WHENSEPTEMBERCAME I put in an order with my printer for a half million copies of my book. I had closed down my business, and Keri and I put up all of our savings for advertising and my book tour. Senator Bennett had signed a promissory note to the printer, guaranteeing payment for the books’ printing. Whenever I think back on those days I marvel at my faith. Or my foolishness. I never doubted that I would sell all of those books, even though we probably had orders for fewer than a tenth of them.
That same month I started my tour. One of my first book signings was at a shopping mall in downtown Salt Lake City. I had been there for nearly an hour when a woman approached me.
“What is your book about?” she asked.
I recited my sales pitch. “It’s about a young family who move in with an elderly widow and the Christmas they spend with her.”
She looked disappointed with my reply. Then, to my surprise, she said, “I guess I need six copies. One for each child.” Suddenly tears began to well up in her eyes as she corrected herself. “No, I’m sorry. I only need five copies. I’ve just lost a child.” Then, in the crowded mall corridor, the woman began to cry. She was clearly embarrassed and when she had regained her composure she apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t even know why I’m standing here.”
“I think I do,” I said. “I’ve been told that this book is healing for those who have lost children.”
She looked at me with a curious expression, then said, “Just a moment.” She went into the store, purchased her copies, then brought them back out for me to sign. As I signed her books she suddenly asked, “Can you tell me what’s happening to me?”
I looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I had already finished my shopping and as I was going back to my car I heard a voice. It said ‘Go back inside, there’s a young man waiting for you.’ When I came back inside I saw you sitting here and the same voice said, ‘That’s him. What he has, you need.’ ”
She looked at me anxiously. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I’m standing here crying and telling you that I’m hearing voices. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
•
Three weeks later I was in Scottsdale, Arizona, signing books in Fashion Square Mall. At least, that was the plan. I had been in the bookstore for nearly forty-five minutes and the only attention I had received was from a woman who asked me to move so she could get to some books behind me. Suddenly a woman walked by my table and lifted one of my books, checked the price, then said, “I’ll take one of these.”
Mercy buy, I thought.
Her husband glanced at the book, then said disparagingly, “Man, you’ll buy anything.”
She bought the book and they left the store.
About twenty minutes later the couple returned. The man approached me, holding my book out in front of him. “I need ten more copies,” he said.
“You’ve changed your mind?”
He leaned forward, his eyebrows bent. “There’s something really weird about your book,” he said in a hushed tone. “There’s something mystical about it.”
His wife came around to the other side of my table. “Do you believe in spiritual things?” she asked. “Like voices and promptings?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s how the book came to me.”
She glanced over at her husband. “We were in different parts of the house tonight when we both heard a voice that told us to come here and find you. I don’t know what this little Christmas book of yours is about, but whatever it is, we’re supposed to share it.”
