Gospel Story Finder

Three weeks after my baptism and confirmation, Bishop Ayala interviewed me and asked how I was progressing. I replied, “Very well. I have finished reading the Book of Mormon for the second time. I’m also reading the Gospel Principles manual so I can learn more and put into practice what I’m reading.”
Then he said, “Your Heavenly Father is mindful of you and is calling you to be a Sunday School teacher for the youth ages 14 to 17.”
Immediately I realized that several of the youth in the class, who were just a few years younger than I was, had been raised in the Church and knew the gospel better than I did.
I said to him, “I’m not ready for this kind of an assignment.”
The bishop replied, speaking very deliberately, “Roberto, Heavenly Father is the one extending this calling to you. He knows your abilities and your faithfulness.”
“I’m simply not prepared. I need more time,” I persisted.
The bishop looked straight into my eyes and said serenely but in a strong voice, “If you feel you can’t accept this calling, you shouldn’t tell me. Kneel down and tell your Heavenly Father. He will answer you, and I will accept your decision.”
A prolonged silence followed. Then, looking at me the way a father looks at his son, he said, “Roberto, this isn’t a church of cowards; it is a church of courageous people.”
My heart was suddenly contrite. With tears in my eyes and a voice filled with emotion, I said, “Bishop, when do I start?”
He embraced me, slapped me on the back, and said, “I’m going to help you prepare your first lesson this week.”
I was filled with joy to know that Heavenly Father had given me such a special leader, a bishop who taught not only by word but by example.
I remembered this experience often during my mission and while serving in other callings. I think of it now and feel grateful to Heavenly Father to be a member of the Lord’s Church.
Roberto Carlos Pacheco Pretel, Peru

I love to read books that show temples from around the world. When I had a friend ask me about temples, I knew that my explanation wasn’t enough to help her understand. So I brought my books on temples and showed her what the temple is, the purpose of the temple, and how thankful we are to visit the temple. I decided to invite her to church on Sunday, where the missionaries and Sunday School teachers could help her learn more.
Jessica A., age 18, Indonesia

Two examples will illustrate what I mean. On a 1997 flight across the Atlantic to attend a scientific conference in Aberdeen, Scotland, I sat immediately behind two women. At some point during the long flight they began conversing in good English, tinged with some sort of European accent I couldn’t quite place. Their conversation was rather loud because of the jet engines, and although I should have done my best not to listen in, I confess that they caught my attention, and what they said still does. They spoke critically of Americans for lack of depth in their relationships with people.

One said, “The first thing that an American wants to know about a person who has just been introduced is what the person does for a living.”

“Yes,” concurred the other, “that seems to form their basis for personal judgments. They aren’t interested in who a person really is beyond his occupation.”

As I pondered their evaluation, I found myself realizing, uncomfortably, that they might be more right than I wanted to admit. For much of the remainder of the flight I pondered these two questions: (1) Beyond those aspects of my life that are connected with my work at BYU, who am I? and (2) Isn’t what I am more than merely what I do? The intellectual answers to those questions are easy. The operational answers can be challenging.

As I earlier stated, I learned to observe the Sabbath day from my parents. I grew up on a large farm where we had animals to feed and care for, cows to milk, and vegetables to pick, harvest, and market. It would have been very easy for our family to break the Sabbath day. Although we attended to the essential chores—such as feeding the animals and milking the cows, taking the water turns when they came, and preparing our large trucks with harvested and packed fresh fruits and vegetables for a 4:00 a.m. Monday departure for market—we never did other farm work on Sunday. Our tractors were turned off, and no plowing, planting, or cultivating was done on the Sabbath. We never hauled in the hay before a coming storm. My parents had a very simple philosophy: “The day we violate the Sabbath day and have to miss our Sunday meetings to care for the farm is the day we sell the farm.” As I grew up, married, and had a family of my own, my wife and I taught these same principles to our children.

After joining the Church, we decided to create Christmas traditions for our family that would focus less on materialism and more on Heavenly Father’s love for His children, embodied in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Aside from the tradition of decorating our home with a tree and garlands, each year our family holds a series of family home evenings to help us remember the Savior. For these meetings, we have compiled a book of our favorite Christmas songs and various drawings for the children. On the first Monday of December, we talk about the origin of Christmas, its symbols, and the ways people celebrate Jesus Christ’s birth around the world. We also read a favorite Christmas message from the Liahona of December 1986, the year my wife, Vani, and I were married. On the second Monday, we read from a favorite book about Christmas. On the third Monday, we read and discuss the First Presidency Message from the current Liahona.
The most special day of the month for us is 24 December. We invite friends and our extended family to our home for dinner and a Christmas program. In the program, the children present a musical number, we read the story of Christ’s birth, and I give a Christmas message I have prepared. We then enjoy a wonderful dinner my wife has prepared.
In these and many other ways, we have created family traditions to help us celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus Christ.
Antonio Carlos Pedrosa dos Santos,Visconde de Araújo First Branch, Macaé Brazil District

“When I was young, I felt a lot like you do right now. I wanted to do something really important in my life.
“My pa, your great-grandfather, died when I was about your age. This old Bible was his. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I opened it and for the first time noticed certain scriptures he’d underlined. One in particular made me do some hard thinking. I thought you might like to read it.”
He handed the old Bible to me. It was opened to the second chapter of Luke. I recognized it immediately as the Christmas story. In the light from the fire I could see that the pages were yellowed and wrinkled from years of use. My eyes went to the underlined verses, and I read: “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. …”
As I read on, the familiar words began to take on new meaning. At last I closed the book and carefully handed it back to my grandpa.
He fingered it lovingly. “My pa was a sheepman, and his pa before him,” he said. “I’m proud to have followed in their footsteps.”
Grandpa rose then and left me. I sat alone for a long time, gazing up at the sky. Those were the same stars that had shone that night so long ago, along with that one very special star.
The rest of that summer passed swiftly, and before I knew it, I was back in school. My friends teased me a lot about being a sheepherder, but I didn’t let it bother me. I knew something they’d probably never know.
Not long before Christmas Grandpa had another heart attack, and a few days later he died. I was devastated. Never again would I be able to go with him to the summer sheep camp.
Christmas morning at our house was quieter than usual because we were all thinking about Grandpa. I, for one, knew I’d never forget him. As we gathered around the tree, Dad handed me a package. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I wasn’t in the mood for presents. I think he could tell, because he urged me to open it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was the old Bible. Inside was a brief note from Grandpa. “I thought you might like this,” was all it said. So simple, and so like him.
As I stared at it, I had the feeling that Grandpa was there, watching me, waiting for my reaction. I smiled and pressed the Bible close to me. There were other presents waiting under the tree for me, but I knew none of them would top Grandpa’s Bible.

I remember, early in the days of nuclear engineering, when we were experimenting to confirm some of the hypotheses. One day I was in an area where a swimming pool had been built, and down deep in it were aluminum plates with uranium-aluminum contents arrayed. Three of us were taking turns at the controls, and I remember the thrill of excitement that came to me as we moved the control rods. I happened to be at the control panel when the count-rate meter indicated that the reactor had gone critical; and as I looked down into the pool I could see that shirinkoff radiation, the iridescent blue indicating that in fact there was a controlled chain reaction. That may not appear much to you now with today’s familiarity with physics, but it was a scientific thrill for me.

Later, we experimentally measured cross-sections of materials to determine their nuclear constants. We used a beam of high-energy neutrons from one of the graphite pile reactors, deflecting it with a crystal into experimental apparatus. A young janitor approached the experiment evidencing total disdain for what we were doing. He did not understand it nor did he want to understand it. In kind of an accusatory way he indicated that we were just wasting time, kidding people, doing that which had no real meaning. To show his disdain he reached up to touch the crystal that deflected the beam and to whirl it. Had he not been stopped, that powerful, dangerous beam of high-energy neutrons would have sprayed the room. His if-you-can’t-see-it-taste-it-smell-it-feel-it-hear-it-then-it-doesn’t-exist attitude is all too prevalent in the world today when we talk about things of God, things that really matter.

Ever since Jenna was a tiny girl, her family could see that she spoke a language all her own. Whenever she described something that happened, she couldn’t help moving her body with each sentence, making the words seem bigger and brighter as they took on an energy unique to Jenna. Her movements were graceful and dramatic. No one was surprised when she started dance classes with her best friend Lisa and came home talking as if she had found heaven.
“I love to dance, Mom. I love it more than chocolate ice cream and more than the best birthday surprise!” Jenna declared.
“I knew you were a dancer at heart,” Mom said as Jenna spun around and threw her arms around her mother’s waist, swaying as they hugged and laughed.
Jenna and Lisa worked hard in dance class. They never missed a session, and they stayed after class as long as possible to work on new moves and perfect their technique, watching themselves in the mirrors that covered the walls of the studio. Their teacher was very impressed.
“I don’t do this very often, girls,” she said to them after class one day. “But I think you two could perform one of the advanced-class dance numbers we’ll be doing for the Christmas Showcase.”
Jenna and Lisa thanked their teacher and smiled with delight. When they were outside in the parking lot, they began cheering, hugging, and jumping up and down.
“We did it, Lisa! I can’t believe this! We did it, we did it!” Jenna shouted.
Lisa’s mom rolled down the car window. “What’s up, you two?”
“Mom, you aren’t going to believe this! Our teacher just said we get to perform one of the advanced dances for the Christmas Showcase!” Lisa was beaming as she and Jenna leaped into the car.
“Well, I’m not a bit surprised. I know you two will be wonderful,” Lisa’s mom said. “You’ve been working so hard.”
And they kept working hard. Jenna and Lisa found every possible opportunity to practice and perfect each leap and every twist of the head down to the exact timing until even the top dance students in their class were impressed.
“How are you feeling about the dance performance?” Jenna’s mom asked one day as they got in the car after class.
“Fabulous,” Lisa said, grinning.
“Couldn’t be better,” chimed in Jenna. But after they dropped Lisa off at her house Jenna grew quiet.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t want to seem like a goody-goody, but …”
“What is it, honey?” Mom encouraged.
“Well, we got the costumes today that we’ll be wearing for the advanced dance number, and they’re not very modest. Then when we rehearsed the dance in the costumes, I realized that the moves, the music, and now the costumes are not something I would want you and Dad or my little brothers and sister to see. I sure couldn’t perform the dance if someone like the prophet were there watching.”
As the words came out, Jenna’s eyes filled with tears. She had always been taught to listen to the feelings in her heart, and this choice would not be an easy one. “What will Lisa think of me? What can I say to our dance teacher?” she wondered.
“I’m so glad you want to do what is right,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father will help you know how.”
That night before bed, Jenna prayed that Heavenly Father would give her the courage to stand up for what she knew was right. She also prayed that she would know the right words to use.
During school lunch the next day she asked Lisa if they could talk. They went to a quiet place and sat on a bench.
“Lisa, I don’t know how to say this, but … ” Jenna’s voice was shaky and she was looking down at her fingers. “I don’t feel good about performing in the advanced dance number. It’s just too, well, too … ”
She heard a sniff from Lisa and looked up. Lisa’s eyes were red. “I’ve been thinking about how to tell you the same thing,” Lisa said. They hugged and cried a little more, then marched to their classroom with their arms around each other’s shoulders. It was good to have a friend who understood.
It wasn’t easy for Jenna and Lisa to talk to their dance teacher, especially when she said, “We’re dancing the most up-to-date dances from the top dance companies in the nation. If you want to be dancers, this is the kind of thing you have to be willing to do.”
It was even harder when their teacher announced to the class that there would be a change in the advanced dance number. There were sneers from some of the other dancers. But Lisa was right by Jenna’s side. And more importantly, they both felt Heavenly Father’s love and knew they were doing the right thing.

“Since I am the oldest with all sisters, we have lots of dolls without too many doll clothes. I started designing and making doll clothes for my sisters. Then for this project, I decided to try to make a dress from a pattern. I made a pink dress for my littlest sister, Molly Sue, with a fluffy skirt that she can twirl. It turned out really well and made me feel good about trying. I wanted to know that I could do it to increase my feelings of individual worth.”
Stephanie HowardNephi Utah Stake

Before I came to teach at BYU, I—like many of you—had decisions before me as to which major to choose and, eventually, what to do with my life after graduation. I am thankful for prayer and for the inspiration that came through the Holy Ghost. When answers about which path to pursue did not come in the time I had hoped for, I learned to rely on faith and trust in God that whatever decision I moved forward with, He would guide me differently if that path was not the one I should take.

In my undergraduate years I initially started out in one major. However, in my second year, after receiving mostly C grades in a couple of courses for my major, I thought that I should be doing better in my major. I began seeking other avenues. In the university’s career center I searched through a book for potential career options. I stumbled across a description of a pediatric nutritionist. I became more excited as I read, and I felt that this might be my answer. I recalled taking a nutrition course in high school and thoroughly enjoying the class. After meeting with the academic counselor for nutrition science, I decided to switch majors. Given my current faculty position, you can probably guess that this major stuck. The course content was exciting to study, and I felt like I couldn’t wait to learn more in each class.

Looking back, I have been able to identify what made the difference, and this realization is the advice I share with students when they mention trying to decide on a major: find your passion and then work hard at it.

As the leaders grew in faith through the cycles of opposition and deliverance followed by more opposition, so did the people. One was my great-grandmother, Mary Bommeli, a little black-eyed, teenage convert from Switzerland when she crossed the plains. I recently stood in the area of her childhood. I had always pictured it as on the side of an alp, but I was wrong. It is in the green rolling hills of northern Switzerland, with rich farmland and productive vineyards. I wish we had been able to find the house where the missionaries taught her and her family and where they all came to know that the gospel of Jesus Christ and the kingdom of God had been restored and where they chose to give their lives to the kingdom—the older boys to go on missions and the rest to gather to America to build Zion. They left a beautiful place of safety for the unknown.

Mary chose to let the others go first without her. She knew she could make the money for passage with her weaving but that the others could not. She chose to let them go on missions and to America using all the money they could get from selling all they owned. She went alone from city to city weaving cloth for women, trusting in God. She also got herself arrested for preaching the gospel where it was illegal in Germany because she could not contain the good news within her.

She got to America, joined a pioneer company, and walked across the plains. She described that crossing on foot as one of the happiest times of her life. On that walk she met a returning missionary, Henry Eyring. They went in front of the wagon train to be clear of the dust. They described that trek not as a trial but as a time of joy as they told each other what a remarkable chance was theirs to have been found by the servants of God and to be allowed to help build the kingdom of God in the last days. They fell in love. For them, that passage was not a trial but a time of refreshing, of refuge. They chose to see in it a respite, he from his five-year mission and she from working her way alone from Switzerland. It was their youthful faith that made it a romantic stroll.

For Mary and for Henry, the trials began in the promised land. After their marriage, only Mary’s weaving kept them from starvation. Henry was university-trained in Germany but ignorant of the skills needed to pioneer in the wilderness. They built a small home. Neither of them knew how to make adobe bricks. When the rains came, the roof leaked and then a wall collapsed. It fell on Mary, who was pregnant with their first child. Only the remarkable fact that her loom protected her from the falling bricks saved her from greater harm. But the child she was carrying was injured. He was born with physical handicaps from which he was delivered only by death.

With ceaseless labor and prayers they began to rise from poverty, in Davis County and in Salt Lake City. But that time of peace was cut short. President Brigham Young suggested that they move to St. George. They went to the unknown again, built homes, planted gardens, and served in the kingdom. Henry became the mayor of St. George for a time, a counselor in the stake presidency, and manager of the cooperative store. They helped build the St. George Temple, and Mary found joy in officiating there for twelve years. She wrote of that service as if she had felt the peace the Lord promised when he commanded that a temple be built long before.

But Mary heard what she considered a call from an apostle to move on from that time of peace. It was suggested that they join in the establishment of the Mormon colonies in northern Mexico. They went believing that the Lord would sustain them in his service. As nearly as I can sense from what they wrote about the move, they trusted that this promise applied to them:

There I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up. [D&C 84:88]

They saw more safety going forward to unknown service in the kingdom than in staying with the known and the comfortable. They left what had become for them a Zion to help the Lord build another—not out of blind obedience, since they were invited and not called, but in faith that the wisest course for them was to go where they might best build the kingdom.

In Mexico the pattern of deliverance repeated itself for them. In time they were blessed with homes and gardens. Henry went away on a mission to the south in Mexico, as he had previously done from Utah to Germany, and he built up the cooperative store in Colonia Juarez as he had in St. George. Mary again gave tireless service in Relief Society. Their work and their faith again brought a taste of the peace that will be in the city of Zion. And then Henry died. The Mexican Revolution came. Mary and her family walked away from all they had built as they made their exodus to the United States. She died a widow, a refugee from that idyllic time in Mexico, yet full of faith in the destiny of the kingdom of God and in its head, Jesus Christ, as her deliverer.

Losing my mother when I was 10 was the most difficult moment of my life. My pain was deep and overwhelming. My life became confused, and I could not focus on school. Worse, my father was not around either. I was completely alone. I had no perspective and didn’t know how to move forward with my life. I was unprepared to manage the grief and pain of living without my mom. I had to learn to do everything on my own and I especially had to learn to defend myself from bad influences around me.
Today, thinking back on those times, I know I was never alone. I always had my Heavenly Father by my side. As a child, I attended an all-girls Catholic school, and the nuns were of immense help to me, teaching me how to make good choices. They taught me to love God, to believe in Him, and most of all, to trust Him.

I was visiting a friend on the west side a few weeks ago. We had plans to swim with dolphins, as we both loved water photography. I had visions in my mind of the bright sun and crystal clear blue water with hundreds of dolphins swimming around me. I was imagining the perfect shot of a dolphin spinning out of the water and a baby dolphin close behind with the sun raging in the right of the picture, and a perfect rainbow to top it off. I was stoked. I woke up early, traveled out there for this perfect moment, looked for the dolphin boats as they were an indication of where we needed to be. But there were none, and it was overcast and raining.

My friend Alika, in his humble pigeon accent, said, “Braddah Marc, why are you bummed? If you only look for the perfect moments in life, you have lost your passion for the ocean. Have faith. Mother Nature always provides, even in bad conditions.”

He was right. We got in the water and, even though I didn't see what I wanted, we were still blessed with beautiful water, fish, honu and a shark. It was a great day. As we were leaving and dropping my friend home, he said, “Marc, thank you for adding value to my life.”

This statement has had a profound impact on me; it was so deep. How is it that I added value to his life? I was the negative one and he was the one who I felt added so much value to my life with what he had been teaching me, with his example of faith and a positive attitude.

Illustration by Brad Teare
“Oh no! Here comes Pedro!”
Everyone at school knew that Pedro was a bully. He was big, and he was mean! He called other kids names, took their lunches, and chased them around the school yard. No one wanted to be around him.
Pedro walked by Lucas and his friend Arthur. He called them “losers” and pushed Arthur.
Lucas was tired of Pedro being so mean. Without even thinking, he shouted, “Stop it, Pedro!”
Lucas couldn’t believe it. He’d just stood up to the biggest bully in school!
Pedro stormed up to Lucas and grabbed his shirt. “What did you say?” Lucas’s heart beat so fast it felt like it would jump out of his chest! “I’ll give you one warning,” Pedro said. “But you’d better watch out!” He shoved Lucas and walked away.
After that, Lucas did his best to avoid Pedro, but Pedro always found him. He kept Lucas off the swings, pushed him during dodgeball, tripped him in the cafeteria, and always said mean things.
One day Lucas and Arthur were playing with Arthur’s soccer ball. Pedro jumped out from behind a tree and grabbed it.
“Please give it back,” said Arthur.
“Who’s going to make me?” Pedro pushed Lucas and laughed.
Lucas could feel his stomach twist in knots. He was so angry! “You know what, Pedro?” Lucas said. “You’re the meanest kid I know! Nobody likes you. Everyone wishes you’d go away!”
Pedro stopped laughing. Lucas felt great about what he said … until he saw the look on Pedro’s face. Was he about to cry? Pedro quickly looked down and walked away.
Lucas instantly felt terrible. For the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tried, Lucas couldn’t get rid of the terrible feeling. That night, he tossed and turned in bed. He kept thinking about how sad Pedro had looked.
How could Pedro feel bad? Lucas thought. He doesn’t care if he’s mean to other kids. I had to say something, right? The more Lucas thought about it, the more he realized he was right to stand up for himself and his friend. But he was wrong to say those mean things.
Lucas knelt by his bed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive him. He told Heavenly Father that he never wanted to hurt anyone like that ever again. He wanted to be kind. When Lucas said “amen,” he knew what he had to do.
After lunch the next day, Lucas found Pedro standing against a wall by himself. Lucas was nervous. What would Pedro do? Lucas took a deep breath and walked over.
“Um, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Pedro looked surprised. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I said some really mean things to you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
Pedro stared down at his shoes. “It’s OK.”
The bell rang. Lucas started walking back to class. He felt so much better. But there was one more thing he wanted to say. He turned back around. “We could play soccer at recess tomorrow if you want.”
A small smile crossed Pedro’s face. “That sounds good.”
After that, things got better with Pedro. He was still a bully sometimes, but he wasn’t as mean. He even played with Lucas a few times at recess. And it was actually fun! At the end of the school year, Pedro told Lucas that he was moving away. Then he said something that really surprised Lucas.
“Thanks for being my friend,” Pedro said. “Even when I wasn’t nice.”
The warm feeling in Lucas’s heart let him know that being kind is always the right choice.

When I began high school, I was a shy and timid teenager. I set goals to combat my shyness and even decided to run for class president.
Running for office represented everything that frightened me, including speaking in front of my peers and setting myself up for possible failure. But after I survived the primary elections and became a final candidate, my confidence began to grow and I found myself actually enjoying the experience. What I didn’t know was that I was about to experience a much different challenge.
The day before the final elections I stayed after school to hang up a few campaign posters. As I rounded a corner, I was shocked and hurt to see one of my election opponents and her friend tearing down my posters and leaving them strewn on the floor. In anger I reached up to tear down one of her posters. But then I remembered another goal I had set for myself, a goal to be more like the Savior. What would He want me to do?
I dropped my hands and strode up to my opponent. She tensed and was ready for a confrontation. I surprised her by wishing her luck in the election. Blushing, she whispered, “Thank you” as I walked away.
Looking back on that incident now, I’m glad I didn’t follow my first impulse to retaliate. Tearing down my opponent’s posters would only have caused contention and cost me my self-respect. Christ’s example isn’t always easy to follow, but if we strive to do so we can avoid painful mistakes.
I did end up winning that election. But even if I hadn’t, I would still be able to look back on the choice I made that day in the hallway without regret.

One such event for me involved a small boy. He was perhaps the ugliest child I had seen up until then. He was tied into a chair with a wide band of white bed sheet. His head lolled from side to side, and he drooled onto a bib tied around his neck. His face contorted into grimaces and his thin, matchstick arms flailed the air without control. I stood in the doorway, and, in spite of myself, I stared.

He was alone in the room, tied in that chair with a large white tray in front of him. On the tray was a jumble of children’s building blocks. The little boy was building something with those blocks. The structure took shape slowly as he carefully focused his rolling eyes on the block he needed; and then, with a concentration that made his entire body rigid with effort, he controlled his flinging arms and hands to reach for the block.

He’d aim for the block, reach, and overshoot. Aim again and again and finally, with a lunge, capture the block and grasp it in jerking, clawlike fingers. Then the block was lifted with intense concentration, finally wavering spasmodically into place. The entire structure tottered dangerously as the new block landed.

I found myself watching in fascination as the structure grew, my own body becoming rigid as he reached for each block, grasped it, lifted it slowly and carefully, and dropped it into place. I was beginning to turn blue when I realized that I was holding my breath with each block as the structure tottered and threatened to fall over.

The structure grew slowly and with such great, great difficulty that I found myself sweating the effort of watching. Yet I knew, somehow, that I couldn’t and shouldn’t try to help. It grew and grew into walls and parapets and minarets until at last the capstone was ready to set into place.

The final triangular block that would top the west tower was moving into place when the arm that moved it gave a sudden, convulsive jerk, and the hand that held the block struck the lower wall of the great structure. It came down with a clatter and a crash as the blocks tumbled across the tray and spilled off onto the floor.

The boy watched it go, his rolling eyes filled with a look that I have seen many times since but have never quite become accustomed to. He sat as the clatter trailed away into silence. Then he heaved a great sigh, pushed the debris aside and slowly, ever so slowly and ever so carefully, picked up the first block and set it into place again.

There were tears running down my face as I stepped into the room and, without a word, gathered the scattered blocks from the floor and piled them at the edge of the tray. Then I stood back and watched for a while longer the infinite care and patience as the second structure began to take shape.

I stood and watched for a long time, forgetting the demands for my time in another part of the building. No one else came along while I was there, and it probably was good because I’d have been embarrassed to have been found there like that with my face wet from tears. One just glancing in might not have seen what I had seen and might not have understood.

For, you see, I was silent witness to a miracle—a small miracle, but a miracle nevertheless. I had seen something of incredible ugliness turn before my eyes into something of tremendous courage and unspeakable beauty.

It etched itself, that afternoon so long ago, forever in my mind.

My three-year-old granddaughter illustrated the power of innocence and humility to connect us with God. She went with her family to the open house of the Brigham City Temple in Utah. In one of the rooms of that beautiful building, she looked around and asked, “Mommy, where is Jesus?” Her mother explained that she would not see Jesus in the temple, but she would be able to feel His influence in her heart. Eliza carefully considered her mother’s response and then seemed satisfied and said, “Oh, Jesus is gone helping someone,” she concluded.

No pavilion obscured Eliza’s understanding or obstructed her view of reality. God is close to her, and she feels close to Him. She knew that the temple is the house of the Lord but also understood that the resurrected and glorified Jesus Christ has a body and can only be in one place at a time. If He was not at His house, she recognized that He must be in another place. And from what she knows of the Savior, she knew that He would be somewhere doing good for His Father’s children. It was clear that she had hoped to see Jesus, not for a confirming miracle of His existence but simply because she loved Him.

Just last year we completed our fundraising drive for the great Jordan River Temple. Do you know that the wonderful Saints of Utah Valley and a few other areas in Wyoming and the Midwest were able to donate eighteen million dollars, so that a new temple might be built? And did you know that a ward right in the middle of the Salt Lake Valley, composed almost totally of widows, was the first to meet its quota? In fact, it did not only meet the quote but nearly doubled it. This one ward of widows reported to the stake president, just weeks after the campaign had started, with one hundred thousand dollars for the new temple—this from one ward primarily made up of widows.

The stake president, Sonny Purcell, was driving his car when he saw the enormous wave coming far out at sea. He honked his horn and stopped children on the road walking to school and warned them to run for higher ground and safety as fast as they could. The children followed his instruction. He frantically drove, reached his four-year-old daughter, put her in the car, and then tried to get to his mother. Before he could reach his mother, the wall of water picked up his car and swept it over 100 yards (91 m), where it lodged in a tree. He scrambled to secure his daughter on top of the car and then swam to rescue his mother, who was clinging to a branch of another tree near their house. With great effort he swam with her to the car and safety. Many were not as fortunate. They did not have time to get to higher ground and safety. Many lost their lives, particularly the young and the elderly.

Sitting on the stand of the St. George (Utah) Tabernacle, waiting for her performance to begin, Sheena Rosander couldn’t help remembering the year before when she had been waiting to perform at a high school talent show.
“It was one of the only times I really had the jitters before a performance,” says Sheena. “I followed a rock group and knew immediately that the classical song I loved to play on the piano wasn’t really what kids wanted to hear. I depend so much on the Spirit to help me play, and that Spirit just wasn’t there.”
But this night, things were different. Thankfully, the Spirit was in abundance as her six functioning fingers flew over the keyboard of the grand piano creating music, the kind that brings a lump to the throat.
Sheena Rosander, 18, from Hurricane, Utah, was born with what some people consider a disability. But to Sheena, having only a partial thumb and no fingers on her left hand is a gift. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have all 10 fingers, like how much easier keyboarding would be,” says Sheena. “But I usually just find a way to go around it. My mom wanted me to peel potatoes, and I was really struggling with that potato peeler. So I decided when I have my own family I’ll just have baked potatoes. There’s always a way to do things.”
And that’s pretty much how Sheena has been able to enjoy her favorite activities, like playing and teaching tennis, playing the violin, teaching piano lessons, and competing at performing-arts festivals.
In fact, she’s used her good attitude as a springboard to propel her into positive social situations. On her first day of kindergarten, when Sheena proudly displayed her hand at “show and tell,” one child told her it looked like a Cabbage Patch doll’s hand. Delighted, she added several Cabbage Patch dolls to her already thriving collection. Her favorite had red hair and blue eyes, just like Sheena.
That kind of confidence comes naturally. Even before she was born, her mother, Toni, decided all her children would learn to play piano. Sheena began lessons at age five.
“She was determined to play the piano,” recalls her teacher, Tammy Drake. “Her hand was never an obstacle. She would compensate with her right hand to achieve a full sound. Then one day, she began playing with her left hand, using her thumb and pinky stub. Sheena has shown all of us a new kind of courage and determination. Some listeners never even know about her hand. She plays beautifully.”