Writing and telling stories has always been a part of my life. My earliest memories are of telling stories to my mother as a child. School teachers from the third grade encouraged me to write my stories down.By the eighth grade, an English teacher had me writing plays which my class performed.In the 12th grade, I wrote and directed short films that my instructors gladly accepted in place of reports.It became evident to me that my stories somehow contained an element that drew people in and held their attention. Unexpected emotional reactions from the hysterical laughter of children to tears that grown men could not contain happened as I told stories.While serving as a missionary in Europe, I came across a six-year-old girl with a lit cigarette in her mouth and a pack of cigarettes bulging from a back pocket. She said her name was Opal. "Well, I know a story about a girl named Opal," I told her. "Have you ever heard of 'Opal and beanstalk'?" "No," she said talking a long drag as two other girls ran up to stand by her announcing their names as they did. "What a coincidence?" I said looking surprised, "Those are the exact names of her friends in the story." Their eyes grew big and their mouths hung slightly open, which told me they were ready and I began the tale of three little girls who climbed up a beanstalk to a giant's kingdom in the clouds. "Fee Fi Fo Fum," I boomed out as I brought the giant into the story, "I smell smoke on the breath of a little girl! And when I catch her I'm gonna EAT HER!" In the end of the story, the two friends got away from the giant, but not the little girl who smoked. Opal cried openly and spat the cigarette from her mouth and pulled the pack from her back pocket and threw it in a nearby trash can and ran home. Some days later, Opal's mother found me and thanked me saying that Opal has not smoked since and swears she never will again. Stories can be powerful things. And I write stories!