Something Better to Do
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“Something Better to Do,” New Era, Nov. 2005, 14

Something Better to Do

I could spend my Saturday night watching a movie … or moving furniture.

One Saturday night, I was on my way to pick up my friend Jon so we could watch a movie at a friend’s house. On my way there, I passed a house with a moving van parked outside. The house wasn’t in my neighborhood, but the thought came to me that I should stop and help the family move in. I shrugged the thought away because it was nearly 10:00 p.m. They were probably almost finished.

When Jon and I arrived at our friend’s house, the movie was halfway over. We were bored trying to figure out what was going on, so after only a few minutes, we decided to leave.

“Let’s go get some shakes,” Jon suggested.

On the way into town, I saw the house with the moving truck still parked outside.

“Should we help those people?” I asked.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jon said.

I pulled over and we hopped out, trying not to think about how strange this would seem.

“Could you use a hand?” I called.

The family—a mother, a father, and two children—stared at us. “No. We can handle it by ourselves,” the father said. “But thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asked.

The mother looked at us suspiciously. “Don’t you boys have anything better to do on a Saturday night?”

Jon and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Not really,” we said.

It took a few minutes to convince them that we really wanted to help, and they finally let us. Mostly heavy furniture was left, and I wondered how the four of them had planned to lift it all themselves.

When Jon and I left, the mother thanked us for such a nice welcome into their new neighborhood.

A few weeks later, she introduced herself to Jon’s mom in stake conference. She said, “Please thank your son and his friend again for helping us. They strengthened my faith.”

She explained that they had loaded the truck that morning and had driven all day. By the time they had arrived, they were exhausted. But they had wanted to finish moving so they could return the truck that night and avoid paying an extra day’s fee. The 12-year-old son had been so weary that he wanted to collapse. Shutting himself in the bathroom, he had prayed for a small miracle—the ability to help move all the remaining heavy furniture. Moments later, help had arrived.

I know that the Lord hears our prayers, no matter how small the request. Nothing feels better than to know that Jon and I were guided to answer a prayer that night.

  • Carl Webb is a member of the Deer Creek Ward, Midway Utah Stake.

Illustrated by Richard Hull