A Small, Snow-Covered Tree - Darrell Smart

A Small Snow-Covered Tree - Darrell Smart 

One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.

The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.

Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.

Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.

When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.

Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.

After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.

It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.

Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?

For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.

A Rifle for Christmas - Rian B. Anderson

A Rifle for Christmas by Rian B. Anderson

Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities.  But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors.  It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.  It was Christmas Eve 1881.  I was 15 years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn’t been enough money to buy the rifle that I’d wanted so bad that year for Christmas.  We did the chores early that night for some reason.  I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read the Bible.  So after supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible.  Instead he bundled up and went outside.  I couldn’t figure it out because we had already done all the chores.  I didn’t worry about it long though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.  Soon Pa came back in.  It was a cold night out and there was ice in his beard.  “Come on, Matt,” he said.  “Bundle up good, it’s cold out tonight.”  I was really upset then.  Not only wasn’t I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see.  We’d already done all the chores, and I couldn’t think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this.  But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one’s feet when he’d told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens.  Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house.  Something was up, but I didn’t know what.  Outside I became even more dismayed.  There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled.  Whatever it was we were going to do wasn’t going to be a short, quick, little job, I could tell.  We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load.  Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand.  I reluctantly climbed up beside him.  The cold was already biting at me.  I wasn’t happy.  When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed.  He got off and I followed.  “I think we’ll put on the high sideboards,” he said.  “Here, Help me.”  The high sideboards!  It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on.  When we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went in to the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood, the wood I’d spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting.  What was he doing?  Finally I said something.  “Pa,“ I asked, “what are you doing?”   “You been by the Widow Jensen’s lately?” he asked.   The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road.  Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight.   Sure, I’d been by, but so what? “Yeah, “I said, “why?”  “I rode by just today,” Pa said.  “Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips.  They’re out of wood, Matt.”  That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood.  I followed him.  We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.  Finally, Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon.  He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait.  When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.  “What’s in the little sack?”  I asked.  “Shoes.  They’re out of shoes.  Little Jakey just had gunny sacks tied around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning.  I got the children a little candy, too.  It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a little candy.”  We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen’s pretty much in silence.  I tried to think through what Pa was doing.  We didn’t have much by worldly standards.  Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it.  We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew that we didn’t have any money, so why was Pa buying shoes and candy for them?  Really, why was he doing any of this?  Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us.  It shouldn’t have been our concern.  We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then took the meat and flour and shoes to the door.  We knocked.  The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, “Who is it?”  “Lucas Miles, Ma’am, and my son, Matt.  Could we come in for a bit?”  Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in.  She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all.  Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.  “We brought you a few things, Ma’am,” Pa said and set down the sack of flour.  I put the meat on the table.  Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it.  She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at t time.  There was a pair for her and one for each of the children; sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last.   I watched her carefully.  She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks.  She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn’t come out.  “We brought a load of wood too, Ma’am,” Pa said.  Then he turned to me and said, “Matt, go bring in enough in to last for awhile.  Let’s get that fire up to size and heat this place up.”  I wasn’t the same person when I went out to bring in the wood.  I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes, too.  In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn’t speak.  My heart swelled within me and a joy filled my soul that I’d never known before.  I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference.  I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.  I soon had the fire blazing and everyone’s spirits soared.  The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn’t crossed her face for a long time.  She finally turned to us.  “God bless you,” she said.  “I know the Lord himself has sent you.  The children and I have been praying that He would send one of his angels to spare us.”  In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again.  I’d never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true.  I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth.  I started remember all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others.  The list seemed endless as I thought on it.  Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left.  I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.  Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.  Tears were running down the Widow Jensen’s face again when we stood up to leave.  Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug.  They clung to him and didn’t want us to go.  I could see that they missed their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.  At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, “The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow.  The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals.  We’ll be by to get you about eleven.  It’ll be nice to have some little ones around again.  Matt, here hasn’t been little for quite a spell.”  I was the youngest.  My older two brothers and two older sisters were all married and had moved away.  Widow Jensen nodded and said.  “Thank you, Brother Miles.  I don’t have to say, May the Lord bless you, for I know that he will.”  Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn’t even notice the cold.  When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, “Matt, I want you know something.  Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn’t have quite enough.  Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square.  Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that.  But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do.  So, Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children.  I hope you understand.  I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again.  I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it.  Just then the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities.  Pa had given me a lot more.  He had given me the look on Widow Jensen’s face and the radiant smiles of her three children.  For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered -- and remembering me brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night.  Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night.  He had given me the best Christmas of my life.    

The Christmas Coat

The Christmas Coat 

During our first holidays together as a married couple in 1973, my husband received a forty-dollar Christmas bonus. Though we didn’t have much money for gifts, we decided to spend the bonus on a family who had recently lost their husband and father. We had so much fun shopping for presents, wrapping them, and then leaving them in the dark on the family’s front doorstep that we made the secret project a family tradition.

Over the years we were blessed with four children. As soon as each child became tall enough, he or she would take a turn at Christmastime wearing a special coat that we used only once a year. Adult-sized, dark in color, and hooded, the coat made a perfect disguise for sneaking up to someone’s doorstep to leave gifts.

Every autumn we would vote on who our secret family would be that Christmas and on what gifts we would make or purchase for them. After some negotiation, the children would agree on who would have the honor of wearing the Christmas coat and delivering the presents that year. On abundant years we would give homemade quilts or clothing along with toys, books, and goodies, and on leaner years we would give stockings filled with smaller items.

When Christmas Eve finally arrived, the lucky child would don that beloved coat, cinch the hood tight around his or her face, and put on gloves and large boots to complete the disguise. With everyone in the car, we’d park a short distance away from the chosen house, and our little elf would make his or her way to the front porch. The fear of being seen or suspected made it even more exciting!

Back in our cozy home we would sit together with hot cocoa and bread sticks and relive the evening’s adventure. With full tummies and warm hearts, we would read the Christmas story from the Bible and appreciate what the Savior’s life taught us about service. Christmases were always wonderful, and we never missed a year of our tradition. Whenever I saw the Christmas coat hanging in the closet during the year, I would think of what it represented to us: the fun of a well-kept family secret and the joy of loving and sharing.

During the spring of our twentieth year together, my husband lost his job and was out of work for five months. Even though he had a new job by Christmastime, our financial situation was grim. We didn’t expect to have much of a Christmas for our own family, so we wondered how we would carry out our secret tradition.

We talked during family home evening about what our Christmas would be like that year. We recognized with gratitude that even if gifts would be scarce, at least we still had warmth, food, and each other. We thought of all the people who had essentially nothing: no home, no family, no warmth. Then we thought about how for years short little legs had run inside our Christmas coat and bright eyes had peered out from its furry hood. How would we put the coat to use this year?

One Sunday morning we loaded everyone into the car and drove downtown with our Christmas coat—only this time none of the children was wearing it. We drove to an area where homeless people often spent the night, and we watched for someone who didn’t have anything warm to wear in the freezing winter air. When we spotted a man walking alone, my husband and son walked over to him. The rest of us watched as the man accepted the coat and smiled. Tears filled my eyes and I saw him put on our Christmas coat, the only gift we had to give that year.

Other Christmases have since passed, and we have been able to continue our tradition. None of us has forgotten about the Christmas coat, however. When I consider all the years the coat disguised us while we delivered gifts, the memory of the year we gave it away warms my heart the most.

Why the Church? - D. Todd Christofferson

Why the Church? - D Todd Christofferson 
 
        1.      It is a place to come to know the Lord. 
 

2.      The Church is the creation of Him in whom our spirituality is centered—Jesus Christ.

3.      It is the place he chooses to carry out His and His Father’s work “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.”¹

4.      It is organized in such a way that gospel could be established simultaneously in multiple nations and among diverse peoples.

5.      It is place where the ordinances of salvation are administered—in other words, people are brought unto Christ.

6.      It is how the promises of redemption are placed within reach even of the spirits of the dead who in their mortal lifetime knew little or nothing of the Savior’s grace.

7.      A major purpose is to create a community of Saints that will sustain one another in the “strait and narrow path which leads to eternal life.”⁷   One cannot fully achieve this in isolation.

8.      “… For the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ.

9.      To teach and edify one another and strive to approach the full measure of discipleship, “the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ.”

10.   To help one another come to “the knowledge of the Son of God,”¹³

11.  In the Church we not only learn divine doctrine; we also experience its application.

12.   We are all called to serve.   We need these callings, and we need to serve.

13.  The wards and branches of the Church offer a weekly gathering of respite and renewal, a time and place to leave the world behind—the Sabbath.

14.  It is a place where we can be reproved of sin and error.  Repentance is individual, but fellowship on that sometimes painful path is in the Church.²⁰

15.  It is a place where we become converted to Christ and His gospel, a conversion that is facilitated by the Church.²¹“  The Book of Mormon people “were converted unto the Lord, and were united unto the church of Christ. ”²²

16.  Through gospel teaching and priesthood ordinances administered by the Church, families may qualify for eternal life.

17.  Together in the Church, the ability to care for the poor and needy is multiplied to meet the broader need, and hoped-for self-reliance is made a reality for very many.²⁴

18.  The Church, its Relief Societies, and its priesthood quorums have the capacity to provide relief to many people in many places affected by natural disasters, war, and persecution.

19.  Without the capabilities of His Church in place, the Savior’s commission to take the gospel to all the world could not be realized.²⁵     This includes apostolic keys, the structure, the financial means, and the devotion and sacrifice of thousands upon thousands of missionaries needed to carry out the work.

20.  God’s objective in gathering His people in any age is “to build unto the Lord a house whereby He [can] reveal unto His people the ordinances of His house and the glories of His kingdom, and teach the people the way of salvation; for there are certain ordinances and principles that, when they are taught and practiced, must be done in a place or house built for that purpose.”²⁷

21.  The Church safeguards and publishes God’s revelations—the canon of scripture.

22.  Its destiny is to establish Zion in preparation for the return and millennial rule of Jesus Christ.

23.  It is the gathering place for scattered Israel, and “a defense, and … a refuge from the storm, and from wrath when it shall be poured out without mixture upon the whole earth.”³⁵

24.  The final reason I will mention for the Lord to have established His Church is the most unique—the Church is, after all, the kingdom of God on the earth.

“Call upon the Lord, that his kingdom may go forth upon the earth, that the inhabitants thereof may receive it, and be prepared for the days to come, in the which the Son of Man shall come down in heaven, clothed in the brightness of his glory, to meet the kingdom of God which is set up on the earth.

“Wherefore, may the kingdom of God go forth, that the kingdom of heaven may come, that thou, O God, mayest be glorified in heaven so on earth, that thine enemies may be subdued; for thine is the honor, power and glory, forever and ever.”³⁶

O Remember, Remember - Henry B. Eyring

O Remember, Remember - Henry B. Eyring
 

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.

He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind—not in my own voice—these words: “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.”

I went inside. I didn’t go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn’t have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.

I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.

More than gratitude began to grow in my heart. Testimony grew. I became ever more certain that our Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. I felt more gratitude for the softening and refining that come because of the Atonement of the Savior Jesus Christ. And I grew more confident that the Holy Ghost can bring all things to our remembrance—even things we did not notice or pay attention to when they happened.

 And the challenge to remember has always been the hardest for those who are blessed abundantly. Those who are faithful to God are protected and prospered. That comes as the result of serving God and keeping His commandments. But with those blessings comes the temptation to forget their source. It is easy to begin to feel the blessings were granted not by a loving God on whom we depend but by our own powers. The prophets have repeated this lament over and over:

“And thus we can behold how false, and also the unsteadiness of the hearts of the children of men; yea, we can see that the Lord in his great infinite goodness doth bless and prosper those who put their trust in him.

“Yea, and we may see at the very time when he doth prosper his people, yea, in the increase of their fields, their flocks and their herds, and in gold, and in silver, and in all manner of precious things of every kind and art; sparing their lives, and delivering them out of the hands of their enemies; softening the hearts of their enemies that they should not declare wars against them; yea, and in fine, doing all things for the welfare and happiness of his people; yea, then is the time that they do harden their hearts, and do forget the Lord their God, and do trample under their feet the Holy One—yea, and this because of their ease, and their exceedingly great prosperity.”

And the prophet goes on to say: “Yea, how quick to be lifted up in pride; yea, how quick to boast, and do all manner of that which is iniquity; and how slow are they to remember the Lord their God, and to give ear unto his counsels, yea, how slow to walk in wisdom’s paths!”⁴

Gratitude As a Saving Principle - James E. Faust

Gratitude As a Saving Principle - James E. Faust

 One of the evils of our time is taking for granted so many of the things we enjoy. This was spoken of by the Lord: “For what doth it profit a man if a gift is bestowed upon him, and he receive not the gift?” (D&C 88:33). The Apostle Paul described our day to Timothy when he wrote that in the last days “men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy” (2 Tim. 3:2). These sins are fellow travelers, and ingratitude makes one susceptible to all of them.

 How can we pay our debt of gratitude for the heritage of faith demonstrated by pioneers in many lands across the earth who struggled and sacrificed so that the gospel might take root? How is thankfulness expressed for the intrepid handcart pioneers who, by their own brute strength, pulled their meager belongings in handcarts across the scorching plains and through the snows of high mountain passes to escape persecution and find peaceful worship in Utah’s valleys? How can the debt of gratitude possibly be paid by the descendants of the handcart companies for the faith of their forebears?

One of these intrepid souls was Emma Batchelor, a young English girl traveling without family. She started out with the Willie Handcart Company, but by the time they reached Fort Laramie, they were ordered to lighten their loads. Emma was directed to leave the copper kettle in which she carried her belongings. She refused to do this and set it by the side of the road and sat down on it, knowing that the Martin Company was only a few days behind. When the Martin Company caught up, she joined the Paul Gourley family. A young son wrote many years later: “Here we were joined by Sister Emma Batchelor. We were glad to have her because she was young and strong and meant more flour for our mess.” At this time, Sister Gourley gave birth to a child, and Emma acted as the midwife and for two days loaded the mother and the child into the cart, which Emma helped pull.

Those who died traveling with the Martin Company were mercifully relieved of suffering from frozen feet, ears, noses, or fingers, which maimed others for the rest of their lives. Emma, age 21, however, was a fortunate one—she came through the ordeal whole.

When a year later she met President Brigham Young, who was surprised that she was not maimed, she told him: “Brother Brigham I had no one to care for me or to look out for me, so I decided I must look out for myself. I was the one who called out when Brother Savage warned us [not to go]. I was at fault in that, but I tried to make up for it. I pulled my full share at the cart every day. When we came to a stream, I stopped and took off my shoes and stockings and outer skirt and put them on top of the cart. Then, after I got the cart across, I came back and carried little Paul over on my back. Then I sat down and scrubbed my feet hard with my woollen neckerchief and put on dry shoes and stockings.”

The descendants of these pioneers can partially settle the account by being true to the cause for which their ancestors suffered so much to be part of.

As with all commandments, gratitude is a description of a successful mode of living. The thankful heart opens our eyes to a multitude of blessings that continually surround us. President J. Reuben Clark, formerly a First Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “Hold fast to the blessings which God has provided for you. Yours is not the task to gain them, they are here; yours is the part of cherishing them” (Church News, 14 June 1969, 2). At this Christmas season, I hope that we may cultivate grateful hearts so that we may cherish the multitude of blessings that God has so graciously bestowed. May we openly express such gratitude to our Father in Heaven and our fellowmen.

Thanksgiving Prayer - Vaughn J. Featherstone

Thanksgiving Prayer - Vaughn J. Featherstone
 

When I was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, the member of the bishopric who advised the deacons quorum came into our quorum meeting the Sunday before Thanksgiving and said, “I hope we won’t have one family of this quorum who won’t kneel down in family prayer and have a blessing on the food this Thanksgiving.” It was 1943, and our country was engaged in World War II. We discussed our need for a divine blessing for those who were in military service and for all the other difficulties we as a nation were facing. We also talked about the blessings we each enjoyed. Then we were again encouraged to have family prayer.

A heavy cloud settled on my heart. I didn’t know how my family could have family prayer. My father had a drinking problem, and my mother was not a member of the Church at that time. We had never had a prayer in our home, not even a blessing on the food. After quorum meeting I continued to consider the challenge, and finally concluded we would not be able to have prayer.

That evening at sacrament meeting the bishop stood up at the close of the meeting and said, “Brothers and sisters, Thursday is Thanksgiving. I hope we will not have one family in the ward that will not kneel in family prayer. We ought to express our gratitude for the great goodness of our Heavenly Father to us.” And then he enumerated some of our many blessings.

Again it seemed as if my soul were filled with an enormous gloom. I tried to figure out a way our family could have prayer. I thought about it Monday, and again on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. On Wednesday evening my father did not return home from work at the normal hour, and I knew from experience that, because it was payday, he was satisfying his thirst for alcohol. When he finally came at two in the morning quite an argument ensued. I lay in bed wondering how we could ever have prayer with that kind of contention in our home.

On Thanksgiving morning, we did not eat breakfast so we could eat more dinner. My four brothers and I went out to play with some neighbor boys. We decided to dig a hole and make a trench to it and cover it over as a clubhouse. We dug a deep hole, and with every shovelful of dirt I threw out of the hole I thought about family prayer for Thanksgiving. I wondered if I would have enough courage to suggest to my parents that we have a prayer, but I was afraid I would not. I wondered if my older brother, who has always been an ideal in my life, would suggest it, since he had been in the same sacrament meeting and had heard the bishop’s suggestion.

Finally, at about two-thirty in the afternoon, Mother told us to come get cleaned up for dinner. Then we sat down at the big round oak table. Dad sat down with us silently—he and Mother were not speaking to each other. As she brought in the platter with the beautiful golden brown turkey, my young heart was about to burst. I thought, Now please, won’t someone suggest we have a family prayer? I thought the words over and over, but they wouldn’t come out. I turned and looked at my older brother, praying desperately that he would suggest prayer. The bowls of delicious food were being passed around the table; plates were being filled; and time and opportunity were passing. I knew that if someone did not act immediately, it would be too late. Then suddenly, as always, everyone just started eating.

My heart sank, and despair filled my soul. Although I had worked up a great appetite, and Mother was a marvelous cook, I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted to pray.

I resolved that day that no son or daughter of mine would ever want to pray and not be able to do it because of shyness or lack of courage. In our family we have family prayers, personal prayers, and blessings on every meal. As one who has known the contrast between families that do not pray and those that do, I know the value of prayer in the home and in the life of every child and youth in the Church. What a blessing it is for us to know that our private, individual prayers are heard and answered by a kind, wise, loving Heavenly Father, and that we can take our problems—no matter how simplistic they may be—to him in prayer!

My wife and I have seven children, six sons and a daughter. Each one of our children has been taught to pray as soon as he or she was old enough to kneel. Some of the sweetest prayers ever offered in our home have been those of our children.

Heavenly Father is accessible to us all, both young and old. In my own life there have been moments when I have felt an overwhelming, absolute need for intervention by a kind Father in Heaven.

Before our fifth son, Lawrence, was born, my wife had complications in labor, and the doctor stayed by her side all day. She also had had a dream that frightened her. She dreamed that two men in black clothes had come to get her, and she feared this may have been a warning she might not make it through the delivery. Late that night the doctor asked me to leave the room so he could examine her again. Greatly concerned about her, I went out into the hall, stood by a window looking over the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake Valley, and, with tears in my eyes, pleaded with the Lord to spare her life.

While I was praying, someone came rushing down the hallway. I saw a nurse run into my wife’s room, then come out, get a cart with a tank of oxygen, and wheel the cart into the room. Now I knew my wife was in great danger. Although I thought I had been praying with all my heart, I suddenly found I could pray with even greater humility and pleading. I promised the Lord I would do anything I was ever asked to do in the Church if he would spare Merlene’s life. The prayer was offered with every particle of my being.

In a few moments the door opened, and they were wheeling her to the delivery room. Lawrence, weighing ten pounds and twelve ounces, was born shortly after, and his mother soon recovered her health. Our prayers had been answered.

When Lawrence was 13 we were expecting our seventh child, and again I was concerned for my wife’s well-being. I tried not to alarm my family. However, I had told Lawrence about some of the difficulties connected with his birth, and this affected him greatly.

When I took Merlene to the hospital I told the family I would call them and let them know how their mother was and whether they had a little brother or sister. After Paul was born, I called home and Lawrence answered. I told him the good news and said I would be home in a little while. When I went home I told them all about their new baby brother and that their mother was doing well. That evening as I left the house to go to the hospital, Lawrence handed me a letter to give to his mother. When I arrived, I gave her a kiss, then handed her the letter. Her eyes moistened as she read it; then she handed it to me. It said:

“To my favorite and most loved Mother. Congratulations. When Dad phoned us and told us we had a little brother I just about freaked. After you left to go to the hospital I went in Dad’s den and knelt down to have prayer to ask Heavenly Father to bless you that you would be all right. Well my prayer was answered. After Dad came home he told how just before the baby was born you gritted your teeth and tears flowed down your cheeks but you wouldn’t cry out. I kind of got this unstuckable lump in my throat.

“I’m working on my hiking merit badge.

“Love, Lawrence”

When our second son, Dave, was 12 years old, he was home alone one afternoon when the telephone rang. It was one of the Laurels in our ward who was calling. Her car had a flat tire and she had been unable to find anyone to help her fix it, so she called to see if my wife, who was president of the Young Women of the ward, could help her. Dave said, “I’m home alone, but I can ride my bike and help you change the tire.” When he hung up the phone, he remembered he hadn’t asked her where she was. He went into his bedroom, knelt down, and asked the Lord to take him to this girl. Then he went out, climbed on his bicycle, and rode directly to where she was.

Some time ago a couple came to my office with very heavy hearts. They had a priest-age son who was an Eagle Scout, a Duty to God Award winner, a good student who had been conscientious in school and on his part-time job. Then one night he just walked away from home and didn’t return. He had been gone for several weeks, and they were heartsick.

I asked them if they had pleaded with the Lord to know where their son was. They assured me they had. “Have you pleaded with all your strength?” “Yes, we have.” “Have you pleaded with every particle of your being?” “Well,” they said, “maybe not every particle.” I said, “You go home and pray again—this time with every particle of energy and strength of your being.” They said they would.

That afternoon the couple knelt down and pleaded with the Lord. At six o’clock the phone rang. It was their son, calling from Banff, Alberta, Canada. After talking to him for a few minutes and finding that he was safe and in no danger, they asked why he had called at that particular time. He replied, “The bishop this evening had the strongest impression to have me call home. He came over to my apartment and said he would not leave until I called home.”

We need to understand that some things demand pleading with the Lord. When we come to know that without his help we cannot possibly accomplish our desires, then we must learn to plead to whatever extent necessary.

Great blessings are wrought through prayer. The God of heaven would not expect us to pray to him if he had no intention of answering our prayers.

One of the choicest experiences of my life was to kneel in prayer in the office of President Spencer W. Kimball. I felt President Kimball’s overpowering love for our Father in Heaven as we knelt together. He taught us much about prayer through his example. We need to learn that we should pray as though everything depended upon God, and then work as though everything depended upon us. When we follow through on our part of the agreement with our Heavenly Father, answers always come. May we have gratitude to God, who is always available to answer a simple prayer of a believer.