There was a stranger
in our Sunday congregation several weeks before Christmas. Soon after fast and testimony meeting began,
the stranger made his way to the pulpit and revealed that he was an ex-convict. The man described how he felt he had been
wronged by several members of our congregation, singling them out by name. The spirit in our meeting became very
contentious as people got up and walked out, and the man ignored the Bishop
when he was asked to sit down. The
children were intrigued by this strange person and the unusual feeling they
noticed in church that day. When they
asked about the stranger, we explained that it was likely the man didn’t have
many friends. We tried to help them
understand that the stranger, whose name we learned was John, was still a child
of God, and that Jesus loved him and expected us to love him too. We didn’t see much of John after that, and
soon we were immersed in the busy excitement of the holiday season.
It was just a few
days before Christmas when I was making breadsticks to take to another holiday
party. I had some dough left over and
decided to make cinnamon loaves to have on hand for those dreaded last minute
gifters that I hadn’t planned for. The
next day was the Saturday before Christmas, and I still had a few cinnamon
loaves left. I asked my family if they
could think of anyone that might enjoy some cinnamon bread for Christmas. My eight-year-old daughter answered, “We
should take some to John.”
My husband and I
exchanged wide-eyed glances. John didn’t
exactly find his way on to our Christmas gift list. “Ok”, I replied. “We can take one to John.”
John lives in a
small compound that resembles a junkyard.
It is surrounded by fences with locked gates and “No Trespassing”
signs. As we pulled up to deliver our
gift, our daughter nervously asked, “Mom, can you come to the door with me?”
“If he comes to the
door, do not go in,” warned my husband.
I walked up the
narrow, muddy driveway with my three-year-old and my daughter, trying to find a
way to the door. We found an unlocked
gate and carefully made our way across the ice to the door. All the lights were on in John’s small,
run-down house. I reached through the
broken screen and knocked on the door.
We waited, but there was no answer.
“His truck is here,” noted my daughter.
We knocked again. There was still
no answer. I worried about leaving the
bread because there were several animal kennels with food surrounding the small
concrete landing we were waiting on, but since John wasn’t answering, I balanced the bread between the broken
screen and the door and we made our way back to the car.
The story ends
there. No big happy ending. The significance of this story lies in the
change made in my heart. It was true
that I had told my children that Jesus expected us to love John, but I
certainly wasn’t prepared to take any action.
However, as we left John’s house that cold Saturday night, I was so
touched by my daughter’s childlike faith and example. She truly saw John for who he was: another
one of God’s children who needed a friend, who needed to be loved. I turned off the Christmas music playing on
the radio on our drive home and thanked my daughter for suggesting that we take
bread to John. As we talked about it as
a family, we realized that we hadn’t seen any signs of Christmas at all while
we were there. We discussed the
likelihood that our small gift may be one of the only things that John would
receive, maybe even his entire Christmas all together.
It is easy for me to
say that people like John don’t really deserve a merry Christmas. He doesn’t deserve friends, kindness, help,
or gifts. But I was reminded that night
by our small gesture and through the Holy Ghost that the Savior truly does love
each of us, whether we deserve it or not.
I felt a keen sense of gratitude for His love in my life, as undeserving
as I am. I felt an overwhelming desire
to become more like Him and to serve more of His children who most often fall
by the wayside. I became aware that
these are the exact people that the Savior spent time with while He was on the
earth, and the substance of His sermons that I have studied, understood, but
not yet fully lived. I am pretty certain
that a small loaf of cinnamon bread will not make a difference in John’s life,
but I am forever grateful for the change it brought in mine.
And the next day, we
saw John at church.
