopeful than ever of there being better, brighter days soon to come. Emphasis on soon, fingers crossed. Hope springs eternal. And work is water to hope, I'm learning. Grow little flower, grow.

This one's for you, Jenny

2010-03-08T09:09:00.001-07:00

I fully expected them to have a vibrant blonde (or redhead?) from Boise front and center in this story about turbo couponers in The Wall Street Journal. What gives, Jen?

Love handles saved my life!

2010-02-23T14:38:00.002-07:00

Lest you think I was kidding...

that one day in february

2010-02-12T13:33:00.002-07:00

This guy went ALL OUT for his Valentine. With a little help from his cows.

Three reasons for gratitude

2010-01-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

I've been VERY negligent in expressing gratitude for three very important blessings in my life, each of whom has had an important milestone in the last six weeks. I hope to repent in chronological order:

Our Caleb celebrated his 8th birthday on the 21st of December and was baptized and confirmed on the 2nd of January. As has been noted (much more promptly) by his mother, he is a very special boy and we are very blessed to have him in our family. We've only shared a small percentage of the stories that could be shared about Caleb. We have to be on our toes at all times with him. His latest passion is the presidents of the United States. Recently he was at a friend's house and was called to come home for dinner. A few minutes later he showed up at the door with our good bishop. It was evident that he was being quizzed about who the (pick a number) president was, when he served, who his VP was, etc. Caleb is one of the reasons (I'll deal with the other one in a minute) that we enjoy our sleep around here. Congrats to you, son, on a very exciting moment for you. Love, dad.

January 1st was of course Miss McKenzie's big 20th birthday. Can I really be old enough to have two twenty-something children? Guess so. The creeping gray hairs don't lie...McKenzie is certainly wise beyond her years and is such a "peaceful" child (something we appreciate around here. But as I said, I'll get to that child in just a moment.) Kenz has always been our old soul and keeper of traditions. She is the one we were most worried about telling that we finally got a "fake" Christmas tree this year...She seemed to be okay with it. Mostly. We often treat her like a third parent around here, perhaps more than we should. She is rock-solid in her faith and in understanding what really matters. She has also become our unpaid family dietitian. So glad that the Lord chose to send her our way. I love you, Rudy. Dad.

And last but certainly not least, our Miss Ellie celebrated her 5th birthday with a grand princess party, courtesy of her mom and older sister. Ellie is...well, Ellie! One of her current "habits" is making it from the bathroom back to her bedroom in three steps or less. This usually happens around 2am. We'll hear a sudden "boom" of her feet hitting the wood floor. She throws the bedroom door open, bounds into the bathroom to take care of business, and is literally back in bed with the door shut in under ten seconds. She calls her bad dreams "boy dreams." Keep thinking that way, Ellie. What a person you are. And yet so easy to love. Happy birthday, (not so) little one.

Just three more reasons to be so, so grateful.

Bigger than football

2010-01-14T19:43:00.002-07:00

Please make time to read this little article. It's not really about football (not that there's anything wrong with that!) - it's about the power of good people to make a difference. And go Ravens!

Pray for Grace

2010-01-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

As many who read this blog know, Scott and Amy Browning's daughter Grace has been fighting a very serious infection for the last few weeks. Today she is in the hospital in intensive care, trying to get better. I invite everyone who reads this post to please include her in your personal and family prayers if you aren't already doing so.

I also invite any family members who wish to participate in a family fast on her behalf to join the Livingstons in doing so tomorrow, January 14th. Even if you can't fast, please pray that our fast will be more efficacious for her.

We pray that the Lord will extend His healing hand to her and to her family. Please join us.

And keep fighting, Grace.

Prosperity is the Lord's

2010-01-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

Last month I was assigned to give a talk using President Monson's counsel to "be of good cheer." With several months of preparation time, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the many reasons we have to "be of good cheer, and to not fear." As I made a list of some of the things I might share, one realization that came to me was that regardless of what our economic circumstances may be, true prosperity is the Lord's to give. To me this means that we can prosper no matter how dificult things may be in the world in which we live. The Book of Mormon uses some form of the word "prosper" a total of 46 times, with many other references to the principle of prosperity. It has taken me a lifetime to learn that God's definition of prosperity is different than that of the world's. Most often the world equates prosperity with wealth. Clearly the Lord is able to bless His children with the things of this world. All of them are His to give.

We've also been learning that one must "importune" the Lord for His prosperity. To me this means that I must be consistent in asking for the Lord's guidance and help in obtaining those things He is prepared to bless me and my family with. He truly wants to bless us not only with our needs, but He has also promised that He will prosper the righteous with the good things of this world. For the last several months we have been praying for the Lord to bless our family with true prosperity. Amazing things have resulted, and many more are no doubt still to come. One of these blessings is a new employment opportunity for me. I readily acknowledge the Lord's hand in this. We look forward to seeing what miracles are yet to come. Prosperity truly is the Lord's.

into the dark

2010-01-04T16:21:00.001-07:00

Here's to new adventures and to walking into the dark and liking it. Who likes to do that? I don't, normally. But now feels like a time to go for it - to take chances - to try things I've never tried before - to fail faster. The famous quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes comes to mind: "Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out." I am beyond ready to let the music out, in all its jumbled, unedited glory. Could be pretty. Could be pretty awful. Don't care so much either way. It's just time to sing.

I'm finding fear to be less and less a part of my world. Most of the things we fear never happen. Those that do almost always turn out to be useful anyway. Love that scripture in the Doctrine & Covenants that says that "All things shall work together for your good, if ye walk uprightly..." "Walk uprightly." Sounds like the opposite of walking in fear to me. So here's to walking uprightly in 2010. What's the worst that could happen? I could bump my head, I suppose. Most likely my head needed the bumping anyway. In the words of a famous American hero, "Let's roll." Can't wait to see what's out there, in the dark, waiting.

Merry Christmas - may the bells ring for you now and in 2010

2009-12-25T00:25:00.010-07:00

Peace on Earth—Some Restrictions Apply

Julie Franklin

One reason I believe that peace comes to earth with restrictions in place is based on the fact that I have experienced that phenomenon in my own life. The times I have felt the greatest peace were times when I was striving to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands and was purposefully reaching out to others. We read “there is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked”⁴ in the scriptures and sing “there is peace in righteous doing”⁵ from the hymnbook.

The restrictions that apply to the ability to have peace on earth are somewhat specific and have nothing to do with the circumstances we find ourselves in: We can be unprepared for final exams, papers, or projects; have minimal financial resources; still have no idea what we should get for the hard-to-shop-for person in our life; have an undeclared major; be a graduate without a job offer or graduate school acceptance; have health concerns, relationship issues, acne, or a bad haircut; or live in areas where there are wars, rumors of wars, religious intolerance, oppressive leaders, or obnoxious radio talk show hosts and still have the peace the angels promised.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow probably understood this when he penned the poem “Christmas Bells” that would be set to music and become a favorite Christmas carol—the refrain of which I mentioned earlier.

Mr. Longfellow used church bells ringing on Christmas Day as the setting for a poem he wrote during the Civil War. The fighting had been fierce and touched the lives of the Longfellow family personally. Mr. Longfellow’s son Charles, who had enlisted in the Union Army at 17 years of age, had arrived home about two weeks prior to Christmas 1863 after being critically injured in a battle.⁶ While Charles eventually recovered from his wounds, his father was likely concerned about the long-term health of his son and of his country. In addition to these concerns, Mr. Longfellow continued to feel the grave loss of his beloved wife, Francis Appleton Longfellow, also known as Fanny. In 1861, the same year the Civil War broke out, Fanny died from injuries she sustained when her light summer dress ignited in their home. The light weight of the fabric and the hoops she wore allowed ample oxygen to feed the flames, and Mrs. Longfellow was quickly engulfed. Mr. Longfellow attempted to extinguish the fire and was himself burned in the process. With her death he was left to raise five children and manage the affairs of his home as a single parent.⁷ The death of his wife and his son’s critical injuries were not the only tragedies in Mr. Longfellow’s life. Fanny was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s second wife, and together they had a daughter also named Frances who died when she was 17 months old.⁸ His first wife, Mary Potter Longfellow, died just over a month after she miscarried during her sixth month of pregnancy.⁹ This was a man who had every reason to pity himself and feel cranky about his condition, and yet he declared in beautiful verse:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Till, ringing, singing, on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,

Of peace on earth, good will to men!¹⁰

My First Christmas

2009-12-24T00:24:00.002-07:00

The first thing different was the heat. I hadn’t even gotten off the plane yet, it was

the first week of December, and it had to be at least 85 degrees outside. In addition to my

100% wool suit, I was wearing a full-length winter coat that I’d had on since I left the

MTC at 4 o’clock that morning. “How could anyone here even remember Christmas

when it’s so hot?” I mumbled to myself. This mission thing was definitely going to take

some getting used to.

I’d been called to serve in the Arizona Tempe Mission for The Church of Jesus

Christ of Latter-day Saints. Both my mission president and his wife were the most loving,

generous people I had ever met, and Sister George’s “celestial sauce” was, well, celestial!

But like most missionaries, I was half-excited and half-terrified to be on a mission, where

everything and everyone seemed to be so new and so different. After we arrived at the

mission home and had an orientation meeting and meal, we met individually with

President George. It was then that I learned that my first area would be 100 miles to the

south in Tucson, and that I would be serving with an elder that was one month from

completing his mission. What had already seemed like the longest day of my life became

two hours longer, as several very tired missionaries loaded our bright, shiny suitcases

back into the mission van and headed south.

The next few weeks were a blur of tracting, teaching, and lots and lots of doors

shutting in our faces. My senior companion was a wonderful missionary with lots of

wisdom to share, and there seemed to be little if any time to even think about, let alone to

feel any longing for home and family One of the families we were teaching seemed

especially promising. The father had been disabled while serving in the military and was

unable to provide for his wife, two young daughters, and a newborn baby girl. Although

they faced the challenge everyday of finding the basics of life, they had a bright, hopeful

outlook and humbly responded to the gospel message we shared. At the conclusion of our

second discussion we invited them to be baptized, and both husband and wife answered

affirmatively. It would be my first baptism!

With just a week to go until Christmas, I began to allow occasional thoughts of

home and family to intrude. The holidays just wouldn’t be the same, especially Christmas

morning. That was always the big moment for our family. We’d usually wake up (if we’d

slept at all!) at 4am and then watch in agony as the minutes passed by like hours. I

couldn’t really even remember most of the gifts that I’d received over the years, but the

magic of the moment was still as fresh and pungent as the Douglas fir tree we would

decorate every year. I don’t remember if I’d even asked for anything (white shirts and

cookies, maybe?) Mostly what I wanted was to just be with my family, to sit back and

watch as my younger siblings delighted in what Santa had brought them.

One evening as we were talking about this special family we were teaching,

someone suggested it would be a great idea to do a “Secret Santa” for them, complete

with presents, food, maybe even a fully decorated Christmas tree. Within a day or two,

and with the help of many willing local Church members, we had gathered a wonderful

variety of gifts, special treats and well as food essentials, and a decked-out Christmas tree

(no doubt grown in Oregon!) to boot. The best part of all was a Santa Claus suit someone

had donated. With the help of our most well-fed missionary and his companion, neither

of whom had ever met the family, we loaded up several mission cars and drove over to

their very humble home.

Not wanting to be seen, my companion and I stood on each side of the porch as

“Santa” knocked on the door. As the family welcomed him and his helper into their

home, all we could do was listen as Christmas happened inside. Standing there in the

dark, listening to the squeals of delight from the little girls, I felt something I’d never

before experienced. This was Christmas. The real Christmas. This was why I was here,

why I had left home and family to serve people I’d never met in a place I’d never before

been to. An intense sweetness washed away any lingering doubt or feelings of

homesickness. We drove quietly back to our little missionary apartment, the silence

around us filled not with darkness but with the light of giving and receiving.

He Would Have Bought It for You

2009-12-23T00:23:00.001-07:00

Cheryl Boyle, “‘He Would Have Bought It for You’,” Ensign, Dec. 2001, 57–58

When my husband, Mick, died suddenly, I was devastated. He had been a constant source of inspiration, goodness, and patience. I wondered how I could raise our five children without him.

Shauna was one of my visiting teachers at the time. Occasionally she and her husband, Jim, who was also my home teacher, would take me out to a movie or to the temple.

Fall came, and as the weather turned cold I pulled my coat out of the closet. It was about 15 years old and looked very worn. I was embarrassed to wear it on my outings with Shauna and Jim; the lining was torn, and each time Jim helped me on with the coat, my hand got caught in the lining.

As Christmas drew near, I began to feel lonely. This would be my first Christmas without Mick, and I missed him very much. I tried to act happy for the children’s sake, but it was difficult.

Just a few days before Christmas, Jim and Shauna and their oldest daughter came to visit me. They handed me a beautifully wrapped package with a card attached. The card read: “To Cheryl. Love, Mick.” Tears began to stream down my face. Inside the box was the most beautiful coat I had ever seen. It fit perfectly. “We knew that if Mick were here, he would have bought it for you,” they said.

Whenever I wear my coat, someone always compliments me on how beautiful I look. I know it is because I am glowing—remembering the love of my home teacher, my visiting teacher, and my husband each time I put it on.

My Pocket Was Empty

2009-12-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

Jerry L. Zaugg, “My Pocket Was Empty,” Ensign, Dec. 2006, 65

Finances were tight for our young family in 1979. I was a student at Colorado State University. Meager funds from loans and my wife’s enterprises were deposited directly into a savings account. Then we would withdraw a budgeted amount every week for expenses. As Christmas approached we recognized that this holiday would be a frugal one.

One Friday evening we decided that I would take the two oldest of our four children to explore the excitement of the local shopping mall. En route we made our bank withdrawal, electing to withdraw the full December amount at the beginning of the month to cover the increased expenses of the holidays. I took the full amount in small bills.

Although no snow had fallen, the weather was cold and raw with an icy wind. Arriving at the crowded mall parking lot, I hurriedly extracted the boys from the van, eager to get inside the bright, warm mall.

For well over an hour we wandered from store to store, enjoying the rich sights and smells. At last we agreed to cap our outing with some ice cream. With shock, however, I immediately discovered that my shirt pocket was empty of its recent bulge of money.

I fought down a rising panic as we quickly retraced our steps. But with each negative response to our anxious inquiries about someone finding some money, our sense of loss increased. After making a last, futile stop at a security desk, we sadly returned home.

We related the bad news to my concerned wife. How could we buy food, pay the rent and utilities, and cover other expenses for the month, let alone provide a few extras for Christmas? The children began to softly cry and whisper among themselves. Somberly we gathered in family prayer to ask for guidance. Then, as we were discussing every possible but unlikely avenue to compensate for the loss, the phone rang.

It was the security guard at the mall. “Are you the people who recently reported the loss of some money?” he asked.

“Yes, we are,” I answered.

“How much was it, and in what denominations?”

After we gave him the information, he asked if we could return to the mall.

With guarded anticipation we made the short journey back. The security guard told us that several people had turned in numerous small bills found scattered by the wind in the parking lot. A count revealed the exact amount we had lost. There was no one to thank, for these honest souls left no names. The guard smiled and wished us a merry Christmas as he handed us the small stack of bills. Much relieved and profoundly grateful, we drove home.

We then knelt as a family and offered our thanks for the blessings given. Christmas was saved for our little family, and an eternal lesson was learned. These honest people were wonderful examples to us. What better way to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the birth of His Son than by living the true spirit of Christmas?

A Christmas to Remember

2009-12-21T00:21:00.002-07:00

Jerry O. Thompson, “A Christmas to Remember,” Ensign, Dec. 2007, 62–63

My wife and I had been married less than two years; we were caring for a newborn; and, like typical struggling student families, we were stretching our finances trying to make ends meet.

Graduation was still a few years away, and we were trying to make the best of the Christmas season. I had several part-time jobs, and my wife, Lisa, was working as a secretary. We didn’t have a lot of extras, but we were happy.

A few months before Christmas, I was still getting to know the families I was recently assigned to home teach. One family in particular stood out because of the adversity they had recently faced. Two of their children had died in an accident from which the father was still recuperating, and the mother suffered from a crippling illness that had left her physically impaired. Despite these challenges, this family had a great spirit about them, and they set an example by the way they followed the commandments.

During my home teaching visit in December, I saw that they did not have a Christmas tree. My heart sank for their children. Knowing of their physical, spiritual, and financial struggles, my wife and I decided to do something for them.

We had saved enough money to buy a Christmas tree, so we decided to go out on Christmas Eve, buy the biggest tree we could afford, gift wrap it, and anonymously leave it at this family’s home. Fortunately, no one was home as we dropped off the tree. As we drove home afterward, we anticipated the joy they would feel upon returning home and finding the tree waiting for them. This small sacrifice added a spirit of peace and joy to our holiday that I had not felt before.

When we arrived at our apartment, we had our own surprise waiting for us on the doorstep: a beautifully decorated Christmas tree! My wife wept as she beheld this anonymous gift of love given to us in our financial need.

We later found out that this gift was given to us by the same family to whom we had given our tree. Even in their dark hour, this family had sought to bless others. Our hearts were filled with the true spirit of Christmas that year. It was a Christmas we will never forget.

Mother’s Christmas Mouse

2009-12-20T00:20:00.001-07:00

Betty LeBaron Mostert, “Mother’s Christmas Mouse,” Ensign, Dec. 2007, 62

When I was a child in the 1950s and 1960s, our Christmas traditions were not elaborate—except for the stockings. Because we children enjoyed our Christmas stockings so much, we continued the tradition when we married and had children of our own. Buying surprises and assembling dozens of Christmas stockings, however, soon became too much for my aging parents, especially my mother, who had a serious case of rheumatoid arthritis that limited her mobility and energy.

Eventually, I volunteered to take over the project. Our annual extended family home evening, in which we acted out the Christmas story and opened our stockings, found me exhausted from the demands of being the mother of several small children and juggling the events of an active life. As I watched everyone dump treasures out of the gingham Christmas stockings I had carefully prepared, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

As expected, my stocking was empty except for the standard candy cane and Japanese orange that I had placed there earlier. But as I shook them out, I noticed a little bedraggled mouse made of a walnut and hazelnuts. One ear was much bigger than the other, and the whiskers were crooked. The tail had been cut too short, and the loop to hang it on the tree was off center. I was confused. Had someone’s kindergarten project ended up in my stocking?

I looked up and saw my mother watching me from her wheelchair across the room. With a gnarled, bent finger, she beckoned to me.

“I wanted to do something for the Christmas stockings,” she said. “They made these little mice in Relief Society, and they were so cute.”

Her tears were close to the surface, and her gentle voice shook as she continued.

“I couldn’t get my fingers to work, so I made only one. It didn’t turn out, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

I looked again at the little mouse in my hand. She was right. I didn’t mind. In fact, her little bedraggled mouse became the most precious treasure of all that Christmas.

For more than 20 years, I have tenderly removed the tissue paper from the misshapen mouse crafted by misshapen fingers and carefully placed it on a branch. My angel mother has been free of her crippled body for several years, but her Christmas mouse reminds me of two profound truths.

The first is that my mother honored me by believing that I could look past the mouse’s crooked ears and feel the love and sacrifice that went into its creation. The second is that if I, as an imperfect mortal, am capable of finding beauty in a humble little mouse, how much more is our Father in Heaven capable of seeing past our imperfect efforts and understanding our pure intentions.

I know that when we do our best to give to others and to Him, our gift is not just good enough—it is of incalculable worth.

What Little We Had Was Enough

2009-12-19T00:19:00.003-07:00

Sueli de Aquino, “What Little We Had Was Enough,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 60

Christmas was coming, but this year we were not going to celebrate with an abundance of food and toys. Papa had passed away, and Mama had begun receiving a small pension as a widow, along with a little rent money.

We were in the living room of our apartment, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The room was quiet. Then suddenly we heard a sound as if someone had arrived outside the building.

I got up and looked through the blinds of the window, from which I could see the entrance to our building. I saw a homeless woman. She had a few bags and wore tattered clothes. I observed her for a few moments, curious to see what she would do. She opened a small paper sack, took out a few cookies, and began to eat them. Soon afterward she opened another little sack that contained a few coins and began to count them.

My young heart was moved, and I softly called to my mother, “There’s an old woman outside. Come and see.” My mother looked, and she also was moved. She asked me to get the can where we kept a little money, and without making a sound, she left our apartment and silently dropped the bills from the building’s hallway window.

I stayed by our window and watched the bills fall. The old woman saw one fall and then another and another. Trying to discover where the money had come from, she looked at the windows of the building. They were all closed. Then something wonderful happened. She looked to heaven and extended her wrinkled hands. Then she placed her hands on her chest and gave thanks for the gift she had received.

Behind the blinds of the window, we wept in gratitude that the little we had was enough to give joy to someone who had less.

Just a Few Stamps Short

2009-12-18T00:18:00.001-07:00

Wanda Daines Hammond Vetterli, “Just a Few Stamps Short,” Ensign, Dec. 1998, 59

As the years pass and Christmas memories fade, one Christmas stands above the rest. The year was 1918. There was a terrible flu going around in Logan, Utah, and my father was stricken. As there were no antibiotics in those days, we waited for the change that would mean life or death.

Because of my father’s illness, Mother told us there would be no money for Christmas gifts that year. My brother and sisters and I secretly decided to do something special for our parents to show them how much they were loved. Oh, if only we could buy them special gifts! We decided we would each look for a job to earn money and then pool our savings. Henry, my older brother, found a job selling Christmas trees, chopping wood, and cleaning walks. Carmen did housework for others, and Luella, who was a fast knitter, made and sold her handiwork. I baby-sat for a mother down the street. Only Marie was too young to work. She just looked forward to Christmas.

The day before Christmas was a crisp, wintry day. A thick blanket of snow covered the streets, and the stores were full of shoppers. We all gathered in my sister’s bedroom and counted our money. We had just enough to buy Father a warm robe and Marie a doll buggy. But what about Mother? What could we get or do for her, and where would we get the extra money?

We needed Heavenly Father’s help, so as brother and sisters we knelt down and prayed with all the fervor we could muster. And then we remembered: there was an almost-full book of green stamps from Christensen’s Department Store, and the completed books could be redeemed for merchandise. We hurried downtown and found the robe for Father and the wicker buggy for Marie, which we purchased at Christensen’s store. We received only a few stamps for our purchases, however, so we still lacked enough to fill the book. Carmen was walking through the store when a woman near the counter dropped her stamps. Carmen bent over, picked them up, and handed them back to her.

“I don’t save these,” the woman said. “Would you like them?”

Would we? We were overjoyed! Now we could buy a gift for our mother. We found a small table for just one book of stamps, but it was too heavy to carry home. We asked the clerk if it could be delivered that night, but she told us the delivery truck had already left. We must have looked very sad because she offered to contact the driver and see if he would deliver the table after hours.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Father seemed better and even wanted to join us for the festivities. The temperature was below freezing outside, but we were blanketed with a warmth of love for each other. We made chains of popcorn, colored paper, and cranberries for our tree, and the spicy smell of baked cookies and pies filled the air. Friends and family dropped by, and we sang our favorite Christmas songs and shared our treats.

Mother gave us all small gifts of knitted mittens, hard candy, and stockings, but still her gift had not arrived. What if it did not come? Then there was a knock at the door and someone shouted “Merry Christmas!” The delivery man was therewith Mother’s table. We jumped up and down and cheered, and Mother had tears in her eyes.

That Christmas I learned that loving someone was more important than loving something. We felt the joy that comes from giving of ourselves, and that evening we knelt in prayer to thank Heavenly Father for His help and kind blessings.

Our Not-Quite Tabernacle Choir

2009-12-17T00:17:00.000-07:00

Jeanne P. Lawler, “Our Not-Quite Tabernacle Choir,” Ensign, Dec. 1996, 48–49

During the 1993 Christmas season I was serving as a senior missionary “far, far away” in Bangalore, India. The first week in December, three days after I arrived, I was asked to help organize and direct a choir in the Bangalore Branch of the Church because the members wanted to participate in an annual choir festival held in that city. Neither my companion, Sister Annie Christensen from Utah, nor I were aware of what this festival entailed, but we agreed to help out.

I selected “Far, Far Away on Judea’s Plains” (Hymns, no. 212) to sing in the program, and 16 people attended the two enthusiastic rehearsals held on a rooftop of a member’s home. They were not familiar with part singing, so we sang in unison without musical accompaniment. If a piano was available at the festival, then I would play instead of direct.

The date of the performance arrived. As we alighted from our harrowing motorized ricksha ride to downtown Bangalore, we stood gaping before a huge city building. It was draped with a large banner that read “Festival of Christmas Music.” Stunned, we walked up the broad flight of stairs and into the foyer, which was filled with costumed participants. This was a big event!

We scrambled to get one of the printed programs. Listed were the names of several church, college, and university choirs that were participating. We looked for our group and gasped as we read, “L.D.S. Choir (Mormon’s Tabernacle).” We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We went aside and prayed, pleading for heavenly help. I turned to my companion and said, “You’ll need to direct the choir!”

She replied, “I’ve never done that before in my life!”

“Just smile,” I assured her. “Make a figure eight and look confident.”

When the curtain opened for our number, my companion had our Indian “Mormon’s Tabernacle Choir” arranged on risers ready to perform. All seven of the sisters on the front row wore beautiful saris, and the nine men behind them wore suits and white shirts. Sister Christensen, as director, was magnificent. She even took a bow!

Then I took a deep breath, walked on stage, and sat down at the piano, an old upright with ivory missing from some of the keys. My companion raised her hand and started her figure eight, and I played the first chord. The sound that came from the choir and piano shocked me, and I could hardly play. It sounded as if part of the real Tabernacle Choir, whose name was printed by mistake on the program, was singing that night. I knew then that our prayers had been answered and that there must have been a choir of angels singing along with our little group. As the last note sounded, there was silence. Then, in the auditorium, thunderous applause erupted. The curtains closed, and we wept with joy. Guess who won a prize that night? We did!

The fourth verse of the carol we sang that evening reads, “Hasten the time when, from ev’ry clime, Men shall unite in the strains sublime.” Many voices, both seen and unseen, must have united that night in Bangalore, India, in singing praises to the Lord.

Stranded in a Small Town

2009-12-16T00:16:00.002-07:00

Frank W. Olsen and Kathleen Olsen, “Stranded in a Small Town,” Ensign, Dec. 1996, 51–52

Christmas Eve in Wyoming was about as cold and wintry as late December can be. But this didn’t dampen our excitement as we prepared to make the four-hour drive to Spanish Fork, Utah, to celebrate Christmas with other family members.

It was already dusk when we started out with our four children. The wind was blowing across the empty, rolling hills and the mercury was steadily dropping when, some distance east of Evanston, Wyoming, I saw blue smoke billowing out from behind our car. We stopped immediately. The motor had thrown a rod, and the car could take us no farther. The dark and cold settled down around us.

Traffic was sparse. The windchill dropped the temperature to nearly 70 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and the car was rapidly losing heat. The children were starting to shake from the cold. Then Kai, our five-year-old son, suggested we pray to Heavenly Father and ask him to send us some help. Taking my young son’s advice, we offered a prayer.

After a few minutes a car approached, and my wife jumped out of our car and stood in the middle of the road, frantically waving down the oncoming vehicle. The car stopped, and a man inquired what we wanted. He agreed to transport us into Evanston. All the way into town he kept muttering, “I can’t imagine what made me stop—I never stop for anybody along the road.”

He let us out at one of the few restaurants still open on Christmas Eve. Calling my father in Spanish Fork, I explained our plight and asked if anyone would be willing to drive to Wyoming and pick us up. He promised to see what he could work out. I gave him the name of the restaurant where we waited.

As we settled into a booth for the long wait, Kai wandered over to a neighboring booth and engaged the young couple in animated conversation. Soon our plight became known, and they approached us with an invitation to join them at their motel room, where we could relax comfortably during the long wait ahead.

Who could refuse such goodness? Leaving word of our location with the manager of the restaurant, we headed for the comfort of the motel. The couple, though strangers, opened their hearts to us and showered our children with Christmas treats.

We had just settled the children to watch a Christmas television program when a knock came at the door. When we opened the door, a weather-beaten ranch hand stood there in the winter night holding a set of keys.

“Here’s the outfit for you,” he said, nodding to a truck parked behind him.

“What do you mean?” I asked in utter amazement.

“I dunno what it’s all about. My boss lady just told me to bring her four-wheel-drive truck in for you to take to Spanish Fork. Just drop it off on your way back through when you get your own rig fixed.”

Tipping his hat, he disappeared into the night.

Puzzled, my wife and I stared at the keys and at the truck parked outside. Shaking my head, we bid our kind hosts good night and drove out of town to pick up our suitcases and continue our trip.

When we arrived at Spanish Fork, my father explained that after the phone call he had turned to the family and announced that he was driving to Wyoming to pick us up.

“No need for that,” said my Uncle Charlie. “I’ve got a friend just outside Evanston who will help. I’ll just call her.”

He dialed an elderly widow who owned a large sheep ranch and explained the situation to her. She agreed to help, wished him a Merry Christmas, and sent a ranch hand into town with the truck.

For us, it was a night filled with unexpected, unforgettable acts of service from many people, for we were strangers, and they took us in (see Matt. 25:35). Their many thoughtful acts on that cold winter night many years ago were gifts of Christmas kindness that have warmed our hearts and brightened our memories ever since.

An Unexpected Lesson

2009-12-15T00:15:00.001-07:00

Erin Wilson, “An Unexpected Lesson,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 63

After making a career move to New York City, I was out shopping one December evening for items for my new apartment. A storm had recently hit the city, and knee-deep snow lined the streets. I was bundled up in a warm down coat as I made my way to the train with a bustling crowd of holiday shoppers.

I waited impatiently for the train to arrive, thinking about my shopping list. When the train finally arrived, I stepped onto the car, scanning the seats for a place to sit. The nearest seat was directly across from an old homeless man. He had no warm coat or heavy clothing. He just had some plastic bags filled with trinkets.

I did not want to sit near his offensive odor, and his rugged appearance made me wonder if he was dangerous. Mostly, I did not want to be hit up for cash. I abruptly walked to the other end of the car and took a seat. All the other passengers also filed to the end of the car, leaving the man alone.

Soon a young man boarded the train and settled down in the seat directly in front of the homeless man. Without hesitation, the young man extended a welcoming smile, a handshake, and a jolly hello. The man’s face brightened, and they began a pleasant conversation. They talked for the next 15 minutes, enjoying each other’s company.

As I watched, I was reminded of the true spirit of the Christmas season. While deeply engaged in conversation, the young man stood up and removed his vest, shirt, and a second long-sleeve shirt he was wearing underneath. Standing in his undershirt, he then handed the long-sleeve shirt to the homeless man. The old man accepted it graciously, and the two continued their conversation. I stepped off the train at the next stop, touched by the young man’s kindness. I felt guilty for my selfishness, but I had a desire to be a better person.

The King of kings came into the world in the most humble of circumstances, in a lowly stable. The world was given a precious, saving gift—the Son of God. I am grateful for the gift of the Savior in my life and for the reminder of His infinite love and compassion for God’s children. That Christmas season, I felt a renewed desire to be kinder, more selfless, and more like my Savior, Jesus Christ.

People are good

2009-12-14T00:14:00.018-07:00

As Ginger's latest blog eloquently relates, we were in a car accident in Salt Lake today. As I reflected on the experience throughout the afternoon, it was strongly reaffirmed to me that people are good. From the family whose car we hit inviting us in for lunch and a ward fireplace, to the tow truck driver taking me to where I could be easily picked up afterward, to the man whose car I hit running across the street in shorts and a t-shirt to help his neighbor get unstuck in the snow, to the Rowley's for babysitting (thanks, Taylor!) and for helping us laugh through the tears (hope you are okay, Shawn), to Shawn coming all the way back to SLC to pick me up, to our wonderful neighbor and friend Brett coming to pick up everyone else, to kind neighbors at home helping our kids get to church, to David McCullough and Natalie Cole for hugging and kissing President Monson...I could keep going.

Perhaps years from now we will look back on this day more fondly than we do right now. Perhaps it will be the day that at least for me, the Christmas Spirit, the true Christmas Spirit, arrived. People are good.

Christmas Bells through the Fog

2009-12-13T00:13:00.002-07:00

Beth Dayley, “Christmas Bells through the Fog,” Ensign, Dec. 2001, 58–59

Christmas morning dawned on a day as murky as my mood. A dense fog had crept into the Italian city where we were living because of my husband’s military assignment. My two daughters were not very excited about the few gifts they had received. Their thoughts, like mine, were with their father, who was in a military hospital in Germany.

“It doesn’t seem like Christmas without Daddy here,” eight-year-old Diana commented. I nodded, thinking about all the seasonal cheer we were missing—decorations, family parties, holiday feasts.

“Well, at least some of us are together,” said 17-year-old Athena quietly.

When my husband called from the hospital in Germany, I talked to him briefly and then handed the phone to Diana. To my surprise, she refused to speak to him, even though she hadn’t seen or talked to him in weeks. Confused by her reaction, I ran the events of the past month through my mind.

Some weeks earlier my husband, Ed, had begun complaining of pain in his left forearm. In no time it swelled and became stiff. The doctors hospitalized him and gave him antibiotics intravenously. But his hand became useless.

Concerned, I hadn’t wanted to make any holiday plans; I was afraid what the next few weeks would hold. I finally made arrangements for our oldest son to stay with his grandmother instead of coming home from college. Our three other children tried to help me get ready for Christmas, but the spirit of the season could not penetrate my anxiety.

One night had been especially bad. I couldn’t sleep, so at 3:30 a.m. I called the hospital and asked about my husband. The nurse said he was in such pain he was pacing the floor. Suddenly I knew Ed needed a priesthood blessing. Since the hour was so early, I hesitated to call our home teacher, Bob DeWitt. But Bob arrived on his own before dawn.

“Mom, our home teacher is here,” Athena called out at about 5:00 a.m. Soon Bob called another priesthood holder and hurried to the hospital. He felt prompted to promise Ed he would eventually regain the full use of his hand.

Moments after Bob had left the hospital, a group of doctors conferred around Ed’s bed. They couldn’t explain what was causing the damage to his arm. Although in pain, Ed commented that it was too bad the X ray couldn’t show more than just the bone in his arm; it would help if they could see the tissue as well. Ed’s words startled the doctors, and they decided to use an ultrasound machine to look at his arm in a manner not commonly used. The procedure was later written up in medical journals.

Using the ultrasound in this new way, they located a large pocket of infection deep within Ed’s forearm. They operated immediately.

“It’s lucky we located the abscess when we did,” the surgeon had explained to me later. “Even a few more hours could have cost Ed the use of his arm completely. As it is, I doubt he will ever be able to use his fingers again.”

The doctors then transferred Ed to a large hospital in Germany, and I accompanied him while friends took care of our children. Ed’s condition became worse; the bone became infected, and antibiotics were unexplainably ineffective. Days went by in a blur as Ed underwent multiple surgeries. Suddenly I realized it was almost Christmas. Ed insisted I fly home to be with the children.

So here it was Christmas morning. I held my youngest daughter close, still not sure why she had refused to speak with her father on the phone. Finally she hesitantly took the phone, and within seconds, her face was wreathed in a smile.

“I thought Daddy was dying,” she explained later. “He was so sick when he left.”

As I sat quietly with my daughters, I smiled through my tears. Faintly, through the fog, the tolling of Christmas bells reached us. I reflected on the gift we commemorate each Christmas—our Savior who redeemed us from eternal death and made eternal families possible. I realized that through the Lord’s Atonement and the ordinances of the temple, we could be together forever.

Ed spent nine months in hospitals—and three long, difficult years passed before he recovered completely. But we never questioned that his priesthood blessing would be fulfilled or that our greatest blessings came through the Lord Jesus Christ.

As I listened to the bells that Christmas morning in Italy, I finally welcomed Christmas into my heart.