Gospel Story Finder

Youth and age together
came to our house every month—
High priest still with cloudless
skies in his vision.
(He always gave the message.)
He rode a motorcycle once.
He told us.
The young one didn’t talk much
for a teacher.
Funny name for a teenager.
Aren’t they still learning?
But sometimes he shoveled
our walks.
Or helped Mom mow the lawn
after Dad was gone.
He always bounced a ball with us.
And hugged us when we sat
next to him on the couch.
And when he talked, I listened.

It is a marvelous blessing to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Consider these statements by prophets and Apostles. President Wilford Woodruff said:
“I went out as a priest [on my mission], and my companion as an elder, and we traveled thousands of miles, and had many things manifested to us. I desire to impress upon you the fact that it does not make any difference whether a man is a priest or an apostle, if he magnifies his calling. A priest holds the key of the ministering of angels. Never in my life, as an apostle, as a seventy, or as an elder, have I ever had more the protection of the Lord than while holding the office as a priest. The Lord revealed to me by visions, by revelations, and by the Holy Spirit, many things that lay before me” (G. Homer Durham, comp., The Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, pp. 298, 300).

Elder M. Russell Ballard, of the Presidency of the First Quorum of the Seventy, and Bishop Glenn L. Pace, who joined the Presiding Bishopric yesterday, have just returned from Africa, where they went out into the rural areas of Ethiopia. They saw firsthand how the funds you consecrated are literally saving the lives of many who otherwise would die of starvation, disease, and exposure. Your contributions not only have supplied food and medicine where they are so desperately needed, but your contributions also have furnished tents sufficient to put thirty thousand people under shelter from the blistering sun and the cold night winds, with blankets to comfort them. The food and other commodities are getting through to those who need them. There has been no interference with this, but only the best of cooperation.
Elder Ballard and Bishop Pace have been with these suffering people. They say they are men and women of courage and character, but they are defeated and frightened by the terrifying circumstances in which they find themselves. Their lands are dry and naked. There is neither irrigation water nor food. They wander in desperation until they and their children die unless they are fed. A little cracked wheat literally spells the difference between life and death.
Only if rains come and wells are drilled can there be long-term recovery and sustenance. Some of our funds will be used in a joint venture relationship to drill in areas of underground water to bring land under cultivation and make it fruitful, with the hope that there may be long-term as well as short-term help for these destitute people.

“Why did I ever listen to those Mormon missionaries, anyway?” thought Johanna Anderson, as the boat pitched wildly beneath her feet. The voyage had been a difficult one, and today was especially rough. Just about everyone she knew on board was ill, and her faith began to waver as she thought, “Why must this journey be so long and hard?”
She could, at this very moment, have been home in her beloved Sweden with her caring parents. They had been converted by LDS missionaries in the early 1800s, and it was their greatest desire to send their family to the Salt Lake Valley. When their eldest son, Neils, earned enough money for passage to America for himself and his wife, his parents decided it would be a wonderful opportunity to send 14-year-old Johanna with them.
Johanna remembered the care her mother had taken in packing her trunk, and the surprise package she’d hidden in the bottom of it. “Johanna,” her mother told her, “when you are far from home, when your faith in God is low, or when you most need help, open the package in the bottom of your trunk. It will cheer your spirits and give you faith to go on to Utah.”
Well, Johanna’s spirits were certainly low at this point. Not only had the storms relentlessly punished their small ship, but the water for the three-month journey had gone stale. Many passengers were terribly sick, and some had even died and been buried at sea. Everything looked so bleak. Perhaps now was the time to open the package her mother had sent.
Quietly and unseen, she crept to the hull of the ship and found her trunk. She opened it and felt her precious package. Tears formed in her eyes when she saw what it contained. It was the most beautiful red coat she had ever seen. Her mother must have spent hours making it for her. She slipped into its warm softness and did a little dance on the heaving floor.
She hadn’t been this happy in a long time. She wanted to show her beautiful coat to all the others on the ship, but she thought again. This was her secret. This red coat was for Utah. She would wear it again when she arrived in the new land. Tenderly she returned the coat to her trunk.
The knowledge of her beautiful secret gave her courage for the rest of the journey. When no one else seemed able to eat, Johanna found herself hungry. She had become a special friend of the ship’s cook, and he would prepare her the Swedish pancakes she loved. He would place the big bowl in her lap while he added the ingredients, and would instruct her to “lean with the toss of the ship” so the batter would stay in the container.
Finally, after three months, the ship reached America. It took another three months for the Andersons to travel to St. Louis. There they purchased a wagon, ox teams, and supplies for the long trek across the plains.
While Neils and his wife drove the team, Johanna walked. She was young and strong and loved the wilderness, with its birds and animals. Every day she saw some new sight that stirred her. Occasionally she would see friendly Indians in the distance. And always, as she walked, she would think of the secret in her trunk—the soft, beautiful red coat—and how she would wear it when she reached her new home in Utah.
But unknown to the company she traveled with, hostile Indians had been following them since they crossed Wyoming. Johanna sensed things were not right and felt apprehensive. Finally, when evening came, the captain of the company moved the wagons together, forming a tight circle. The cattle and oxen were driven into the center, and there was no campfire, music, or dancing as there had been on other nights. The Saints were told to go to bed and stay quiet.
Johanna, exhausted from her long walk, fell into a deep sleep. But just at daybreak, she was awakened by voices and stamping horses’ hooves. Her sister-in-law motioned for her to lay quiet. Neils was not in his bed.
The voices grew louder and nearer, and Johanna noted the language was different. Her people were talking to the Indians.
She could hear rummaging in the wagon above her. Her trunk was at the end of the wagon, and she could tell it was being opened. She heard Neils’s voice dealing with the Indians.
Suddenly the voices ceased, and the men jumped down from the wagon. Their dealings had ended, and she could hear the Indians riding away.
Neils returned and took Johanna to the front of the wagon. In his firm Swedish, he said to his sister, “Johanna, stay here. Let nothing permit you to look back or go to the rear of our wagon. You have faith and the Lord will take care of all of us.”
The temptation was too great for Johanna, and she turned to look at the Indians riding away, single file and bareback on their ponies. Heading the warriors was Chief Walker, yelling and screaming and riding at top speed. Around his shoulders he wore her beautiful red coat.
Neils caught his sister in his arms. “Johanna, your coat saved your life—not only yours, but the lives of all in our company. The bright red color caught the chief’s eye. When he saw your coat, he was satisfied and then left us all unharmed.”
The Andersons soon reached Salt Lake City, and Johanna eventually married James Hansen, a Danish convert. They had ten children, and her descendants still tell her story to their children today.

If on one particular day many years ago you had asked me, George what kind of Christmas are you going to have?” I don’t think I could have answered without breaking into tears.
You see, that was the first time in my life that I had been away from home at Christmastime. And when you are your mother’s youngest child like I was, being away from her and your family for the first time at Christmas is hard to endure.
In mid-November of that year, I had left the New York harbor aboard the great ship Mauritania, bound for a two-year mission in the British Isles. After a seasick week I arrived in Southampton, England. I spent a few busy and eventful days in London, and then received my specific assignment. Now, as Christmas approached, I was in a city called Kingston upon Hull. The excitement of travel had worn off and had gradually and completely been replaced by discouragement. I’d been in Hull, as it was called, just one month and I had been homesick since I’d arrived. As day by day and hour by hour Christmas came closer, I began to feel more and more sorry for myself.
To add to my sorrows, the cold damp foggy air filled my lungs as, with my companion, I pedaled my bicycle for miles to call upon those who would listen to messages of the restored gospel. Under such conditions I started to get a runny nose by December the twenty-second. I began to cough on the twenty-third, and on Christmas Eve I had a terrible cold.
As soon as I had arrived in Hull, I had written home:
Dear Mother,
My address is Elder George Durrant, 4 The Paddock, Anlaby Park, Hull, England. Please let all the family and all of my friends know that if they and you desire to send me Christmas cards and gifts they can send them to that address. Please call as many people and advise them of this as quickly as you can.
I hopefully supposed that this letter would get home in time for the returning mails to bring me some Christmas cards and gifts from family and friends.
Each day I’d wait almost breathlessly for the mailman. He’d be laden with interesting looking packages and envelopes, and I’d throw open the front door wide and reach out and grab the entire pile. Surely at least one-half of these would be mine. With trembling hand I’d pull one from the pile and read. The first one was addressed, “Elder Tagg.” The next one, “Elder Tagg.” The Third, “Elder Tagg.” One after another the same name appeared. I was soon willing to settle for just one. But there wasn’t one. In all, during the week before Christmas my missionary companion Elder Tagg received thirty cards and several gifts. As he’d open each card, I’d have to look away.
Finally, it was the last mail delivery day before Christmas. I had prayed fervently that I’d receive some Christmas greeting from home. The mailman came to the house. He reached out and so did I. To my joy there were seven Christmas cards and a small brown package. One by one I read the addresses and handed the first, the second, and finally all of the cards to Elder Tagg and then I gave him the package. I could tell that he was deeply sorry and I knew that if he could have he would have given me any one or even all of the cards and the gift.
I turned away and ran up the stairs to our bedroom. I felt that I needed time to think. As I sat there on the side of my bed, I placed my bowed head in my hands. I wanted desperately to somehow turn the clock and the calendar ahead and just skip Christmas. I knew I could survive the other 729 days of my mission in England but I didn’t feel that I had the power to get through this first Christmas away from home.
As I sat in deep silence, the landlady, Nellie Deyes, and Elder Tagg came to the open door. She said, “Elder Durrant, I’ve come to say goodbye for a few days.”
I looked up and she was looking away from me and I could sense that her heart was also heavy. “What do you mean, good-bye?” I asked in surprise.
Without answering she turned and was gone. Elder Tagg spoke softly, “The doctors fear that she has cancer. She wanted to wait until after Christmas to go for surgery but she just learned this afternoon that a bed has been made available for her at the hospital and so she must go now.”
I was shocked. She reminded me so much of my mother and I’d grown to love her in the month we’d lived in her home.
I went downstairs to where she and her loving husband were just ready to leave for the hospital. I’ll forever remember the look in her eyes as she said, “Elder Durrant, I love you. Now you be sure and have a good and happy Christmas.” Then she asked if Elder Tagg and I would give her a blessing. Elder Tagg anointed her head with oil. As we both laid our hands upon her head, I poured my heart out to the Lord in prayer that she would soon be well. Later that night she went into surgery. Christmas Eve she died.
When I learned the news, I wanted to pray but I could not. I had had so much love, so much hope, so much faith—and yet she had died. I wondered about many things that foggy Christmas Eve.
Sister Guest, the Relief Society president, had two weeks earlier invited all four of us who served as missionaries in Hull to come at noon on Christmas day for a goose dinner. On Christmas morning at about 11:00 the two other elders came from their home some four miles away to the place where my companion and I lived. The plan was that Elder Tagg and I would go on with them to the dinner. We were all greatly saddened by the passing of Sister Deyes but we knew that she would want us to go.
My cold had indeed worsened and the two elders who hadn’t seen me for a few days commented on my apparent ill health. After discussing the matter with Elder Tagg we decided that I shouldn’t go out into the damp air. Brother Deyes was at home and I said I’d stay with him. The others agreed and soon the three of them were gone.
A grieving Brother Deyes wished to be allowed to remain in solitude, so I was left to myself. It was Christmas day and I was more alone than I’d ever been and more alone than I thought anyone else had ever been.
There were no gifts. There were no cards. There was no Christmas tree. There were no carols. There was nothing. The silence of the room was broken only by the mechanical working of the clock. It was now just past eleven o’clock in the morning of the saddest day of my life and it was Christmas.
I moved closer to the fireplace, which was the only source of heat. The glowing embers seemed to be trying to act as my private Christmas lights. Resenting their attempt to brighten my soul, I picked up the nearby metal poker and prodded at each burning piece of coal to crush out its glow.
I lowered my head and cradled it in my left hand. I sat that way until a clock striking the hour brought me back from where I had been. It was noon.
The room was growing colder now. I arose and poured some coal onto the few embers that remained. Now the fire gave off no heat because the new coals had covered the hot ones. I pulled my chair closer to the fireplace. Almost accidentally I looked on the mantel and there I saw my Bible. I stood and reached out and grasped it and sat back down. I really didn’t want to read. I was far too sad to read. Yet at the same time, as a new missionary, I needed to know so much. The others knew so much and I seemed to know so little.
It wouldn’t hurt to read a little—just a page or two. I opened the book beyond the middle and found my eyes focused on the words. “The gospel according to St. Matthew.”
I didn’t want to read I wanted to be home. With clenched fist I hit the open book and then shook my head almost as if I were saying “no” to every painful feeling that filled my sorrowed soul.
Because the pages were right in the line of my sight, I found myself staring at all the words at once. Without a conscious effort I focused on the first verse. I read, “The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.”
Like obedient servants my eyes continued reading the genealogy of Jesus, but my mind was not willing to let the words become thoughts. A few seconds later it was almost as if the words on the page forced my eyes and my mind to concentrate. Completely captive I read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.”
Placing the fingers of my left hand at the bottom of this sacred verse I looked up at the mantel above the fireplace but I really wasn’t looking at all. I wondered, What does this mean? How did it say it? I looked back at the page and read again, “She was found with child of the Holy Ghost.”
I felt an incredible sense of wonder. Somehow, through a process beyond my intellect, I sensed that what I had just read was among the most important truths ever known. My eyes lifted slightly and I read the entire verse again, this time in an audible whisper, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph …” I paused and wondered, What does espoused mean? I read on,” … before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.”
I knew I had heard all this before. But somehow I’d never really heard it with my heart.
To my mind my heart whispered, “So Mary is his mother, but Joseph isn’t his father.”
I noticed a small reference letter “I” near the words “of the Holy Ghost.” I looked at the appropriate footnote and read “Luke 1:35.” I rapidly turned the pages ahead and eagerly read, “And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.”
Letting the book rest in my lap, I stared at the coals in the fireplace, which were just now beginning to turn from black to orange. Gently I whispered, “The Son of God.” A surge of energy went up and down my spine as I felt my soul fill with light. In a louder voice and with pure knowledge I softly said, “Jesus Christ is the Son of God.” That thought caused me to sit more erect.
With half a smile, I turned back the pages to Matthew.
I read on until I came to the words, “… the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream.” I wondered, Are there really angels? And within my soul I heard the glorious message, “Yes, there are angels.”
A few seconds later I was in the midst of my own Christmas pageant. “Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
“Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.”
Again I let the book rest in my lap as my mind flooded with memories. I remembered when I had proudly taken the part of a wise man in the Christmas pageant. Because of that memory and the feelings of my heart, my face was now fully covered by a broad smile.
I read on, “… the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.
“When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.”
As I pictured in my mind that holy star, I could see my mother and father in the doorway looking at the newly decorated Christmas tree in our front room. I could hear my father reminding me, “George, don’t forget the star for the top of the tree.” That thought caused me to sit and just stare at the glowing embers. Oh, how I loved my father and mother, and for a few minutes I was at home with them.
I continued to read, “And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.”
The fire was now giving off a great warmth but it seemed that the greater fire burned within me. For, in my soul I knew that Jesus Christ was the Son of God, that he had been born in Bethlehem, that a star had shone over where he lay. As I continued to read, I knew that he was baptized in the waters of the Jordan, I knew that he was tempted of the devil but that he overcame all temptation. I knew that he was speaking and challenging me when he said, “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.” (Matt. 5:8.) Oh, how I longed to be pure in heart! Of all the goals of life, I could think of none that would be so desirable as to be pure in heart.
As I read every page, paragraph, line, and word of the book of Matthew, I could see and I could feel. As I read of his crucifixion, I remembered the words of the song, “Were you there when they crucified our Lord?” And I was, for as I read I was there and in my heart I trembled. As I read of his resurrection, I rejoiced. My soul was filled with hope as I finally read the last two verses of Matthew. I could almost hear his voice as he spoke directly to me:
“Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
“Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.”
Slowly I closed the book and with both hands I held it close to me. To myself I said, “Jesus Christ is the Son of God. There are angels. He did live and teach and love and perform miracles and was cruelly crucified and then he rose again. He is my Savior and this is his Church. I’m one of those he has sent forth. He is with me forever.”
As I sat there holding my Bible, it was late on Christmas afternoon. Never had I been so happy in such an inward way. On that glorious day I had found the one who is the heart of Christmas.
I had found him when I felt forgotten by my family and friends. I had found him when I felt the pain of being away from home. I had found him when the death of someone I loved had torn at my heart. I had found him when I felt hopeless. I had found him because in a sense I’d followed the star of Bethlehem. I had learned what so many have learned, that following the star, and never forgetting, is not always easy. Sometimes the nearer the star takes us to the stable and the garden and the cross, the more difficult the journey becomes.
That Christmas in England I learned that Christmas can be Christmas without a multitude of things. Colorful decorations, green-boughed trees, greeting cards, gifts, and Santa Claus each have their own special way of gladdening our senses and delighting our hearts. But Christmas cannot be Christmas without Christ. On that holy day uncontrollable circumstances had pushed all else aside and left me free to follow the star. On that day I learned that Christ does not just fit into Christmas. He is not just part of Christmas. Jesus Christ is Christmas. In the years since, I’ve learned that the pressures and selfish desires of life can push themselves between me and him. If I want to “not forget” the star, I must take the time to be alone with him. I must read of him, think of him, and pray to be near him. Then in the east I see the star. I follow it. I find him and when I do I feel free—free to let my soul soar into the realms of the sacred and indescribable joy that I found first in England many Christmases ago.

“I’m the only LDS person on the swim team. When this program came along, it seemed natural to set a goal in swimming. I frequently set goals in competitive swimming. I decided I wanted to work hard and swim the 100-meter freestyle in 1:06. I had been doing a 1:09. I worked and worked. When we had invitationals, I was in a relay and I did a 1:06:91. This helped my feeling of individual worth.”
Shawna UlmerLong Beach California East Stake

Recently, Sister Nelson and I enjoyed the beauty of tropical fish in a small private aquarium. Fish with vivid colors and of a variety of shapes and sizes darted back and forth. I asked the attendant nearby, “Who provides food for these beautiful fish?”
She responded, “I do.”
Then I asked, “Have they ever thanked you?”
She replied, “Not yet!”
I thought of some people I know who are just as oblivious to their Creator and their true “bread of life.”1 They live from day to day without an awareness of God and His goodness unto them.

Jason could almost feel the pebbly surface of the new basketball that would soon be in his hands. Just a few more cans and I can buy it, he thought as he turned the corner into the alley.
The sight of a short, skinny, bearded man looking through the trash bins behind the courthouse startled him back to reality. He didn’t want the man to see him, so he crouched behind a parked car. He had been collecting aluminum cans for the last three months and was going to turn them in to the recycling center to get the money for the basketball. Each day, Mr. Remington, the courthouse custodian, put a box of pop cans out in the alley for him.
The skinny man wore a lightweight jacket with a broken zipper. Underneath the jacket was a stained, hooded sweatshirt. There were holes in his tennis shoes, and he wasn’t wearing socks. Jason shivered when he thought about how cold the man must be.
The man continued sorting through the trash bins, pulling out bottles, newspapers, and old magazines and putting them in separate piles. He took a stack of magazines to an old bicycle that was leaning against the courthouse wall. The bike had high, V-shaped handlebars and a large wire basket on the front. The back tire rim was bent, and the two old tires didn’t match.
When the man was ready to go, he put the newspapers and bottles into a large garbage sack. As he got on his bike, Jason heard pop cans rattling inside the sack too. Jumping up, he yelled, “Hey! You can’t take those cans—they’re mine! Mr. Remington left them for me!”
The skinny man turned and stared at Jason. His lips were bluish gray, and his hands were shaking from the cold. “Finders, keepers, kid,” he said in a gruff voice, then rode out the other end of the alley.
Jason stared at the empty alley for a minute, wondering what to do. Then he ran around the courthouse and up the steps to the lobby, where it was warm. His dad was the county sheriff, and on days when he wasn’t busy, he met Jason in the lobby after school and drove him home in the police car. As Jason waited now, he thought about the man in the alley. Why was he going through the trash bins? Why wasn’t he wearing warm clothes? And why was he riding a bicycle in the middle of winter?
“Ready to go?” Jason turned to see his father standing behind him. He was a tall man who didn’t talk much.
“Somebody just stole the cans Mr. Remington put in the box for me,” Jason blurted out as they walked to the car. As they drove toward home, he told his father about the man in the alley.
“How many cans have you collected?”
“I have two big, green trash bags full of smashed ones, and with the cans I collect from the courthouse Christmas party next week, I’ll have enough to pay for my new basketball.”
“Well,” his father said, “you can get enough somewhere else—please don’t collect any more cans from the courthouse.”
“What? Those are my cans! Mr. Remington leaves them there for me!”
His father looked hurt. “Think about that poor man, Jason. If you can’t get cans somewhere else, you can earn money another way.” His father looked very serious as he repeated, “Think about it.”
Jason knew it was useless to argue. Hot tears began to well up in his eyes. He turned and stared out the police car window.
It was getting dark. The long shadows on the gray snow looked like strange dark animals playing tag with each other. I’ll think about it, all right, Jason thought to himself. Finders, keepers! He started to plan a way to get even with the man who had taken his cans.
They were almost home when the police radio came on. “This is County One,” his father said into the microphone. Jason was too upset to listen to what was being said. “Son,” his father said when he was through talking on the radio, “I have some business to take care of. Do you want to come with me?”
Jason kept staring out the window. “I guess so,” he said flatly.
The car turned sharply and headed toward the south side of town. Jason didn’t like this area; it made him nervous. Most of the houses were old and rundown. The stores didn’t have Christmas lights, and their parking lots were littered with trash. Cars had been left on the side of the road with their hoods up and their windshields broken. Jason began to wish that he hadn’t come along.
After going under a freeway overpass, they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house. In the front yard two men stood warming their hands over a fire in an old steel drum. The strong wind whipped the fire, and the light danced across the police car. The men’s shadows stretched across the house like grotesque giants. “Jason, I have to talk to some men. Stay in the car and keep the doors locked.”
As his father walked over to the two men and began talking, Jason wondered idly why the men were out on such a cold night. After a while, his father turned on a flashlight and went toward the house. Most of the windows had been broken out, and there were no lights on. Jason’s eyes followed the beam of light as it searched the house. Suddenly it lit up something familiar: On the front porch was the bike with the V-shaped handlebars! Jason sat up in his seat and pressed his face against the car window to see better.
Three men came out of the house and began talking to his father. Jason tried to see if the skinny man was in the group, but it was too dark to see their faces.
The icy wind began to blow harder. Gusts shook the car and drove snow into the house. Jason’s father talked a little while longer, then came back to the car. When the car door opened, a gust of cold air blasted Jason’s face with tiny, sharp snow crystals. He shivered as his father started the car.
“Dad, did you see him, the guy who took my cans?”
At first his father didn’t answer. They drove for about a mile before he said, “Jason, the man who took the cans is not as fortunate as we are. He doesn’t have a job and lives in that abandoned house. He buys food with the money he gets from selling what old newspapers and cans he’s able to collect. Do you understand?”
Jason looked up slowly and nodded. “I understand that you’re going to let him steal my cans.”
As soon as they pulled into their driveway, Jason opened the door. Before he could jump out, though, his father put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen,” his father said quietly, “I think that he needs the cans more than you do. But you’re a good boy, and you’re old enough to make some of your own choices. If you feel right about taking those cans, go ahead. It’s your decision.”
The day of the courthouse Christmas party, Jason got out of school early. “Finders, keepers, finders, keepers,” he said over and over as he ran to the courthouse. He thought about all the cans that Mr. Remington would put in the box and about how much they would be worth. He thought about the new basketball and about his father’s words. Then he thought about how surprised the skinny man was going to be when he found that Jason had arrived at the alley first.
He had never done anything like this before. His heart was pounding, and his stomach was in knots. “Finders, keepers,” he repeated as he looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. He turned the corner and went into the courthouse alley.
Twenty minutes later the skinny man wheeled his bike into the alley. Jason was hiding in a doorway, his feet and hands aching from the cold. The man went to where the box of cans was kept. He stood quietly for a moment when he saw that the box was empty. Then he reached down and picked up two large green trash bags with red Christmas bows on them.
As the man opened the first bag, Jason heard the unmistakable clink of smashed pop cans. The sound sent a warm rush through his body, and he felt wonderful. Finders, keepers, Jason thought. Finders, keepers!

My family joined the Church in 1977, when I was 11 years old. At that time a violent civil war was beginning in our native land of El Salvador. The political situation was serious, and there were constant armed confrontations between the army and the rebels, forcing the government to order a curfew of 6:00 p.m. for all citizens. There was no freedom of assembly or freedom of speech, and we felt threatened by both the army and the rebels.
These events caused many people to look for ways to emigrate to wherever they could. My family was no exception. My father accepted an offer of employment in Venezuela, hoping he could get us out of danger. For a time my mother was left as the head of our household.
The war made it a difficult time for the Church. The same flight that took my father to Venezuela took the last 15 missionaries out of El Salvador. This meant the end of any chance to receive the messengers of the gospel of Jesus Christ for a long time.
At the end of 1979 we and other members of the Church, especially the youth, began doing missionary work of our own. We organized small choirs and sang in the streets to give people hope. By doing this we found many people wanting to learn about the gospel.
Meanwhile we learned to live in danger. Whenever the confrontations or shelling occurred, we threw ourselves on the floor and hoped it would all be over soon. Mama would cover us with our mattresses for protection. What brought peace to us in these difficult moments were the hymns. Lying on the floor, we would hold our hymnbooks, and Mama would encourage us to sing “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30), “How Firm a Foundation” (no. 85), “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (no. 26), “High on the Mountain Top” (no. 5), “O My Father” (no. 292), “I Stand All Amazed” (no. 193), and many other hymns that comforted us in our adversity. We often cried from the stress, but singing the hymns gave us the courage to face such a terrible situation.
Some time later Papa succeeded in bringing us to Venezuela, where we began a new life. We thanked our Heavenly Father for keeping us together and alive. Through this experience, I learned that the hymns invite a spirit of peace during difficult times.
Ana Gloria Hernández de Abzuela, Venezuela

The sun peeked in at the window. Anna and Josh jumped out of bed.
“Let’s be secret helpers today,” Anna said.
Anna and Josh made their beds.
They put on their clothes and put their pajamas away.
Josh got milk out of the fridge. He took bananas and apples out of the basket.
Anna put a loaf of bread and a jar of jam on the table.
Mommy and Daddy came into the kitchen.
“Surprise!” said Anna and Josh. “Breakfast is ready!”
“It looks delicious!” Mommy said.
Daddy gave Anna and Josh a big hug.

Permit me to give just a personal reference to this principle. Back in the 1940s, my younger brother received a mission call to New England, and (without running through all the details which really don’t matter), he was sent to a little community in Nova Scotia called Kentville. There he labored for most of his mission. As some elders and missionaries do, he came home seemingly a failure if you count the number of people he baptized. You are familiar with the situation of elder brothers teasing their younger brothers when what they do has little or no results. I constantly reminded him of how unproductive his mission was. Twenty years later, almost to the day, I, his older brother, was called to preside over the same mission. In my first district conference at Halifax, Nova Scotia, a little lady came up to me after the first session. She said, “Elder Dunn, Elder Dunn, do you have a brother by the name of David?”
And I said, “I believe I do.”
And she said, “Was he on a mission in New England?”
I said, “He was.”
And then (missionaries will appreciate this) she opened her purse and shuffled through all her pictures. She lifted one out and said, “Is that he?”
I said, “Twenty years ago, that was he.”
“Oh,” she said, “where is he?”
I said, “He’s in southern California.”
“Oh, I’d like to communicate with him. He’s responsible for bringing me into the Church.”
I said, “No, ma’am, you’re mistaken. My brother didn’t bring anybody into the Church.”
“Oh,” she said, “I hate to correct you, sir, but—.” Then she called six other people over, all with great families, who happened to be the backbone of the district at Halifax. And she said, “All of these are because of your brother. We thank God for him.”
Out of small things great things shall proceed.

I had found the path I had been looking for. I knew I had a Heavenly Father who had given me talents and wanted me to develop them. I found myself loved by people who accepted me the way I was and who taught me how to grow as a person, as a mother, and as a wife. I knew that I had a Father who expected something from me and that I could no longer hide behind my shyness.
I began to learn and progress. I fulfilled several callings in the Church. Through the Relief Society, I learned many things that have helped me grow materially and spiritually. I have participated in dances, theater, and choir. I have organized programs. I have learned several crafts, and now I am studying music.
Today I am nearly 60 years old and currently serve as education counselor in the stake Relief Society presidency. My husband and I also serve in the São Paulo Temple. I am still shy, but I don’t hide myself when I am doing God’s work. The Church has taught me that in the eyes of God there are no inadequate people.

I have been a witness, a personal witness, to this wondrous process. I give you my testimony that it is the Lord who selected Ezra Taft Benson to become a member of the Council of the Twelve almost forty-three years ago. It is the Lord who over these years has tested and disciplined him, schooled and prepared him. At the death of the prophet he was ready, not of his own choice nor of his own design. He was called, set apart, and ordained November tenth last.

I went off to school that fall. I was on the track team, and though I was not a star that year, I ran straight and hard. When I came home that summer, I had an interview with my bishop to begin the work of serving a mission. It didn’t take place in a bishop’s office, but in a blue, two-story home in south San Francisco. I sat on the edge of a bed, and the bishop pulled close his favorite old chair. He seemed a little hesitant. His eyes were wet.
“Tom, you are a Rosa,” he began. “And you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Yes.”
“If you honor your family, you will honor your church. If you honor your church, you will honor your family.”
“I understand that.”
After asking me the normal missionary interview questions, he concluded, “You will do good. You will be a fine missionary.”
Then he told me to go help Mom in the kitchen. I looked back at him as I left. His hair was mostly gray now, and his arms were not as thickly muscled as before. He sat in his chair and stared out the window at ten thousand sparkling lights on the hillside across the bay from our home. I wondered if he knew how proud I was to be his son and how much it meant to me to share his good name. I walked downstairs realizing that all those years I had been running, my father had been growing, and I would never lack for someone to look up to.

Will the Guiness Book of World Records ever believe that a 230-page novel was authored in just 30 hours? If they don’t, they can ask Dale Van Atta, from Rochester, New York, managing editor of the Brigham Young University Daily Universe. Dale spent a grueling weekend in a downtown Provo store window producing the literary wonder to help raise money for an addition to the student library.
The ordeal began at 4:00 P.M. Friday, February 16, as Dale drew from a hat three story ideas submitted by the public. From these he chose to write on the trials of a POW during captivity and his reunion with his family and friends.
With the release of American prisoners making national headlines, Dale surprised everyone by approaching the story from a different angle. As completed pages were hung in the window by assistants, it became clear that the hero was no ordinary POW, but a mercenary captured during a domestic dispute in Argentina.
“I didn’t know enough about Vietnam and POWs so I chose Argentina,” Dale explained between pages. “I don’t know much about Argentina either, but then neither does anyone else.” He grinned.
Early Saturday morning Dale’s nimble fingers gave out on him, and a staff of typists were called in to record his dictation.
Ten o’clock Saturday night arrived and the world’s fastest novel was complete. As a result of his 30-hour stunt, Dale garnered over $1,200 for the student library fund.

In late October 1991, Elder James E. Faust (1920-2007) of the Quorum of the Twelve dedicated Uganda, Kenya, and Zimbabwe for the preaching of the gospel and the establishment of the Church.
The next day, 24 October, Elder Faust, Elder Lindsay, and President Larry Brown of the Kenya Nairobi Mission traveled to Nairobi, Kenya, where more than one hundred Church members gathered for the outdoor service.
In the dedicatory prayer, Elder Faust said, “We acknowledge this as a blessed land.” The prayer contained references to Kenya’s beauty, grandeur, and abundant plant and animal life.
He also prayed that the Saints might have access to a temple—a prayer that was answered in April 2017 when President Thomas S. Monson (1927-2018) announced that there would be a temple built in Nairobi.

Second, prior to the creation of the Toronto Ontario Stake in 1960, Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Council of the Twelve, recounted for the benefit of priesthood leaders a lesson from his own life when he was called to preside over the East Cache Stake in Logan, Utah. He mentioned that he and his counselors met to discuss what the stake members most needed and which principles of the gospel the stake presidency should stress. Their opinions varied from sacrament meeting attendance to observance of the Sabbath day, with a lot of territory in between. At length they agreed that the principle most needed was spirituality. They appreciated the truth found in the observation: When one deals in generalities, he will rarely have a success; but when he deals in specifics, he will rarely have a failure.
The four-year plan of President Christiansen and his counselors was refined in a splendid fashion. Year one: We shall increase the spirituality of the membership of the East Cache Stake by every family having family prayer. Year two: We shall increase the spirituality of the membership of the East Cache Stake by every member attending sacrament meeting weekly. Year three: We shall increase the spirituality of the membership of the East Cache Stake by each member paying an honest tithing. Year four: We shall increase the spirituality of the membership of the East Cache Stake by each member honoring the Sabbath day and keeping it holy. Each was the theme for the entire year; emphasis was given constantly.
After the four-year program was concluded, all four of the specific objectives had been attained, but of even greater significance, the spirituality of the membership of the East Cache Stake had shown marked improvement.

I felt scared to try a new food, so I said a prayer. I know Heavenly Father helped me be brave to try it.
Olivia C., age 4, Tennessee, USA

In her 50s she moved in with her daughter’s family, and Leonie faithfully continued to serve and to love. As one grandson remembers, “There was never a Christmas, an Easter or a birthday when all of the grandchildren [didn’t] received something from Nana. She never forgot . . . we all knew through her kindness and actions that she loved each and every one of us.”

“I think the Lord has a special purpose for us, and that’s why we are growing so fast,” says President Soulé. “We have learned that when we obey, the Lord will tell us what to do. We feel his love, and we will do his will.
Once I was at a business meeting, and I didn’t drink. One of our potential clients said, ‘If you don’t drink, we won’t do business with you.’ I thought a minute, and then I said to him, ‘Maybe I don’t want to do business with someone who thinks that what is in my glass is more important than what I can do.’ I thought he was angry, but the next day he called me and said they wanted to do business only with me because I wasn’t afraid to stand up for what I believed. When we know what is right, we should do it, no matter what.”