Silent Night, Love's Pure Light

I want to tell two stories that happened to me which have stayed in my mind for many years and even now are teaching me lessons I need.

The first one happened when I was 6 years old. Our music chorister in the Hunter 5th Ward was Sister Beverly Whitley. I realize now she was probably not even 40 years old, but she had teenaged children and seemed very mature and wise to us in the junior Primary. She was fun and treated us as if we were mini adults, and we liked that. We admired her and wanted to please her. She would tell us that we could sing out so big that our parents could hear us in the other room. Not to shout—but to really sing! And we sang with all our hearts. She also taught us a song from the adult hymnbook, saying she knew we were mature enough musicians to be able to memorize the difficult words. And then she explained what all the words meant so we would understand. She taught us that every song has a special message just for us and, if we thought about the words, we would find the message that was especially for our own lives.

That Christmas, I tried to apply what Sister Whitley had taught us, and I learned all the verses to “Silent Night.” Now, I apologize in advance to the translators because this will be tricky. As a 6-year-old, I thought hard about the words in the third verse, but I didn’t understand the punctuation. Instead of singing “Son of God, love’s pure light,” as in Jesus is the expression of light that flows from pure love, I understood it to say that the Son of God loves pure light—He adores anything made from pure light. Thinking like Sister Whitley, I tried to figure out how I could “love pure light” the way Jesus does.

The second story happened when I was 9 years old. Like a lot of kids, I was taking piano lessons. I wasn’t particularly talented, and, maybe to encourage me, my bishop asked if I would play a Christmas song at the sacrament meeting on Christmas Eve. I decided to play “Silent Night.” My piano teacher helped me prepare. My parents listened to me play it literally 100 times on our black upright piano that was in our basement. Someone mentioned that perhaps I could memorize the song and not use the music, but I was so nervous about playing in front of everyone in my ward that I couldn’t memorize the music. Instead, I came up with a plan. I would take the music with me, but instead of putting it up on the piano, I would lay it on my lap. I could look down at my hands and see the music, but it would look like I had memorized the music. This plan worked beautifully for 20 seconds. I had put the music on top of my taffeta Christmas skirt, and as I began to play, the skirt fabric was very slippery and in the middle of the first verse, the music slid off my skirt and disappeared completely underneath the piano. I was completely stuck. There was no way to get the music back, and my mind was a blank. I gritted my teeth and tried to do the best I could. It was a complete disaster.

I painfully plunked wrong notes, and I could see people cringing in the audience. I blundered through the second verse. I wisely omitted the third verse and rushed down the aisle with a red face trying not to cry. My parents whispered, “What happened? You knew the song so well.” I couldn’t wait to get out of church. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone; I was humiliated and embarrassed. As the meeting ended, my elderly Sunday School teacher, Sister Alma Heaton, approached me. I tried to dodge her, but she took my hand. Instead of telling me how good it was, which everyone knew was a lie, she said something that I will remember for the rest of my life. She said, “Sharon, it doesn’t matter how it turned out. Everyone could see how much effort you put into it, and we love you whether you can play the piano or not.”

That was the honest truth. But it didn’t sting as much as I expected it to. The truth was I had worked hard, and they loved me even though I couldn’t play the piano. I smiled a little smile and she gave me an old lady hug, and suddenly it was all fine.

Now, Beverly Whitley and Alma Heaton did nothing extraordinary. They didn’t write anything down in their journals. Nobody in their families knows these stories. They were simply teaching little children how to sing and how to understand the gospel. What could be more mundane? Except it wasn’t. If you ask me what it looks like when a person “loves pure light,” it looks like Beverly Whitley. It looks like Alma Heaton. Each of them could recognize the “pure light” of a little child trying as hard as she could and love her for it, even if it didn’t work out perfectly.

Our Heavenly Father is exactly like this. He sees us, His little children, trying. Our efforts don’t always succeed, but He knows how hard we are working—sometimes gritting our teeth and plunking through a disaster—and He loves us for it. For all of our dissonant, out of tune, unrecognizable music, He sent His beautiful Only Begotten Son, who is love’s pure light. Jesus Christ will repair every bad note and redeem every sour overtone if we turn to Him and ask for His help. Because of the birth, the Atonement, and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, we can all “sleep in heavenly peace.”¹

How happy I am for this Christmas season to sing songs that have a special message from the Savior of the world for those with aching hearts. I promise you the same thing Sister Whitley promised the Primary. If you think about the words you sing this season, you will find a divine message tailored especially for you that will lift and comfort you. Here is one that found me this Christmas season. I’ve been fretting about all the people our humanitarian aid can’t reach and how the nations sometimes make it difficult for us to reach brothers and sisters who suffer. And then just this morning in Relief Society, I paid attention to the song that we sang:

Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,

And fit us for heaven to live with thee there.²

I testify the Son of God loves pure light; He is love’s pure light. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen. Sharon Eubank 

The Kindness of a Stranger

Day 21

 #LightTheWorld challage: Like Jesus you can teach through stories. Share a story from your life of the kindness of a stranger. 

I found an old photo that brought back a tender memory of the kindness of a stranger. The picture has some water damage but it still shows the faces of three little girls over 29 years ago. 

The setting was a busy store where my sister Liz, her family and my girls and I went shopping for souvenirs on our way back from Orlando to Miami where my sister and family lived at the time. We had been enjoying the parks in Orlando so it was time to stop at a mall to buy a few things. 

We were all together watching each other’s kids when I got destructed looking at some things to buy when all the sudden, here comes in the store a gentleman with a little girl in his arms and a police officer asking if anyone knew who this little girl belonged to?

As I looked at them, I couldn’t believe my eyes. That one year old little girl was my Mandy! I felt petrified and in shock to even think she had gotten very quietly out of the store into a parking lot without me knowing. I thought she was being watched by my sister and brother in law and they thought she was with me. 

I can’t tell you the impact that one experience has had in my life that I have never ever forgotten about it. First, it was a huge relief that my baby girl was okay. But second, it was an amazing thing to know the kindness of this person I didn’t know. What an angel he was to have done that. His kindness was truly humbling. He handed Mandy to me after I proved to the officer she was my daughter by showing him a picture of our family I was carrying in my wallet. That is the exact picture I found. Mandy was of course in the picture. 

The policeman handed Mandy to me with some hesitation as to saying to me: “what kind of a mother are you”? I know, I deserved to be scolded. I had lost my child and didn’t even know it. Lesson learned! Never assumed your child is in the care of someone else and never lose sight of your child that small and so quick even for a second.

Another lesson I learned that day was the kindness of a stranger who took the time of his day to find this child her mother. Too bad we never exchanged contact information because I would have wanted to thank him but I hope somehow, he realizes how deeply grateful I am for returning my child.  

That was an epic example of the kindness of a stranger, however, we all have opportunities daily to help someone in need and they don’t necessarily have to be that dramatic to make them count as a service rendered. I don’t think there is a day that goes by that I don’t think of doing something for someone or someone does something for me. 

Having said that, I realized that most people become charitable during the Christmas season and it so happens that it’s three days before Christmas. A time when we are reminded of the goodness and abundant gifts and blessings we have been privileged to have enjoyed and to do something for others.

 Con amor,

Vero

Christmas Poem

We hope you are enjoying time together with family and friends. We had our early Christmas celebration going to the end of the world a.k.a. Ushuaia last week with Deborah and Allen Haynie. They are about to finish their assignment in the Area Presidency and are heading back to Utah on Wednesday. They were here for 18 months and during their time with us, we have seen the miracle of how the work has accelerated. Everything seems much faster and more efficient compare to even a few years ago when we arrived. We hope to take some time off to see Abuela Nela.  

 

(This is Vero speaking.) I want to give a shout out to Daniel for his hard work. He has done it again! I don’t know how he does it but he has a gift in management. He and his team completed all their goals. I appreciate his time, effort and dedication as the Director for Temporal Affairs in this part of the world. He sets the example. Everywhere he goes he is admired. Everybody loves Daniel! What an amazing year for all of us. We pray for you and love you. Feliz Navidad!

 

 

Our Christmas Poem 2021

 

May this poem be an

Expression of gratitude as we

Reflect on our many blessings

Received throughout the past

Year, (despite the never-ending pandemic.) We want to

 

Commemorate Jesus Christ,

His birth, His life, and

Redeeming sacrifice for us.

It's great to see our children and

Spouses live and teach

Their children principles of the gospel

Message that brings happiness

And joy. Thanks for your love and

Support. We love you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandma and Grandpa's house

Few childhood memories are as vivid as the memory of gathering at my Grandma and Grandpa Cannon’s home on Christmas Eve. Reflecting on that memory is like rereading a good book. Through a child’s eyes, each life event is magnified. Nothing is mundane. That’s why the Christmas Eve tradition at Grandma and Grandpa’s was magnificent! 

This annual experience began as we put on our Sunday clothes, bundled up, piled in our old station wagon and drove across the valley singing Christmas carols all the way. As cousins, we could hardly wait to see each other again, but most of all we wanted to be with Grandma and Grandpa in their home. Arriving on the cold, crisp night and coming through the back door made us feel like we belonged there. Each grandchild was greeted with hugs and words of affection. Nothing was pretentious; Grandma and Grandpa’s modest home suggested love. The kitchen was cozy and simple. Post cards, from family and friends sent from all over the world, were taped to the light blue kitchen walls. They were Grandma and Grandpa’s only way to travel to far-away places. The old farmhouse sink was framed in white painted cabinets and nestled below the window, where one could look out on the walnut trees in the yard. If you looked closely at the corner of one kitchen cabinet you could see where Grandma had written in pencil the title of country music songs she liked best from hearing them on the radio. 

Amid warm greetings and chatter, coats were peeled off and everyone gathered in the small living room. Grandpa would be seated at the end of the couch with his hearing aid tucked in his shirt pocket. Grandma would always sit next to him. The Christmas tree nestled in the corner was smothered in icicles. The glass candy bowl on the table was filled with walnuts and hard tack ribbon candy. The children would be snuggled at the feet of their parents or sitting on the arms of the chairs to make room for every family member. On the mantle were framed pictures of Grandma and Grandpa’s five sons in their military uniforms. The three oldest had served in the Navy during World War II. One did not return. Next to his picture was a photograph of the destroyer, the SS Johnston. Hugh was a radar man 2nd class when the ship went down in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. Grandpa had read about the tragedy in Time magazine before the dreaded letter from the Navy arrived. He had hidden the magazine so Grandma would not see it. Grandpa prayed that his son had somehow survived. 

Through my childhood eyes these were stories of courage and devotion. I felt sure I would never have to face life like my grandparents and aunts and uncles did. 

The first event of the evening was the family talent show. Each grandchild would stand and perform. Christmas songs were sung, poems recited, trumpets played and there was always a twirling ballerina as part of the program. Everyone clapped and oohed and aahed. As children, we could not have performed at Carnegie Hall and felt more rewarded. The anticipation of the event was surpassed only by the gracious response from the adults. It made you want to perform something bigger and better the next year. 

To conclude the evening someone was chosen to read the story of the first Christmas from the book of Luke in the Bible. The room went from talking and laughter to a reverent silence as the story of the birth of the Savior was told. The adults would be visibly moved by the words as they were read. I wondered what they had faced or were facing in their lives that made those words so meaningful. Grandpa would call on someone to give a closing family prayer. Afterward I would look up, and the windows would be frosted with steam as they separated the warmth of the room from the cold of the outside air.

Plates of cookies, loaves of nut bread or homemade hot pads would be exchanged among families, and we would begin the search for our coats and hats on Grandma and Grandpa’s bed in the back bedroom. 

A generous hug from aunts, uncles and Grandma and Grandpa was the main focus of the departing ritual. Then families would scurry to their individual cars shouting, “Merry Christmas!”

I look back on that childhood Christmas Eve memory with fondness. It was not a profound event in the world, but it was an anchor in my childhood. Now, as an adult, I am facing life, and those words in the book of Luke have become even more meaningful. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. … But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” (Luke 2:11,19). I love those words. It is because of that monumental event, the birth of Jesus Christ, that I celebrate through the eyes of children the joy of simple Christmas memories.

By sister Wixen

Santa Robbins

From my infancy, my father always played the role of Santa at Christmas time, not in department stores or parades, but for the Kiwanis or Lion’s club and other civic and church gatherings and often for individual families. He never charged for his services and would not accept any payment if offered. For him it was an act of love from which he derived great enjoyment.

 

Playing the role of Santa suited him perfectly, because he truly was a jolly old soul and was simply … being himself. He even had a sash of antiqued and burnished leather adorned with 100-year-old tarnished brass sleigh bells which draped across his shoulder and chest that truly were “jingle bells.” Over his other shoulder was a Santa-sized black leather bag in which he carried candy and gifts. Just prior to making his entrance he would start jingling, which had an immediate magical effect on the children and would instantly bring their enthusiasm to a fever pitch.

After visiting a ward one year, he was exiting the building and other neighborhood children heard the bells and came running. He greeted them but his sack was now empty, he having meted out its entire contents inside the building. He was heartbroken that he didn’t have any more candy canes for these children who were full of anticipation. From that point on, he never ventured out without an ample supply of candy canes.

 

Each year he would drop in on a dozen or so events. Once I turned 16 and was able to drive, I took turns with my mother and older sisters as one of Santa’s chauffeurs. Of the hundreds of lives my father touched over the years, one story stands out. That year there was a family of very modest means who had 13 children and were eking out a living. They lived on the outskirts of town in a modest home built out of cinder blocks and could not afford the kind of Christmas other families enjoyed.

 

A compassionate donor family decided to sacrifice their own Christmas presents that year so they could provide this humble family with a memorable Christmas, and asked my father if he would be kind enough to deliver the Christmas offering.

 

On Christmas Eve, unbeknownst to the family, Santa dropped by and entered their home with his big black leather bag filled with gifts for the whole family. There were more looks of surprise and wonderment from the parents than there were from the children. Many tears were shed as the gifts were handed out to each member of this humble family, including many from Santa himself.

 

My father reported back to the donor family and let them know of the joy and tears of gratitude that their selflessness and spirit of Christmas had created. Their sacrifice ended up not being a sacrifice at all as they experienced an even merrier and more joyous Christmas than the grateful family who were their beneficiaries.

My father taught me the principle we learn in Acts 20:35 “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” I don’t know anyone who was more giving than my father and my mother. I am grateful for their marvelous examples manifest through the many years of my father playing the role of his jolly alter ego.

And as a postscript — I truly have seen “Mommy kissing Santa Claus” on many occasions.

 

By Elder Robbins 

"It is Well With My Soul"

This is a true story about a family at Christmastime—a mother and father who, in the night of their deepest despair, discovered the healing light of hope. As it was in Bethlehem, when darkness gathers, the Savior’s light shines. And when His light is reflected in sacred verse and song, the peace of Christmas, the real Spirit of the Season, lifts and comforts and blesses us all.

In mid-November 1873, an ocean liner, the Ville du Havre, set sail from New York with 313 passengers on board. One can imagine their festive Atlantic crossing with ribbons of red, swags of evergreen, and Christmas carols wafting through a dining room sparkling with candlelight. In a few days they would make landfall in Europe, just weeks before Christmas in Paris.

Anna Spafford and her four little girls were among the happy passengers. They had come from Chicago—Annie, age eleven; Margaret Lee, nine; Bessie, five; and little Tanetta, two. Their father, Horatio, had intended to sail with them but was detained on business. “Not to worry,” he assured his wife and children. He would book his passage in a few days, and soon they would be reunited in the City of Light, celebrating the season of joy. And joy is what they needed. Two years earlier, the Great Chicago Fire had all but destroyed Horatio’s business interests. This journey was intended to restore hope and bring healing into the Spaffords’ lives—which is why on the ship, on the evening of November twenty-second, Anna and her girls knelt down, said prayers for peace, and fell asleep, dreaming of the yuletide festivities to come.

At about two o’clock in the morning, they were jolted awake in their berths. Despite the night’s clear, starry sky, the Ville du Havre had inexplicably collided with the Loch Earn, an iron-hulled Scottish clipper. Lifeboats quickly filled with people. Many passengers leapt into the icy waters. Anna tried desperately to keep her children together, but the two eldest became separated in the confusion. Just twelve minutes after the impact, a wave washed over the deck and Anna was drawn under the water with her youngest daughters.

She held on to five-year-old Bessie until her strength gave out. Her last memory was of two-year-old Tanetta, in her delicate lace nightgown, torn from her grasp, getting smaller and smaller until she, too, finally disappeared. Later, the crew of the Loch Earn found Anna unconscious, floating on a wooden plank.

When the ship docked in Wales, Anna sent a telegram to her husband that began with the words, “Saved alone, what shall I do?”

Horatio immediately sailed from New York City. “There is just one thing in these days that has become magnificently clear,” he wrote to a friend. “I must not lose faith.”

Four days into his voyage, on a Thursday evening, the captain summoned Mr. Spafford to the foredeck. By the crew’s calculations, they were nearing the place where Anna’s ship had gone down, taking with it the bodies of their four daughters, now resting some three miles below. But Horatio refused to look down.

“I did not think of our dear ones there,” he later recounted. Instead, he gazed out across the rolling waves and up into the moonlit sky. There he began to formulate a simple expression of his faith—a verse that would become a beloved hymn.

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Only a few weeks earlier, in the same place on the open sea, Anna had experienced a similar awakening. After her rescue, when she regained consciousness, she was overcome with despair and wanted to throw herself back into the ocean. What was life worth now, and what could it ever be without her beloved children? But then, it was as if she heard a voice in her mind and her heart: “You are spared for a purpose, Anna. You have a work to do.”

 

The couple returned to Chicago, where Horatio sought the support and prayers of his congregation to help him face the dire financial straits in which he found himself. Anna gave birth to a boy and then a girl. But—sorrow upon sorrow—that son, Horatio Jr., succumbed to scarlet fever at the age of three. Then, a year later, another daughter was born. Although only two of their seven children lived to maturity, the Spaffords never yielded hope.

Through that harrowing Christmas season of 1873, and in the years that followed, Horatio and Anna became even more certain that God loves all His children, whoever they are and whatever tribulations they may suffer.

In 1881, they moved their family to Jerusalem and established what they called the American Colony, not far from the “Little Town of Bethlehem” we celebrate at Christmas. Although they were deeply religious, their purpose was not to proselytize but to serve people of all backgrounds, relieving the effects of poverty, disease, and strife wherever they were found.

Seven years later, Horatio died. Once again, Anna Spafford had reason to give up, but she did not. Every life has contradictions and imperfections, and hers was no exception. Yet, when it mattered most, in her most profound spiritual crisis, when all seemed lost, Anna found the strength to move forward and to turn outward—to continue what she and her husband had begun. And the seed of service they planted in others bore sweet fruit, indeed.

In time, their daughter Bertha greatly expanded the Spaffords’ humanitarian work, all with the intent of rescuing those who had experienced the shipwrecks of life. During World War I, she led the way in organizing soup kitchens for refugees. She also oversaw hospitals for wounded soldiers on all sides of the conflict.

One Christmas Eve, on her way to Bethlehem, Bertha met a Bedouin man, his ailing wife, and their newborn son traveling to Jerusalem by donkey. Later she wrote, “Here stood before me a rustic Madonna and babe, and similar to Mary’s plight, there was no place for them to stay.” By the next morning the mother had died, and Bertha was asked to care for the child. She agreed. She named the little boy Noel. Within the week she had taken in two more orphaned babies. And so began the Spafford family’s most enduring charitable work—a renowned hospital for children.

Bertha explained, “We make no distinction in nationality or creed. The only requirement being that people absolutely need our help.” Some of the Spaffords’ charitable work continues to this day—in the children’s center that bears their family name.

For nearly 150 years, millions have sung and have been lifted by Horatio’s hymn, “It Is Well with My Soul.” Most have been unaware of the circumstances in which it was written, but they have been strengthened by its universal message. Horatio’s words resound with the truth we celebrate at Christmas: a child was born in Bethlehem, bringing peace on earth and good will toward men. Because of Him, the human spirit can rise above tragedy. Whenever, however we suffer our own night of sorrow, His love does shine in the darkness. His peace can heal the wounded soul. And the Christmas work of giving, loving, serving, and rescuing is ours, if we choose to make it so. As we do, we join with saints and angels to rejoice and sing: “It is well, it is well with my soul!”

Con amor,

Vero

Sharing a Christmas Memory

Childhood memories are for me the most vivid and the emotions from those times most easily recovered. Just a few weeks ago, I walked through heavy snow that reached above the tops of my shoes to stand next to a fence that now surrounds the yard of the house in which I lived as a boy.

 

My daughter and her husband stood at my side. We had driven through the storm from their apartment in New York City to the town of Princeton, N.J. Our purpose was to recover and create memories. Since she was a little girl she had heard my stories of that house and the happiness I had felt living there with my mother, father, my older brother and my younger brother.

I noticed in the snow what appeared to be green leaves of a bush next to the house. As a little boy, I had given my mother a hydrangea plant for her birthday. That was the spot where she and I had planted it, next to a downspout, so that it would be watered in the summer rains. It’s blue flowers had pleased my mother so much that she mentioned to me her feeling of loss to leave it behind when years later we sold the house and moved away to go to the west. We had been gone 64 years so those green leaves in the snow were only a trigger of a happy memory.

 

Because on that winter day we didn’t want to bother the people who lived in the house, we stood looking at the darkened windows of the first floor as the snow fell softly. I realized that the window before us was in the porch next to the living room. I couldn’t see into the darkened rooms but that only made the memories flood back in full color.

Perhaps because of the falling snow, I could see in my mind the rooms as they were in the Christmas of 1941. I could see the decorated Christmas tree in the middle of the living room. Then came the memory of my mother patiently smiling as she repaired our efforts to hang tinsel from the branches of In my memory I could see the rest of the room. If there had been lights in the darkened house, I could have seen the fireplace across from the tree where our stockings were hung on the mantel. In the days of the 1930’s an apple in the stocking seemed to us a bounteous gift on Christmas morning. We knew that unemployed fathers were selling apples on chilly city streets to buy food for their children in those depression years. I still can feel blessed when I remember those crisp red delicious apples and our warm fireplace in that room.

Then, another picture came back to me as I stood in the snow. In those rooms now darkened I remembered a Sunday morning. My mother was playing the piano for the dozen Latter-day Saints who gathered there from miles around to worship with the Princeton Branch. Among the hymns of the Restoration they surely must have sung that day were the words of a child’s prayer: “And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.”

Then, the scene for me changed. Memories flooded back. Sometime later that Sabbath day, we gathered around a radio at the end of the living room. Someone must have told my parents to listen. I still remember looking at the lighted dial on the front of the round-topped radio as we heard a man’s voice.

 the pine tree. That brought back my feelings of her loving kindness.

The newscaster described bombs, fires, and sinking ships in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. I had known that war was raging for others far away for years. Now it had come to us. I heard alarm in the man’s voice. Yet as I watched my parents, I could see that they were calm. They seemed to be at peace. A feeling of peace flooded over me.

That feeling persisted in the days before Christmas, on Christmas day itself, and in the Christmases that followed. I now know what a miracle that Christmas memory of peace was, especially for my mother. 

As a young girl she had grown up with a beloved cousin. His name was Mervyn Bennion. He was the captain of a ship anchored in Pearl Harbor on the Sunday of Dec. 7. On Dec. 6, the night before, he had been with his wife at a pleasant social with the Latter-day Saints in Honolulu. Their hosts were the stake president and his wife who was a relative of Sister Bennion. They invited the Bennions to stay for the night. Brother Bennion thanked them but said that he felt his place was to be on his ship.

The following morning, Sunday, Dec. 7, Mervyn Bennion was in his cabin getting dressed for a trip ashore to meet his wife for Sunday School when a sailor dashed in to report an air attack. Captain Bennion gave the command: “To Your Battle Stations!” He ran to his place of command on the flag bridge.

It was nearly Christmas day when my mother learned of the heroic death of the cousin she so much loved. For hours after he was mortally wounded he resisted the efforts of his men to take him to safety.

As well as I can recall, when my mother learned of Mervyn’s death she shed no tears, just as she showed no fear as she heard the radio report of the battle that took his life and might take the life of others she loved. Faith in the Lord drove out fear. Faith in His Atonement brought her the peace that passes understanding.

Time and many experiences have made that memory of the 1941 Christmas season more precious and clear. I am not even sure that we received the Church News in New Jersey in that far away time. But the First Presidency of the Church had published a Christmas greeting in January of 1941 that I didn’t read until after that wonderful day with my daughter standing in the snow outside the home of my childhood in 2011.

As you would expect from prophets, seers, and revelators, they wrote foreseeing the Christmas day at the end of 1941 and all the Christmases that would follow until the Savior comes again to bring perfect peace:

“We send to the Saints in all the earth our greetings and blessings. …

“We invoke upon all war-ridden countries the spirit of love, forbearance and forgiveness. …”

And then they spoke for the Savior:

“We pray the Lord to heal all those who are stricken with disease and not appointed unto death. May He soften the pain of the wounded and bring to them health and strength.

“We ask Him to bless all those who are bereft — the lonely orphan, the sorrowing widow, the heart-wrung mother.” (“Greeting from the First Presidency,” Improvement Era, January 1941.) 

I realize now that the prayer of the First Presidency was answered for my mother and all those who are bereft by the loss of those they love. One of those who signed that letter was J. Reuben Clark, the First Counselor in the First Presidency. His daughter was the wife of Mervyn Bennion, who became a widow on Dec. 7.

President Clark was blessed by the prayer for peace as was my mother in the tragedy of war and those tested by the tribulations that followed. All have been blessed with the testimony that the First Presidency bore in their Christmas message.

They pleaded for this blessing: “May there come to every man that walks the earth the testimony of the Savior that came to Martha:

“I am the ‘resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live’ ” (John 11:25). 

My mother showed me in that Christmas season long ago and in the years that followed that she knew what Martha knew, and so felt peace. That was and is the experience promised in the last days, “When peace will clothe the world as with a mantle” (Ibid, Improvement Era, January 1941).

As I walked through the snow with my daughter and her husband, I felt warmth coming from the Christmas memory we had found together.

By President Eyring