The Visitor

When I was 18 years old, as I was preparing to serve a mission, my bishop called me to teach the Sunbeams. I had never before learned to love others more than myself until I had served those children in such a simple assignment. With time and patience I learned how to keep those seven children in their seats and listening to a simple lesson.

One day I invited Mike to come to church and sit in my class. Mike was my age but had stopped attending church completely by the time he was 12. We had remained friends over the years as I had served as the deacons quorum president, the teachers quorum president, and the first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. He had been the topic of many fellowshipping discussions and was often part of my prayers as the years passed.

Once in a while Mike would accept my invitations to come to an activity. It always surprised me when he did, so I kept inviting him. At the time, Mike had long black hair and a beard. His complexion was dark and pleasant. I don't remember when I invited him to my primary class, but one day he showed up.

"Class, I would like to introduce you to my friend Mike," is how I began my lesson. "He is visiting us today." Mike sat next to me in front. The children sat in a semicircle with their eyes fixed on him. They were much quieter than usual. I was about five or six minutes into the lesson when one little boy got up from his chair and walked across the room and stood directly in front of my friend.

The boy paused for a moment and then climbed onto his lap. I continued with the lesson as I watched the two of them from the corner of my eye. The boy sat looking into Mike's face. Mike was quite uncomfortable but did not interrupt the lesson or turn the boy away.

The other children watched the two of them for a few minutes. Then one of the girls climbed off her seat and approached Mike. I was intently interested in seeing how Mike would react and did not want to instruct the two children back to their seats. The girl stood with her hand on Mike's knee looking into his face.

Then it happened. The boy on Mike's lap reached up with both hands and turned Mike's face directly to his. I stopped my lesson to see what was about to unfold. With the innocence of a child, he said to Mike, "Are you Jesus?"

The look on Mike's face was total surprise. It seemed, as I glanced at the children's faces, they all had the same question on their minds. Mike looked at me as if to say, Help, What do I say? I stepped in. "No, this is not Jesus. This is his brother." Mike looked at me as if in shock. Then without hesitation the boy in Mike's lap reached up and wrapped his arms around Mike's neck. "I can tell," the boy said as he hugged Mike. The rest of the children smiled and nodded in agreement as their simple question was answered. Mike blinked back the tears in response to the love he felt from this small Sunbeam.

The lesson went on, but that day the teacher who taught the most was a three-year-old child. Mike spent more than a year getting ready to serve a mission. It thrilled me to learn that he left for the mission field a few months before I returned.

I still think of the scripture in Matthew 18:5: "And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me."

The Living Bible

His name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans, and no shoes. This was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college. He is brilliant, kind of profound and very, very bright. He became a Christian while attending college.

Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop a ministry to the students but are not sure how to go about it.

One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and so Bill starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now, people are really looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets closer and closer and closer to the pulpit, and when he realizes there are no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet.

By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick. About this time, the minister realizes that from way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the deacon is in his eighties, has silver-gray hair, and a three-piece suit. A godly man who is very elegant, very dignified, and very courtly. He walks with a cane and, as he starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves that you can't blame him for what he's going to do. How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor?

It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man's cane. All eyes are focused on him. You can't even hear anyone breathing. The minister can't even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he has to do.
And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great difficulty, he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill and worships with him so he won't be alone.

Everyone chokes up with emotion. When the minister gains control, he says, "What I'm about to preach, you will never remember. What you have just seen, you will never forget."

"Be careful how you live. You may be the only Bible some people will ever read!"

The Ugliest Kite Ever!

By Richard Torney (Ensign August 2006)

In the years after World War II, my parents did not have much money, but they seemed to be able to insulate their children from their difficulties. On a windy March day when I was eight or nine years old, all of my neighborhood friends were flying kites. I asked my mother for 15 cents to buy a kite, and though it was a sacrifice, she scraped the money together.

Soon I had my new kite and was on my way to the field. It was a blustery day, and I had not had my kite in the air for very long when it was blown into what we called the “kite-eating tree.” My new kite was ruined, and I came home crying and pleaded with my mother for another 15 cents. She had already sacrificed to buy the first kite, but still she dug into the bottom of her purse and managed to gather up another 15 pennies. I sped down to the West Seattle Junction on my bike to buy another kite. When I returned, there were even more kids flying kites than before. I put my kite together and got out there as quickly as I could.

This time the air space was more crowded with kites, and I was forced to fly mine closer to the kite-eating tree than I was comfortable with. It didn’t take long before I was again dragging my kite, ripping and tearing it, through that menacing tree. I ran into the house crying, but this time there were no more pennies to be found. I went back outside and sat sullenly on the front steps to watch the other kids fly their kites. That was more painful than it was fun, and after a few minutes I went in the house feeling sorry for myself.

When I walked into the kitchen where my mother had been sewing, I saw a sparkle in her eye that hadn’t been there before. Then I glanced at the kitchen table. There before me was the ugliest kite I had ever seen. It was made out of wrapping paper, the thick and muddy brown kind. The edges were hand cut and glued roughly together, with remnants of my old kites still stuck to them. Mom had used the sticks and pieces from the two store-bought, lightweight kites and turned them into the meanest junkyard-dog-of-a-kite I had ever seen. My first reaction through my tears was that it would never get off the ground. I told her so, and she simply replied, “Why don’t you give it a try?” Reluctantly, I took it outside. I would face the ridicule from my friends just to show my mom that I was right.

Everyone watched, tittering and smiling, as I launched the thing. To my surprise it lifted up nicely, even without a tail. Soon it was steadily climbing up and up, and before long it was above all the store-bought flimsy kites that couldn’t take the wind at such a height. Up and up it went until I ran out of string. Proudly and solidly it waved back and forth. One by one the other kites that day came to an untimely demise, but the ugly brown kite continued to fly.

When I began to wind up the string to bring my kite down, I was paying more attention to the ball of string in my hands than to the kite. I finally looked up, but it was too late. My kite was headed right for the kite-eating tree, and there was nothing I could do about it. “Not again!” I thought as it dropped right into the tree and hung in the upper branches. By now I loved that kite and didn’t want to leave it in the kite-eating tree, so I began to pull it ever so slowly through the branches. Much to my surprise, it kept coming and just pushed the branches out of the way. Finally, I became more bold and pulled with less finesse, and then I heard something that no one else that day had heard—twigs and small limbs breaking and snapping as that old kite pulled right through what seemed like the middle of the tree and floated gently to the ground.

I ran into the house to report to Mom what a great kite she had made, and I asked her how she had done it. I’ll never forget her answer nor the look on her face as she gave it. She simply replied, “I didn’t know how to make it but I knew someone who did, so I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me.” That kite sat in the corner of my bedroom for many years after my kite-flying days were over. I could not bring myself to throw away the kite that was the answer to my mother’s prayer.

The Goldfish Bowl

Come with me to a third grade classroom...

There is a nine-year-old kid sitting at his desk and all of a sudden, there is a puddle between his feet and the front of his pants are wet. He thinks his heart is going to stop because he cannot possibly imagine how this has happened. It's never happened before, and he knows that when the boys find out he will never hear the end of it. When the girls find out, they'll never speak to him again as long as he lives. The boy believes his heart is going to stop, he puts his head down and prays --"Dear God, this is an emergency! I need help now! Five minutes from now I'm dead meat."

He looks up from his prayer and here comes the teacher with a look in her eyes that says he has been discovered.

As the teacher is walking toward him, a classmate named Susie is carrying a goldfish bowl that is filled with water. Susie trips in front of the teacher and inexplicably dumps the bowl of water in the boy's lap.

The boy pretends to be angry, but all the while is saying to himself, "Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!"

Now all of a sudden, instead of being the object of ridicule,the boy is the object of sympathy. The teacher rushes him downstairs and gives him gym shorts to put on while his pants dry out. All the other children are on their hands and knees cleaning up around his desk. The sympathy is wonderful. But as life would have it, the ridicule that should have been his has been transferred to someone else - Susie.

She tries to help, but they tell her to get out. "You've done enough, you klutz!"

Finally, at the end of the day, as they are waiting for the bus, the boy walks over to Susie and whispers,"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Susie whispers back, "I wet my pants once too."

The Room

The Room: My Dream

By Joshua Harris. Copyright New Attitude, 1995.

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."
I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.