Gospel Story Finder

On the afternoon of Dec. 11, 2022, three buses pulled in at Konka, the facility rented for FSY—a five-day youth conference held for young people in the Gauteng, South Africa area. The following morning, 530 young men and young women would descend on the facility, but these first three buses carried the 70 faithful young single adult men and women who had accepted the call to be coordinators, assistant coordinators and counselors for FSY; dutifully arriving the night before to set up for the exciting week to come.
Little did these young leaders know what the night would bring.
That evening, the rain arrived. Rain was forecast for each day, but the intensity of the storm took all by surprise. The night sky was almost constantly lit up by lightning. Roars of thunder and a tumultuous downpour went through the night and continued, heavy and strong, as dawn arrived.
Konka is located about two hours north of Johannesburg. To reach the venue, the buses had to travel some distance on dirt roads and cross a river using a low-water bridge before entering the facility.
The morning that the youth were due to arrive, we looked at the river and saw it had swelled to the point that nothing could cross the bridge. The roar of the water flowing over the low water bridge sounded like Victoria Falls. We began praying that the rains would subside soon or there would be no accessing the facility when the youth were to begin arriving at 11 am. Yet the rains continued. That is when the calls of concern began to come in from leaders and parents. “Are you cancelling FSY? You should cancel FSY.” “Should we send the buses in this weather or are you putting things on hold?” “Perhaps you should delay the start of FSY until the water levels drop.”
As we prayed to know what to do, the words of President Russell M. Nelson kept coming to mind. “Seek and expect miracles.”1 Yet as we prayed it seemed the rain was simply becoming more intense. We still had four hours until they were to arrive. Perhaps it would slow down enough by the time they got here that the water level would drop sufficiently, though it was appearing unlikely. “We are not cancelling. Just come. It will work out,” we responded. As we spoke those words in faith, we knew it would take a miracle.
We inspected the bridge to see if it would be possible for the youth to cross it by foot. We observed that most of the bridge was out of the river, but if we were to use it, the youth would still have to cross a portion of the river in at least knee-deep water that was running swiftly for the last 30 meters. We asked the Konka staff to begin setting up ropes across the bridge, emphasizing that we would not take any risks with the youth, many of whom do not swim at all. If it was clear we could cross the river safely, we would go forward with this plan.
The young single adults leapt to their feet volunteering in excitement to be a rescuer for the 2022 FSY and carry our youth across the river. They ran to their dorm rooms and changed into suitable clothing, knowing they were about to get very wet and dirty in the river and mud.
At 10:45 am we walked down to the water. The youth had already begun to arrive. The Konka staff had fixed the ropes to hold while crossing the water and were ready for the assistance of the young single adults. Several leaders grabbed onto the ropes and walked across the river and foot bridge to greet the youth and their parents and leaders as they arrived, to give them confidence and assurance that everything was safe, and we were moving forward.
There was shock on the faces of the youth and leaders as we explained the situation and instructed the youth to remove their shoes and socks and pull up their pant legs as far as they could. An umbrella to protect them from the rain was all most had planned on. Now they were about to cross a river on foot. As they walked down to the footbridge, several slipped, a few even falling in the deep and slippery mud. “Hang on to the rope!” was the yell that echoed for the next three hours as group after group arrived.
The young adult leaders took every suitcase and all the bedding and carried it across the footbridge. Over 500 youth made it across the river, either on the backs of the young single adults or picking their own cautious paths across the river whilst holding onto the safety ropes. A few hours later, the rain began to lessen. We had made it, and the FSY experience could go forward.
Uniformly, the youth expressed thanks that FSY had not been cancelled and we had found a way forward. Several analogies to our river crossing followed during the week, all relating back to the theme trust in the Lord. The young single adults acting as counselors not only carried and guided the youth across a literal river, but then spent the week teaching and strengthening the youth in a way that has had a deep and meaningful impact—teaching them and sharing tools for navigating an increasingly difficult world. Lives have been forever changed.

I know that I have an elder brother Jesus Christ. He is my Savior and Redeemer. Without his atoning sacrifice none of us would have any hope of every returning to live with our Heavenly Father again. Next to his atoning sacrifice I am grateful for the perfect example that he has set for me to follow. I will conclude with a personal experience that illustrates this concept.

A year and a half ago our beautiful two-year old daughter passed away. Through the long night before she died I sat at her bedside in the Intensive Care Unit at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City ,Utah. As I held her hand, I prayed silently, but constantly that Heavenly Father would spare her life and that she would be restored to health. Being a Registered Nurse, I watched anxiously for any sign of improvement in her condition. As the dawn came, signaling the beginning of a new day, so did the realization that not only was her condition not improving, but it was deteriorating. The doctors gave us no hope. I, at that point, had to contemplate what my life would be like without her. I could not imagine it. She was my baby and she liked me. I couldn’t comprehend living the rest of my mortal existence without her here with me. I began to silently plead with my Heavenly Father. I begged him not to make me go through it. I told him it was too hard and I couldn’t do it. Somewhere in the midst of my pleading, words came into my mind. They were the words of my Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane where he suffered beyond anything that I, as a mortal, can comprehend. He pleaded with our Heavenly Father to not make Him go through it. But then came His concluding words, “Not my will, but Thine be done.” With all of the courage, hope, trust, and faith I could muster, I silently concluded, not my will, but Thine be done.

Within an hour as my husband and I rocked her, still connected to life support, she was gently lifted from our arms and returned to our Heavenly Father. As we drove the 3 ½ hours to home in silence, there were many things that went through my mind. One that I shamefully admit thinking, “Heavenly Father, I sure hope you know what you are doing.” because taking her had left such a huge hole in our family and in our hearts.

When we walked into our family room that day, all ten of our children were there along with our two little grandchildren. Our returned missionary son was reading from the scriptures about where Kaylie, our little daughter had gone. Our then, three-year old son ran up and hugged my legs and then looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, how long are you going to be sad?” My response was immediate and without thought. I told him that I was going to be sad forever because at that moment, it truly seemed like I would be sad forever. But then I had to stop and think. Really, how long would I be sad? I would be sad until I was with Kaylie again and if I looked at it in eternal perspective, this life is but a moment. I would be sad, but a moment and than I would be with Kaylie again.

We then sat down and talked as a family about why we were sad that day. We decided we were sad because one of us was missing. We concluded that is how sad we would be in the next life if one of us was missing because we did not make right choices in this life, only then, it truly would be forever. We made a vow that day that we would try harder to live worthily to be with our Heavenly Father and Kaylie again. If you were to come into our home today, you would notice tucked in the corner of each of our temple pictures, a wallet size photo of Kaylie in her little white dress taken just three weeks before she died. A constant reminder of the commitment we made to each other to be together in the eternities.

When Peggy told me her husband, John, after 31 years of marriage, was going to be baptized, I asked what had changed.

Peggy said, “John and I were studying the New Testament Come, Follow Me, and John asked about Church doctrine.”

Peggy said, “Let’s invite the missionaries.”

John said, “No missionaries—unless my friend can come.” Over 10 years, John’s ministering brother had become his trusted friend. (I thought, What if John’s ministering brother had stopped coming after one, two, or nine years?)

John listened. He read the Book of Mormon with real intent. When the missionaries invited John to be baptized, he said yes. Peggy said, “I fell off my chair and started to cry.”

John said, “I changed as I drew closer to the Lord.” Later, John and Peggy were sealed in the holy temple. Last December, John passed away at age 92. Peggy says, “John was always a good person, but he became different in a beautiful way after he was baptized.”

I wanted to write to testify how true a paragraph is in “Hold On” (Oct. 1992). It says “Pornography is especially dangerous and addictive.” The article goes on to say pornography breaks down your self-discipline and causes you to become desensitized. This is so true. I was seven when I started reading pornographic magazines. Over time, it just became all consuming. I started stealing, using drugs and alcohol, and I committed rape. I’m getting treatment for my problems, and I am working on repenting for what I’ve done. But it’s a long way back. For me, pornography has been more addictive than any drug. I encourage everyone to not learn the way I did.
Name Withheld

I know the blessings I enjoyed on my mission came partly from a defining moment in the MTC. When I first arrived, I was told of the great work other welfare service missionaries were doing around the world. In my heart, I said I would be one of those missionaries they talked about. But the good Spirit of the MTC humbled me as the weeks went by and by the end of my stay, I promised the Lord that I would serve Him in any way, no matter how small, even if it was only to help one person take one step. Wouldn't you say that it is a credit to the Lord's sense of humor that our work in the refugee camp made it into the Church News?
Like Elder Maxwell, I feel I have fulfilled my pledge imperfectly, but I do recognize that every good gift and blessing in my life has come from following the teachings of the Savior.

A few years ago, our little family went through what many families face in this fallen world. Our youngest son, Tanner Christian Lund, contracted cancer. He was an incredible soul, as nine-year-olds tend to be. He was hilariously mischievous and, at the same time, stunningly spiritually aware. Imp and angel, naughty and nice. When he was little and was every day bewildering us with his shenanigans, we wondered if he was going to grow up to be the prophet or a bank robber. Either way, it seemed that he was going to leave a mark on the world.

And then he became desperately ill. Over the next three years, modern medicine employed heroic measures, including two bone marrow transplants, where he caught pneumonia, requiring him to spend 10 weeks unconscious on a ventilator. Miraculously, he recovered for a short time, but then his cancer returned.

Shortly before he passed away, Tanner’s disease had invaded his bones, and even with strong pain medicines, still he hurt. He could barely get out of bed. One Sunday morning, his mom, Kalleen, came into his room to check on him before the family left for church. She was surprised to see that he had somehow gotten himself dressed and was sitting on the edge of his bed, painfully struggling to button his shirt. Kalleen sat down by him. “Tanner,” she said, “are you sure you are strong enough to go to church? Maybe you should stay home and rest today.”

He stared at the floor. He was a deacon. He had a quorum. And he had an assignment.

“I’m supposed to pass the sacrament today.”

“Well, I’m sure someone could do that for you.”

“Yes,” he said, “but … I see how people look at me when I pass the sacrament. I think it helps them.”

So Kalleen helped him button his shirt and tie his tie, and they drove to church. Clearly, something important was happening.

I came to church from an earlier meeting and so was surprised to see Tanner sitting on the deacons’ row. Kalleen quietly told me why he was there and what he had said: “It helps people.”

And so I watched as the deacons stepped to the sacrament table. He leaned gently against another deacon as the priests passed them the bread trays. And then Tanner shuffled to his appointed place and took hold of the end of the pew to steady himself as he presented the sacrament.

It seemed that every eye in the chapel was on him, moved by his struggle as he did his simple part. Somehow Tanner expressed a silent sermon as he solemnly, haltingly moved from row to row—his bald head moist with perspiration—representing the Savior in the way that deacons do. His once indomitable deacon’s body was itself a little bruised, broken, and torn, willingly suffering to serve by bearing the emblems of the Savior’s Atonement into our lives.

Seeing how he had come to think about being a deacon made us think differently too—about the sacrament, about the Savior, and about deacons and teachers and priests.

I wonder at the unspoken miracle that had impelled him that morning to respond so bravely to that still, small call to serve, and about the strength and capacities of all of our emergent youth as they push themselves to respond to a prophet’s call to enlist in God’s battalions and join in the work of salvation and exaltation.

I received this really interesting letter about a protective alarm experienced by a faithful sister. She told me that in an effort to help her husband understand how she felt, she began to keep an electronic list on her phone of things he did or said that irritated her. She reasoned that when the time was right, she would have compiled written proof to share with him that would make him want to change his ways. However, one Sunday while partaking of the sacrament and focusing on the Atonement of the Savior, she realized that documenting her negative feelings about her husband was truly driving the Spirit from her and was never going to change him.
A spiritual alarm went off in her heart that said: “Let it go; let it all go. Delete those notes. They are not helpful.” She then wrote, and I quote: “It took me a while to hit ‘select all’ and even longer to hit ‘delete.’ But as I did, all of those negative feelings were lost in space. My heart filled with love—love for my husband and love for the Lord.” Like Saul on the road to Damascus, she had her vision changed. The scales of distortion fell from her eyes.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt: Do you know what I’m thankful for, Grandpa?
Grandpa: Rocky-road ice cream?
Matt: No. Well, yes. But do you know what I’m even more thankful for?
Grandpa: Pepperoni pizza with double cheese?
Matt: You’re smart, Grandpa! But I mean do you know what I’m even more thankful for than my very most favorite and scrumptious food?
Grandpa: What?
Matt: You.
Grandpa: Oh. Well. Wow! I’m honored, Matt. Because I’m grateful for you too. So grateful that I want to be your grandpa forever. Shall we both do all we can to make sure that happens?
Matt: That’s like asking if we should both have a double scoop of rocky road.
Grandpa: What a brilliant idea!

My husband and I have a special thanks for you. Our courtship began with your July 1986 issue.
My picture in the FYI section impressed Allen so greatly that he found it still occupying his thoughts weeks later. Finding my address was a small miracle in itself, but soon he had mailed a letter, wondering why he thought so much about a girl he’d never met.
As I read his letter, I found myself repeating his name out loud, enjoying the sound. “Mom!” I exclaimed. “Doesn’t he have the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard?” Then I surprised us both by repeating “Erica Farr” several times. It sounded beautiful to me!
Without understanding the promptings given us, Allen had recognized a face he had been searching for, and I a name.
After only six letters and one visit, an 18 hour drive from Allen’s Nevada home to mine in Wyoming, we received the clear witness in our prayers that, indeed, Father in Heaven had brought us together. Three visits and several letters later we were sealed in the Jordan River Temple.
We understand now the quiet whisperings that, for so many years, had led us to seek that one most beautiful, pure, and righteous love. But what if we hadn’t lived worthy to receive divine guidance? What if we had been impatient and settled for someone less than our ideal? We are so very grateful that our Father in Heaven helped us through the lonely years of waiting and preparing, until at last we were ready and he could bless us with that love.
We thank you, New Era! You were a source of strength to us over the years. You provided articles and insights that inspired us. You helped us realize the importance of spirituality and reaching within ourselves to become more like the Savior.
It seems very appropriate that the New Era was the instrument through which Father in Heaven answered our prayers and brought to pass a joy beyond our dreams, an eternal friendship and love.
Allen and Erica FarrBattle Mountain, Nevada

For Naea Bennett, that is both a great blessing and a big problem. Everyone in Tahiti knows the story of his father, Erroll Bennett. As a young man, Erroll was the best soccer player in Tahiti, maybe the best player in the South Pacific. He was taught about the Church and wanted to be baptized. The missionaries taught Erroll about keeping the Sabbath day holy, but all of Erroll’s soccer games were on Sunday. He felt that if he and his wife were to be baptized then he would have to five up playing soccer. He felt that if he committed his life to the Lord, then he would have to follow the Lord’s instructions to keep the Sabbath day reserved for spiritual matters.
Erroll Bennett’s decision did not go unnoticed. After all, soccer was by far the most popular sport in Tahiti, and he was the star of the top team. He had pressure from his extended family, from his teammates, and from those who ran organized sports. But once Erroll was baptized and told his team that he wouldn’t be playing on Sunday anymore, sports officials began to make changes to make it possible for Erroll to continue playing. They rearranged sports schedules, moving the Sunday games to nights during the week. It turned out that his teammates appreciated having Sundays off to spend with their families too, and the team performed even better with their star player able to play. Erroll became the most prolific scorer on the team. Because the best team in Tahiti would not play on Sunday, the finals for the Tahiti Cup were changed to Saturday. Even the finals of the Pacific games were changed. One man who made a stand changed the sports habits of a nation.
That man, Erroll Bennett, now the stake president of the Pirae Tahiti Stake, is Naea’s father. And because of his father, Naea does not have to play on Sunday. He has not had to make the hard choice his father made. Neither do the other 11 Mormons on Naea’s team. Nor do Naea’s sisters have any Sunday basketball games. Everyone in Tahiti knows not to even bother asking if a Mormon will play on Sunday.
How does Naea feel about the decision his father made? “I’m very proud of him,” Naea says. “It was a good decision. It is known in all of Polynesia.”

One night, my family and some friends had a family home evening. We had the lesson and the closing prayer, and then had a treat. When it was time for our friends to leave, my mom and I told one of my friends about the Friend magazine. She is taking discussions from the missionaries and hadn’t heard about the Friend, so I let her look through it. She really liked it. I let her have the August 2007 Friend. I’m glad that I can share the gospel with others.

In March 1997, while living in the Russian city of Rostov-on-Don, my husband and I were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As I studied the doctrines of the Church, many of my questions were answered. It was interesting to learn about the plan of salvation, including the practice of baptism for the dead. I was surprised to learn that we could be baptized for our deceased ancestors.
A year after our baptism, the mission president invited us to prepare to go to the temple. As part of our preparation, we started doing family history research. One day as I was thinking about doing this work, the phone rang. It was my mother-in-law. I asked her if she would send me a list of the deceased ancestors on my husband’s side of the family. She was amazed and told me that baptism for the dead was not Christ’s doctrine but rather something the Mormons had made up. I wasn’t sure how to answer her because I wasn’t familiar with scriptural references that supported the doctrine.
As I was thinking about how to respond, the phone switched off. I was unsure for a minute what had happened, but I hung up the phone and went to my bedroom. I took the New Testament into my hands, knelt to pray, and asked Heavenly Father to show me where I could find the answer.
At the end of my prayer, I opened the Bible. I felt as if someone had told me to read the 29th verse on the very page I had opened. I was in the 15th chapter of 1 Corinthians, which talks about the doctrine of baptism for the dead.
I was touched and surprised that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer at that very moment. It was a wonderful feeling.
I was thinking deeply about this experience when suddenly the phone rang again. It was my mother-in-law, asking me why the phone had switched off. I told her I didn’t know but then asked her to open her Bible and read 1 Corinthians 15:29.
A few days later a list of deceased relatives was on my table. My mother-in-law had read the scripture and now believed that the Savior, through the Apostle Paul, had taught the doctrine of baptism for the dead.
God has promised great blessings to those who do this redemptive work. I know this to be true.

Beth ran to the window. The car was pulling into the driveway.
“Mom!” called Beth. “Dad and Mark are here. I can’t wait to see Mark!”
Mom stood by Beth. “Remember, Beth. Your brother’s accident was very serious. He may seem different to you at first.”
The door opened. Dad pushed Mark in his wheelchair into the room. Beth’s smile faded. She hardly recognized Mark. His face was gaunt and pale, and a pink rash extended down to his neck. His shaven head was covered by a white bandage, and there was a black patch over one eye.
Beth choked back her tears. She forced herself to smile. “Welcome home, Mark,” she said.
Mark smiled slightly. He mumbled something, but Beth wasn’t sure of what he had said. Mom had warned her that Mark’s speech was difficult to understand now. Beth kept a smile plastered on her face, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t know what to say.
During the next few weeks, Beth saw little of Mom and Dad. When they weren’t tending to Mark at home, they were driving him back and forth to the hospital or clinic. There was physical therapy to help his muscles grow stronger, speech therapy to teach him to talk again, and occupational therapy to teach him to dress and feed himself. Mark also spent part of each day in a special education classroom.
One Thursday evening at dinner, Mark was especially clumsy. Beth watched as he lost his grip on his spoon, spilling soup all over his shirt. She looked away as he threw his spoon down and muttered angrily.
Mom calmly cleaned up the mess. She helped Mark into his wheelchair and wheeled him into his room.
Beth cleaned up the dishes. “I got an A on my English paper, Dad,” she said. “Miss James read it to the class today. She said it was the best story in the class.”
“I’m glad, honey,” said Dad. “I know you worked hard on it.”
“Do you want to read my story now?” asked Beth.
“Maybe later,” said Dad. “I think I’ll spend some time with Mark, now. Mom’s tired. She needs a break.”
“It’s always later!” Beth blurted out. “All you and Mom care about is Mark!”
“You know that isn’t true. We care about you very much. I’m sorry we haven’t been spending much time with you since Mark’s accident, but right now your brother needs us more.”
Beth didn’t say anything.
“It would be nice if you would spend a little more time with Mark, too,” Dad added quietly. “You’ve hardly even spoken to him this week.”
“I don’t know what to say to him. It scares me when he gets so mad. He just doesn’t seem like the same Mark.”
“He isn’t the same Mark right now,” Dad said. “And he may never be the same, but he’s still your brother.”
Just then the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Beth.
It was Beth’s best friend, Cindy. “Guess what! We’re going to the lake tomorrow night and Saturday, and Mom says I can invite you and Sally to go with us!”
“I’d love to go!” Beth squealed. “I’ll call you back after I talk to Mom and Dad.”
Mom was in the kitchen, getting a glass of water. She looked tired and had deep circles under her eyes. “Yes, you can go,” she replied to Beth’s request. “It’ll be nice for you to get away.”
Cindy and her parents picked up Beth Friday afternoon. Beth was surprised when they pulled up in front of a large building. CONVALESCENT AND REHABILITATION CENTER the sign said.
“We’re going to stop and see Granny before we pick up Sally,” Cindy said. “We visit Granny every Saturday morning, but since we won’t get back until tomorrow night, we wanted to see her before we left.”
Beth followed Cindy into a large room at the center. The room looked cozy with its soft chairs and big couches, but somehow it still had the feeling of a hospital.
“You can wait here,” Cindy told her. “We won’t be long.”
Beth looked around the room. There were some men playing checkers in the back, and a gray-haired woman sat methodically knitting an afghan.
But what caught Beth’s attention was a teenage girl sitting in a wheelchair. She was a pretty girl with long blond curly hair.
She stared straight out a window. She didn’t say anything, but tears rolled down her cheeks.
An attendant gently wiped the girl’s tears. “I guess your mom called again to say she couldn’t come.” The girl just nodded. “I’m sure she’ll visit soon,” the attendant tried to console her.
Cindy and her parents came into the room as the girl was wheeled out. “That girl is always waiting, but nobody ever comes to see her,” Cindy commented to Beth. “She always looks so sad.”
“It almost seems as if she’s given up,” Beth mumbled.
“I’d give up, too,” Cindy replied, “if nobody cared about me.”
Beth was quiet as they got into the car. She turned to her friend. “Cindy, would you be mad if I ask your dad to take me home? I’m really sorry, but I think I need to spend this weekend with my brother.”
“I’ll miss you, but it’s OK. Maybe you can come the next time we go to the lake.”
At home, Mom and Dad were talking in the kitchen.
Beth smiled at their look of surprise. “Everything’s OK. I just decided I’d rather stay home.” She paused. “And I thought maybe you two would like to go out tonight while I stay with Mark. If it’s all right with you, we’ll order a pizza and rent a movie.”
Mom smiled. “Thanks, honey. It would be nice to get out. And I know that Mark will enjoy some time with you.”
“Mom and I read your story,” said Dad. “It was great. I can see why it was chosen as the best in the class.”
“I especially liked the ending,” said Mom. “You have quite a knack for surprise endings.”
Beth smiled. “Thanks—I guess I am best at surprise endings.”

“Do you know what I like best about Christmas?” five-year-old Sara asked, her big brown eyes shining.
Her mother stopped wrapping gifts. “Santa?”
“I like Santa, but the most fun is wrapping presents for you and Daddy and Mike and Tim.”
Mom was pleased with Sara’s answer. Tim and Mike, her older brothers, had long lists of expensive items they wanted. Sara had no list. She was more excited about the gifts she was wrapping.
“Hi, everyone!” Dad called. “I’m home early so we can go get our tree.”
“Hurray!” Sara shouted. “Then we can decorate it.”
But later, when Mom pulled out the boxes of ornaments, both boys groaned.
“Do we have to do that tonight?” Mike asked. “I have math homework.”
“Me too,” Tim moaned.
“How about helping for just a half hour?” Dad suggested.
While her brothers argued about where decorations should go, Sara quickly and quietly placed red bulbs on the tree.
“Sara,” Tim said, “your bulbs are all at the bottom. That doesn’t look right.”
Sara’s eyes lost their sparkle.
“We need lots of bulbs on the bottom,” Dad said. “Sara’s friends aren’t as tall as you boys, and when they visit us, we want them to see lots of bulbs.” He handed Sara another bulb, and a smile lit up her face.
That night at supper, Mom said quietly, “I think we’ve all lost the spirit of Christmas—that is, all of us except Sara.”
“Oh, Mom,” Mike protested, “we all decorated the tree. And we’ve bought most of our presents.”
“I think Mom’s talking about the real meaning of Christmas,” Dad said. “And she’s right. It’s like we’re getting ready for a big party, but we’ve forgotten whom the party is for.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “We all know it’s to celebrate the Savior’s birth,” he murmured.
“But, Tim,” Dad persisted, “how was your birthday party different from the one we’re planning for Jesus Christ?”
“Well, Jesus isn’t here to get His presents.”
“What presents?” Dad asked.
“How would you have felt if all your friends brought presents for each other but no presents for you?” Mom added.
“That wouldn’t have been much of a party,” Tim admitted.
“Well,” Dad asked, “do you have a gift for the Savior on December 25th?”
“You’re trying to tell us that we need to buy gifts for Jesus?” Mike wondered.
“You don’t buy gifts for Jesus,” Tim interrupted. “You give Him gifts in other ways—like doing something good for someone.”
“Now you have the idea,” Dad said. “Do you think there’s still time to do something good for someone else?”
“It’s over a week before Christmas,” Mom put in. “Sister Altos told me about a family across town whose father is out of work and who have huge medical bills to pay. Shall I find out more about them and see if we can help them this year?”
“Won’t they be embarrassed to have us take them presents?” Mike asked. “What if the kids go to our school?”
“We could do this anonymously,” Dad said. “We could sneak our things for them onto their doorstep on Christmas Eve, and they’d never have to know who did it.”
“How can we know what they need or want?” Tim asked.
“I’ll check with Sister Altos,” Mom said. “She might be able to get sizes and ideas without letting the family know.”
Sara had been listening quietly. Now she shouted, “I hope they have a little girl! She can have some of the presents Santa was going to give me this year.”
“Does this mean that we’re giving away the presents we’d be getting?” Mike yelped.
“How about if everyone gets just one gift from Santa,” Dad said, “and the rest of Santa’s gifts go to our ‘Christmas family’?”
“That’s fair,” both boys agreed.
The following night, Mother had a list from Sister Altos of sizes and ages. There were two boys, a younger sister, and a six-month-old baby.
“Remember,” Dad said, “you can still ask for one gift from Santa. Now, let’s make a list of gifts for these children.”
“I’ll start shopping tomorrow for the things we decide on,” Mom said.
“Can I go too?” Sara pleaded. “And can I help you wrap the presents?”
“Of course.” Mom looked at Tim and Mike. “It’d be fun if you’d wrap presents too. I think you’ll find it rather exciting.”
The days rushed by as everyone bought and wrapped gifts for their Christmas family. Finally Christmas Eve arrived, snowing and cold. Sara hopped up and down with excitement. Even the boys were eager to deliver the gifts.
Father drew them all around him. “I think that this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “I’m so proud of you children for giving your presents away to someone you don’t even know.”
“I just hope Santa remembers my roller blades,” Tim joked.
Everyone laughed. Dad pulled out a red envelope. “Mom, will you write a message to our Christmas family?” he asked. “We could put some money inside to help with the medical bills—what do you think?”
“I’ve saved about six dollars,” Mike volunteered. “They can have that.”
“I have about five,” Tim chimed in. He rushed to get his savings.
Sara hurried to get her piggy bank. “I have all this money!” she squealed, opening it to let a cascade of pennies, dimes, and nickels clatter to the table. “Can we wrap it in a box for the children?”
Soon every cent of her money was in a box with “Kids’ Money” written on a tag next to the bow.
Mom disappeared for a few moments. “I’ve been saving this for new curtains, but we can wait for those.” She slipped two fifty-dollar bills into the red envelope.
Dad took out his wallet. “I stopped by the bank today, thinking that they could use this.” He put a hundred-dollar bill into the envelope.
Mother placed a card with a note inside the envelope last, then sealed it.
Sister Altos had written down the address. The car resounded with Christmas songs until the correct street sign was spotted and everyone searched for the house number of their Christmas family.
“There it is!” Tim whooped. “They’re home!”
Dad drove past the house so that their car would be out of sight. “OK,” he said, “I’ll open the trunk, and we’ll load up with gifts. Be really quiet so that they don’t hear us. When all the presents are on the porch, we’ll all get back in the car except Mike. Mike, you wait until I’ve started the engine, then ring the doorbell and run.”
No one made a sound as they piled the gifts high on the front porch. Mom held up the red envelope. “I sure hope they see this,” she whispered, tucking it into the top present.
Everyone except Mike rushed to the car, Dad started the engine, and Mike rang the doorbell and raced to the car. As he jumped inside, the front door of the house opened and a little girl shouted, “Daddy! Daddy! Santa has come!”
All the way home the family chattered excitedly about how their Christmas family must be opening their gifts and how surprised they must be.
“I just hope they see the red envelope,” Mom worried aloud again.
When the family gathered for prayers that night, it was Sara’s turn. She blessed everyone in the family and their friends, adding, “Please bless our Christmas family that they’ll like our presents for them. Bless them to have a Merry Christmas.”
Early Christmas morning, the family gathered around their tree. “I got my roller blades,” Tim shouted.
Mike held up a snowboard. “Wow! This is the greatest!”
Sara discovered a doll with a white wicker bed. “Look what Santa brought me!”
They gathered into a circle and exchanged the gifts they had for each other. Mom kept wiping her eyes. Never before had she seen her children so happy.
“I hope our Christmas family is having lots of fun,” Sara said as she tucked her doll into the white bed.
Bright and early Sunday morning, the family hurried off to church. They still radiated with the glow of Christmas.
The last speaker, an elderly gentleman from another stake, was introduced.
Tears trickled down Mom’s cheeks. Father clasped her shoulder tightly. Tim, Mike, and Sara scooted closer to them.
“I hope we can find another Christmas family next year,” Mike whispered.
Tim and Sara nodded vigorously.

The last week Elder Allen was in our ward, I had the privilege of being humbled again. I accompanied him on a teaching session. The lady of the household wanted to be baptized but was waiting for her husband, who seemed to be fighting his own better instincts. After a beautiful lesson on the plan of salvation, the husband’s heart had changed. He offered a plain, simple prayer that was truly inspired.

I don’t know who learns more from the elders in our ward, the investigators or the members. But I know they have taught me great lessons in faith and humility and action, and our family tries never to forget them in our prayers.

A few years ago, a Presbyterian minister moved into my community wanting to serve all her neighbors, not just her church congregation. As she reached out in our predominantly LDS neighborhood with friendliness, offers to help, and invitations to neighborhood parties, ward members began participating in her congregation’s service projects; together, she and neighbors of various faiths held a fundraiser that significantly helped an LDS family with dire medical expenses.
Apostle Orson F. Whitney (1855–1931) stated, “God is using more than one people for the accomplishment of his great and marvelous work. … It is too vast, too arduous, for any one people.”3 Great things can be accomplished when good people band together. Our neighborhood minister’s efforts led to the formation of a community interfaith committee that, along with our stake Relief Society, put on a women’s conference supplying hygiene kits and books to refugee agencies. These interfaith connections then enabled stake members to help a congregation feed a large refugee gathering and to step in when another church needed additional volunteers at a homeless shelter.

One afternoon while in my office in Manila, a man came to see me. I invited him in. He had such a sweet, peaceful countenance that he almost glowed. Yet I could tell that he was a man of very humble circumstances. He told me that he lived on one of the outer islands and had come to Manila to take his family to the temple. From his pocket he pulled out a letter written to me by his district president.

The letter told of the man’s faithfulness. He and his family had joined the Church four years earlier. Since that day they had worked to save enough money to go to the temple in Manila. The fare for the long boat journey seemed almost impossible for this family to save. They had hoped to go to the temple the previous year, but they hadn’t been able to save enough money for the trip. Attending the temple this year was so important to them that they sold most of their worldly possessions to buy tickets for him, his wife, and their two daughters. The letter indicated that his wife was not well and asked if we could arrange to have her see a doctor while she was in Manila.

I was touched as I read of the faithfulness of this humble man and his family. I asked him where his wife and daughters were. He said that they were waiting for him outside. We went out and invited them in. He was so proud of his wife and his two beautiful teenage daughters.

I could tell that his wife was not well. When I asked about her health, she said that she was plagued by constant, severe headaches. She took off the scarf she was wearing and showed me that her hair was falling out. She said that sometimes she would pass out and fall. Then her husband spoke and said, “President, I love my wife and my daughters. I don’t know what will happen to my wife. I don’t know whether she will live or die.” As he stopped to wipe away some tears, he looked out the window across the street to the beautiful Manila Temple. “President, this morning we were sealed as a family together in the holy temple. We don’t know what the future will bring. But whatever happens, it will be okay because we now can be together forever. This is the happiest day of my life.” That humble, faithful Saint from the Philippines did not know what the future might bring for him, his wife, or his family, but there was peace in his heart because of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The oldest graduate that day was Lyle M. McDonald.
Lyle was born in Salina, Utah. At the appropriate time he entered BYU, his most enduring reminder of those years still being the permanent knee injury he received playing football. Lyle later left BYU—without a degree—to become a teacher and principal at the Page Elementary School on North Canyon Road here in Provo. It is fitting irony that BYU now owns that old Page School building, which is situated directly across the street from a slightly newer, and larger, football stadium. . . .

Now, after a full and fitting life, Brother McDonald returned to school . . . to finish that degree begun so long ago because “he wanted to improve himself, he wanted to help others, and he wanted more association with the ‘great and qualified’ professors at BYU.” (Those are his words.) Furthermore, he wanted a university diploma to go along with his Master M-Man award and his World War I discharge papers. That’s right. “The Great War. Old WW I,” as Colonel Sherman Potter would say—“The war to end all wars.” . . . Yes, our soldier returned to school for a diploma partly so his World War I discharge papers wouldn’t be lonely. But an even loftier purpose ultimately prompted our veteran to return. He says simply and directly, “I wanted knowledge. We can’t get into the celestial kingdom without knowledge. Knowledge is about the only thing we are allowed to take with us.”

I never really understood the statement in 2 Nephi 32:5 “the Holy Ghost … will show unto you all things what ye should do” until I experienced it.
My friends and I often took our bikes to a place we called the dirt hills. It was our favorite place to go. It was only about a mile from where we lived, so we could ride our bikes to get there. We would literally spend hours at the dirt hills jumping and riding our bikes. It was great fun.
One day, my friend Tyler crashed his bike. He seemed to be OK, and the bike looked OK, so we kept jumping. After about five more minutes, I stopped. Tyler rode over to me and asked what was wrong. I told him that I had this really strong feeling that we should leave and go home, even though we had only been there about 15 minutes. Tyler told me that he had the same feeling, and we both realized it was time to go.
As we rode closer to home, Tyler said that his bike was acting weird. As we got to the corner of the street where we both lived, Tyler’s bike broke into pieces—the pedals fell off and the chain broke.
What would have happened had we not followed the prompting to leave and had still been jumping? Tyler may have been seriously hurt. The Holy Ghost knew it was time for us to go. I am so thankful that we listened.

In a sacrament meeting talk last fall, Scott said, “Everyone is a child of God. That means that we are all brothers and sisters. Being a child of God means that God is the Father of our spirits and that we can become like Him.

“Learning about our Father in Heaven and obeying His commandments in this life is like going to school for the job of becoming a God. I’ve found that my parents have rules similar to Heavenly Father’s: One—Thou shalt not steal. Two—Thou shalt not lie about what thou did to thy brother. Three—Thou shalt obey thy father and thy mother or thou shalt get a time-out.

“All of us have trials in our lives. Some are permanent and some are temporary. We can learn from our trials if we have a positive attitude. My disease is a permanent trial. I am learning to practice self-control because when kids make fun of me, I want to pound their faces in. The kids in my class used to call me names because I am short for my age and my belly sticks out. I had to learn to ignore their comments because they did not understand. Now that I am in sixth grade, the kids who know me don’t make fun of me anymore. Being a child of God helps me understand the things that happen in my life.”