For those who dream of a white Christmas, 1988 was a dream come true.

A winter storm dumped more than a foot of snow in our area early that Christmas Sunday morning. From the warmth and security of my living room it was a magnificent sight. The snow lay in a thick, powdery blanket that gave the roads, yards and orchards outside the appearance of being joined together as one huge flat, white field. Smoke curled out of brick chimneys that extended up through what seemed to be a thick layer of marshmallow rooftop frosting, giving every house a cozy Courier & Ives ornamentation. Tree boughs bent sharply beneath the heavy load of snow, and �the treetops glistened� — just like the song says.

It was picturesque — no question about it.

Until you tried to travel in it. Then all of that beautiful snow suddenly became an icy adversary that caused tires to spin and made roads impassable. All of which was fine for those who were inclined to spend a nice, quiet Christmas snuggled cozily at home. But for those who planned on traveling �over the river and through the woods� — or even just a few blocks to attend church services — the snow presented a challenge of significant proportions.

It became clear to me just how significant those challenges would be when I tried to negotiate the two blocks to church on foot. Trudging through the deep snow was laborious, and I slipped frequently on patches of ice. As a brand new bishop, sustained just a few weeks earlier, I was concerned for those who would venture out to attend Sacrament Meeting, the only meeting we would hold that day — especially those wonderfully faithful elderly couples and widows who always attended, no matter what.

When I got to the meetinghouse I called Sam, my counselor in the bishopric, and I suggested the possibility of canceling services because of the snow.

�Oh, we can�t do that,� he said. �It�s Christmas!�

�But I don�t know if it�s safe . . .�

�Don�t you worry about that,� he said. �Everything will be fine. You�ll see.�