Gospel Story Finder

Mingan, the young Mongol boy, fastened his padded collar closely beneath his chin. The icy winds from the plains whistled around the great felt tents and drove dust into his face. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw a ball of dust rolling across the plain toward camp and heard a faint jingle of bells. The cloud grew larger and resolved into a rider, his wide belt set thickly with bells, leaning close to his mount. It was a messenger from Kublai Khan!
Turning, Mingan lifted the flap of the nearest tent. “Father!” he shouted. “A messenger from the great Khan approaches!”
Prince Catu, Mingan’s father, pushed past him and shouted orders. Men hurried from their tents. The horseman, with a clatter and a jangle, slid from his snorting mount and handed Catu a scroll. A waiting herdsman seized the bridle of the messenger’s lathered animal and led the horse away to shelter.
Mingan leaned forward. “What does the Kahn say?”
Catu smiled. “We are honored! The new court commissioner will arrive today. Kublai Khan asks us to receive this new envoy with all courtesies and to supply him with an escort to Singui. I have heard good things about this man. They call him Marco Polo.”
“Is he a great warrior like the Khan, Father?”
“No, he is a fair-skinned agent from the kingdoms in the West. He has found great favor at court.”
“But aren’t all great men warriors?” Mingan asked. “The Khan surrounds himself with only great men.”
“Part of what you say is true, my son. The Khan does bring the most able to his court, but not all great men are warriors. You will understand when you meet Marco Polo.”
“He cannot be much if he has not been trained as a warrior,” Mingan muttered as he turned away.
“Wait, my son,” Catu said. “I will need escorts to accompany our honored guest to Singui. You will be one of them.”
“But, Father,” Mingan protested, “you promised I could go hunting with you tomorrow!”
“There will be other hunting trips.”
“But I wanted to show you what a good rider and marksman I am.”
Catu smiled. “I send you with Marco Polo because I know your skills. Now go. Tell your mother to prepare a feast to greet the new envoy.”
Mingan, full of disappointment, slowly headed for the tent. Now it would be many months before he could join the hunters. The journey to Singui would seem long when one had to jog beside a scrawny little man from the West. There would be no racing one’s pony and standing in the stirrups to shoot arrows at moving targets and no practicing turns at full speed—turns that could surprise and defeat an enemy. By the time the lookout sighted a thin dustline approaching, Mingan wished he had never heard of Marco Polo.
The dusty caravan drew up before the felt tents, and the riders dismounted. All the men were dressed in the padded winter clothing of the Mongols. Not until Mingan came closer and saw the fur flaps turned back from their faces could he distinguish between Marco and his companions. The face of this Westerner, bronzed like the rest, was young and smiling. His eager round eyes, resting for a second on Mingan, were warm and friendly. Marco laughed as he pushed back a lock of his curly black hair. How can any man laugh after the grueling journey across the plains? Mingan wondered.
Catu beckoned to Mingan as he said, “Worthy Commissioner, this is Mingan, my firstborn. He will be among the escorts who accompany you to Singui.”
Marco smiled and in the Mongol tongue replied, “I feel honored that the eldest son of Prince Catu will be with me.” He put an arm across Mingan’s shoulder. “He is a sturdy lad, and a fine horseman, I’ll wager.”
Mingan found himself warming to Marco. “I can handle a bow too.”
“Fine!” Marco said. “I shall have need of your skills to keep us in game between here and Singui.”
The feast was a happy one, much pleasanter than Mingan had anticipated. He found himself forgetting his disappointment over the postponed hunting trip as he listened to the many lively adventures Marco described to his attentive audience.
The wind had died down by dark. When the feasting was over, Mingan escorted Marco to his tent. The outside air struck Mingan’s face like an icy hand.
Marco stopped suddenly. “Look at those stars!” He swept his arm in an arc over his head. “Are they not brilliant tonight?”
“They are, indeed,” Mingan replied. “That one in the west is brightest of all.”
Marco spoke softly. “It would be tonight.” He sighed. “In my home in faraway Venice, it is Christmas Eve, a joyful night when everyone celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mingan turned and asked, “Was this Jesus one of your great warriors?”
“No, but He was the greatest man who ever lived.”
“How can that be?” Mingan asked. “Great men are always warriors.”
“You are right, Mingan, but not warriors as you know them—men who ride fast and shoot well. Christ never touched a bow or spear, yet He fought evil and injustice. His sword was truth, and His shield was a deep faith in God. He believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, and in peace and goodwill to all men!”
Mingan looked thoughtful. “Those are fine ideas to believe in, like the sayings of our wise men. But how can we live them?”
Marco faced Mingan and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I wondered the same thing when I was your age, Mingan. I didn’t find the answer until I began to travel.”
“Did the great Kublai Khan reveal it to you?”
“Not the Khan alone, but many people—people like you.”
“Like me?”
Marco nodded. “As I met people and grew to know them, I found I understood and appreciated and respected them. It was easy to do unto them as I wished them to do unto me, and to feel goodwill toward all men.”
Mingan was quiet as he gazed at the bright star near the horizon. At last he spoke. “On the way to Singui, will you tell me more about Jesus Christ, whose birth is celebrated tonight?”
Marco seized Mingan’s hand in a warm grip. “Indeed I will! Good night, my friend, and Buon Natale to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘a good Christmas to you.’”
Mingan smiled. The trip to Singui would be long, but it promised much. Softly he repeated, “Buon Natale, Buon Natale.”

When he was just 10 years old, Joshua Dennis spent five days trapped in the pitch-black darkness of an abandoned mine. When rescuers finally heard his faint cry for help and pulled him out of the horrible darkness, he was disoriented, cold, and exhausted. Much to their surprise, he wasn’t afraid. Josh spent his time sleeping, yelling for help, and praying. “Someone was protecting me,” he explained. “I knew people were going to find me.”
Joshua’s simple but profound faith had been nurtured by his parents, who taught him that he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was at all times. They taught him he had been born with the Light of Christ within him. Truly, Josh had been brought up in light and truth (see D&C 93:40) so that when he found himself huddled on a ledge 2,000 feet deep in a mine, he had drawn upon that light to sustain and comfort him, to give him courage and hope. Josh experienced what Abinadi taught when, speaking of Christ, he said: “He is the light and life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened” (Mosiah 16:9).
Remember little Josh Dennis? He is now Elder Dennis serving a mission far away from the dark mine which held him captive. Now Elder Dennis finds his way along the narrow, unfamiliar paths of Honduras sharing a message of hope, salvation, and light. What he teaches every day is the paradox he experienced as a young boy lost in a mine: that amidst encircling gloom, amidst the darkest possible circumstances, it is possible to feel hope, peace, and comfort—all because of the light which is stronger than all darkness, the light of Jesus Christ.

As we raise a hand to sustain a person, we commit to work for whatever purpose of the Lord that person is called to accomplish. When our children were small, my wife was called to teach the little children in our ward. I not only raised my hand to sustain her, but I also prayed for her and then asked permission to help her. The lessons I received of appreciation for what women do and of the Lord’s love for children still bless my family and my life.

“I am going to shovel Sister Gourdin’s sidewalk,” Phoebe said to her mother. Sister Gourdin was an elderly neighbor.
“Can you do it by yourself?” Mom asked Phoebe. When Phoebe said she could, her mother helped her put on her boots and zip her coat.
Mom watched out the window as Phoebe began to lift the deep snow with a large shovel. Soon Phoebe had finished the sidewalk. She found Sister Gourdin’s newspaper in the snow and was excited to leave it on the doorstep.
Phoebe’s mother told her that shoveling the snow was a wonderful way to show love to Sister Gourdin.
When Phoebe’s older brothers and sister got home from school, her mother told them what Phoebe had done. “Where do you think she came up with the idea to do that?” Phoebe’s mother asked them. And then she said, “It came from watching all of you who are such good examples of helping our neighbors.”
Phoebe’s act of service shows that no one is too young to serve others.

William’s first contact with the Latter-day Saints evidently came when he was about age 13. While doing an errand for his father, he stopped at a window where some curious boys were peering in; a gentleman suddenly ushered him inside where a Mormon meeting was beginning.
“I took my seat in one corner of the room,” he recalled, and “thought it was a very funny place, and not suitable for administering the holy sacrament.” But the sacrament was passed, hymns were sung, and speakers preached. The last speaker was British convert Charles Penrose, who later served in the First Presidency. His discussion of the Godhead “upset all my confused ideas of God,” William noted. “If ever a sermon touched the heart, this did mine.”

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder. Her tennis shoes pounded along the side of the road, and her ponytail swished from side to side.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned away from the road and ran across the gravel parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smells of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins had a smile in his voice as he looked up from the cash register. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them through the back door and into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now. I need all the help I can get. Are you saving up for anything special?”
Anne and Cathy exchanged a secret smile. “Yes,” Cathy answered. “A Mother’s Day present for Mum.”
“I know where you could get her some nice bedding plants at a good price.” Mr. Parkins winked at them.
“So do we!” the girls said together.
At the end of the greenhouse, Mr. Parkins opened another door and led them into another greenhouse. There, long tables were covered with solid flats of young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed only long enough to make sure that the girls knew what to do, and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The greenhouse smelled warm and damp. The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the tiny plants. Cathy worked silently beside her, filling each of the tiny container compartments with soil and planting the seedlings. For a long time no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. They were doing it again. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.”
In the next few minutes, Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud. Some of it Anne didn’t understand, but she knew that it wasn’t good because of the way it made her feel. Again she wished Emmy was here. Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
Just last week, Anne and Emmy had been walking home from school with several other girls. The sun was shining, but they all walked with their hands in their pockets, moving quickly to keep warm. Then someone started singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in a really silly way. Everyone laughed and joined in. The next song they sang even sillier, singing high and then low. It was fun until one girl started singing “I Am a Child of God” in the same way. It hadn’t felt funny to Anne anymore. It had given her the same sick feeling then as the bad talk in the greenhouse was giving her now.
But Emmy had known what to do.
“Hey, let’s not make fun of Church songs, OK?” she had said quietly. She made it sound friendly.
The other girls had looked surprised for a moment, but one said, “OK,” and started singing the song the right way.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid that if she asked the boys to stop, they’d just get worse. Now they were using words that Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Her sister’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she looked as if she was going to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered to her.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Yeah. Me too.” They were silent for a few seconds, trying to not listen to the boys. “Besides,” Anne added, “Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She tucked her chin down so that Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know that she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. It was hard to remember to be gentle with the plants. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do! Suddenly she had an idea.
Softly, almost too softly to hear, she started humming “A Child’s Prayer.” When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. She smiled. By the end of the song, both of them were softly humming together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry any more. She started humming “I Am a Child of God,” only just a little louder. By the end of that song, Lance was quieter, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing “Nephi’s Courage” out loud. Cathy joined in, and their two voices echoed sweetly off the walls and ceiling, while the boys’ voices softened to silence.
Anne and Cathy were still singing one Primary song after another when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get on home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouses and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Primary babies,” Lance hissed as he went past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, and goosebumps dotted the girls’ arms, but they didn’t feel cold.
“I feel all warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

I had lunch recently with Elder and Sister John Hess of Ashton, Idaho. “We’re just old potato farmers,” John told me, but that is precisely what the nation of Belarus in the Russia Moscow Mission needed. For years the very best potato yields on government plots of ground there had been 50 sacks of potatoes a hectare. Considering it takes 22 sacks of seed to plant a hectare, the return was poor indeed. They needed help.

Brother Hess asked for ground just three feet away from the government plots, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work with the same seed, tools, and fertilizer available in Belarus. Come harvest time they began to dig, then called on others to dig, then called on everyone to dig. With the same rainfall and soil, but with an extra measure of Idaho industry, experience, and prayer, the plots planted by the Hesses produced a whopping 550 sacks per hectare—11 times better than any prior yield on that land. At first no one would believe the difference. They wondered if secret teams had come in the night or if some wonder drug had been used. But it was none of that. Brother Hess said, “We needed a miracle, so we asked for one.” Now just little more than a year later, in that community young proselyting missionaries are finding much more success just because an “old potato farmer” from Idaho answered the call of his church.

When our youngest daughter was about four years of age, I came home from hospital duties quite late one evening. I found my dear wife to be very weary. I don’t know why. She only had nine children underfoot all day. So I offered to get our four-year-old ready for bed. I began to give the orders: “Take off your clothes; hang them up; put on your pajamas; brush your teeth; say your prayers” and so on, commanding in a manner befitting a tough sergeant in the army. Suddenly she cocked her head to one side, looked at me with a wistful eye, and said, “Daddy, do you own me?”

She taught me an important lesson. I was using coercive methods on this sweet soul. To rule children by force is the technique of Satan, not of the Savior. No, we don’t own our children. Our parental privilege is to love them, to lead them, and to let them go.

It was 40 years ago I made the decision to serve a mission with my wife in my retirement, and now, 40 years later, we are embarking upon a mission to Lusaka, Zambia. In March 1984 I returned from my first mission as a young man. A wise mission president exhorted me to set worthy, lifetime goals. Serving another mission one day, but this time with my wife, was on that list and has never left it for 40 years!
I’d like to testify of the power of INTENT, but to effectively do so I need to take you back to a time before this first mission.
I left school at the age of 18 with poor A-level results. If I had to sum up my life it would be football, music, best mates and girlfriends. I managed to pass an aptitude test with British Gas and committed myself to a commercial traineeship for the next 3 years. I was to get paid for studying. A ‘win-win’ if ever I had encountered one!
However, this was a time in my young life when my years growing up in the Church clashed with “the world” and after a few years of living one face to my parents and church friends, and another to my work colleagues and teammates, I felt unsettled. I was not at ease with myself.
Fortunately, I had retained some private, religious behaviours. I prayed from time to time, usually when I needed something; I attended church just to meet with my friends; I did like to read the scriptures, bingeing from time to time when I needed a ‘pick me up’. It was whilst on one of these binges that I came across a scripture that hit me. It was in James 1:8, “A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.” These words rang true and caused me to think very deeply about myself and how I was living. I had got to the point where I needed to know the truth; one way or another I needed to know!
It came to a head when I went on a 2-week training course to Nottingham. I was in my twenty-second year now. The lads on the course kept pestering me to ‘go out on the town’ … and I knew what that meant! But, after giving them some feeble, embarrassing excuses as to why I couldn’t, I determined instead to go on a long walk and ask God for the truth. As I walked, I prayed, and my prayer was demanding: “Lord, if you want me to live this gospel, with all its inconvenient commandments, for the rest of my life, then I need to know if this church is true!” I walked and prayed and prayed and walked for a few hours, repeating that same prayer. When I got back to my bedroom late at night, I got into this big double bed and asked the Lord one more time and implored that I did not want to sleep without this being resolved.
Then someone spoke to me. I say “someone” because I was alarmed by the voice. I looked around the room fully expecting someone to be there. There was no one to be seen, but I heard a voice that was external to me; it wasn’t my normal voice of conscience. I’d never heard it before nor have I since but, oh, was it powerful, penetrating, firm, loving and fatherly, all at the same time. Four words were said: “Martin, serve a mission!” This to say the least surprised me and in a split second I responded, “But, but, Lord, I never asked you if I should serve a mission, I only asked if the church was true!” I had gotten more than I had bargained for.
I love the Book of Mormon because, in contrast with the bible, it has some very personal accounts of people who have followed Moroni’s recipe for receiving revelation: “if ye will ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ; He will manifest the truth of it unto you by the power of the Holy Ghost.” Alma when he sought forgiveness and relief from his torment and Nephi when he wanted to know the truth of his father’s dream, to name but a few. But, it was the experience of Enos which struck me more profoundly recently when I read of his very personal account as part of my ‘Come, Follow Me’ study.
I knew of the similarity of my experience, his having been brought up by a father who was a “just man” and how he “knelt down before his Maker, and cried unto Him in mighty prayer and supplication for his soul” and that he had prayed “all the day long” and into the night time he “did still raise his voice high that it reached the heavens”. But I was struck on reading it this time, for I had read it many times before and somehow missed this part of Enos’s account. Enos testifies: “And there came a voice unto me”. That describes perfectly and simply what happened to me. Oh, how I felt at one with Enos! Some of these amazing revelations we read of in the scriptures can happen to us.
The voice said to Enos: “thy sins are forgiven thee”. To me I can infer it said thy sins are forgiven thee, but I had an additional charge …. now get yourself on a mission!
As you can imagine, this experience changed my life! I now had direction, I now had the truth! Did I serve with all my “heart, might, mind and strength” on that mission to London when I was a ‘youngish’ man? Absolutely! Can you see why I would have set a goal, and it was my intention, to serve again with my wonderful wife as my companion one day? Can you see why it was an easy decision for me to serve again, because the decision had been made 40 years ago.
For those who may have put Moroni’s promise to the test and don’t feel they’ve had an answer to their prayers, I would refer you to Elder Dushku’s general conference talk. After relating Joseph Smith’s experience in the grove, he explained: “Rather than sending us a pillar of light, the Lord sends us a ray of light, and then another, and another … these rays are continuously poured down upon God’s children.” It’s my belief that those rays combined can be as strong as, if not stronger, than a pillar of light experience. I have discussed this with my wife and that is the way her testimony has been forged and believe me, her testimony and faith is inspirationally stronger than mine. She is going to be the best companion ever!
My intention in writing this article is that it might inspire someone, whether young or old, to set worthy lifetime goals and to live intentionally. I bear testimony of the power of doing so.

Well, I know from personal experience that one of the most difficult adjustments you have to make in life is to return from a position in the mission field, where you live so close to the Lord, to a position back in the world. My own experience was extreme. I had a month between my release as a missionary and my enlistment as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. The contrast was overwhelming. But I joined the Marine Corps at a most interesting time. Just a few months before they had recruited a Mormon Battalion of Marines. I followed them into boot camp. The reputation they had made during their period of basic training was most unique. To be a Mormon following that great group was a mark of distinction.

As the years of service progressed, I noticed how apparent those who lived their religion were among their buddies in the service. Those who stooped to the level of the world could not stop the spiral down, and I think they returned home with a heavy heart and a very concerned conscience. But those who were able to overcome, to live as they should, were unique in the service, and were noticed and used. They returned home with greater joy, satisfaction, and peace of mind.

“Wash your hands for supper,” Mother called from the kitchen. “Our home teachers are coming tonight. They’ll be here at seven o’clock.”
Ryan liked their home teachers to come. One—Brother Toft—was a real jet fighter pilot and told awesome stories. Ryan lived near the Air Force base. Every time an airplane zoomed overhead, he and his sister, Becky, rushed outside to wave, just in case Brother Toft was in it.
Ryan had a lot on his mind these days. Soon he was to have open-heart surgery. He wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he had been in several hospitals and had seen many doctors. Looking at his soapy hands in the running water, he remembered a doctor’s hands in see-through gloves. “This won’t hurt you,” the doctor had promised. “The gloves just keep my hands clean so that I don’t give you any germs.” Ryan thought now, Maybe if I got see-through gloves, I wouldn’t have to wash up so much!
Dessert was the best part of supper. Mother served scoops of ice cream; then Becky stuck a chocolate sandwich cookie into the top of Ryan’s treat and teased, “Here’s your favorite.”
He did enjoy cookies! The last time he stayed in the hospital, a nurse had asked, “What would you like?” Ryan didn’t know that she was offering him a drink, and when he’d answered, “I like cookies,” she smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” She came back with two cookies in a plastic bag. Ryan had been too ill to eat them, but he’d held onto them until his stomach felt better.
“Bring your dishes over, Ryan,” Mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “Hurry—let’s get the kitchen cleaned up before the home teachers come.”
Ryan carried his dishes to the sink, then skipped to the front window and looked down the hillside. “I’ll watch for their car!”
“I hope they come in Brother Odahlan’s cute pumpkin beetle car,” Becky said.
Ryan hoped so too. He wondered what it would be like to ride in the little orange car all the way to Primary Children’s Medical Center. It would take all the next day to make that trip in Daddy’s big car, he knew. “Here they come! I see the pumpkin car.”
Becky and Ryan met the home teachers at the door. Entering in Sunday suits, Brother Toft and young Brother Odahlan looked like missionaries. Ryan’s brother, Rick, was on a mission to Greece. Ryan didn’t know where Greece was, but he had watched Rick climb onto a huge airplane to fly to the “other side of the world.” I hope I live to be a missionary, Ryan thought.
Brother Toft carried a brown paper bag. It looked heavy. “We have a special message for Ryan tonight,” he began. “Would you sit here between us?”
Ryan eagerly climbed up on the sofa between his home teachers.
“Now, Ryan, tonight’s lesson is for you, but is it all right if the rest of your family listens too?” Ryan having grinned permission, Brother Toft opened his scriptures. “The Book of Mormon tells us about a time when Jesus Christ came to our continent.”
Brother Odahlan said, “While he was here, he did many good things. For example, he taught the people to pray always and that anytime anyone needed help, he could ask Heavenly Father for it. Do you know how to pray?”
Ryan nodded.
“Jesus called the sick to him and blessed each of them,” Brother Toft added. “He also called all the children to him and blessed them. Ryan, did you know that the same priesthood power Jesus used is in this room tonight?” Brother Toft pointed to Ryan’s father. “Your dad holds this priesthood power.”
Ryan smiled at Dad. He wanted to be just like Dad. He hoped that he would grow up and hold the priesthood, too, someday.
Brother Toft assisted as Dad gave Ryan a blessing. In it, Heavenly Father promised that Ryan would have a good heart surgery and would get better. Ryan knew that it was true. He felt happy.
After a family prayer, the home teachers had a surprise. Ryan watched Brother Odahlan open the large brown paper bag and take out gifts. “These are for you, Ryan. Do you want to open them in the car on your way to Utah, in the hospital, or right now?”
That wasn’t a hard decision! Everyone watched as Ryan opened gift after gift. There were toys and games and books and crayons—even a bucket of animal cookies to eat on the way to the hospital in Salt Lake City.
Finally there was one present left. Brother Toft held it up high. “This one is different,” he said. “This one is for you to give to Becky.”
Willingly Ryan handed it over and watched Becky unwrap it. Thirty colorful candy sticks were tied with a pretty ribbon.
“That is a candy calendar, Becky.” Brother Odahlan explained. “You can eat one candy stick each day that your mother and Ryan are gone.”
“Our home teachers think of everything,” Mother said.
“My young companion helps me,” Brother Toft admitted. “He came up with the idea for this lesson.”
That night Ryan packed his treasures for the trip. “I’m glad that Jesus sends us home teachers,” he whispered when Mother tucked him into bed that night. “I think that, in a way, they’re going with me, and I’m glad.”

This summer I injured a shoulder and lost the use of an arm for weeks. I hadn’t realized how much one arm depends upon the other for balance, or how much less I could lift with one arm than two, or that there were some things I couldn’t do at all. This disability not only renewed my respect for those who deal so well with a physical limitation, but helped me realize how much more two arms working together can do.

My wife and I wanted to teach our children the principle of giving genuine, unselfish service. So one night in home evening, we announced that we were going to begin a program called “el frijolito de oro”—“the little golden bean.”
We gave each of the children a plastic container with a lid and told them that for every act of service they performed spontaneously for a family member—without anyone asking them to do it—we would give them a little bean to put in their container. We explained that during our next home evening, we would count the little beans. The person with the most beans would receive special recognition.
The results were remarkable! We didn’t have enough brooms in the house—everyone wanted to sweep! And we didn’t see a single toy out of place during that entire week. We began to wonder if we would have enough beans to get through the week!
During that week, my wife broke her foot. She had to have a cast on her entire leg. The doctor said that during the first three days, she should have absolute rest and that she should keep her leg elevated.
This, of course, gave more opportunities to serve. And it helped us discover how much the children were coming to understand the beautiful principle of service.
On one of the days when my wife was to have complete rest, she wanted to sit in the living room. Just as she got settled, Betito, one of the youngest of our children, ran and brought a chair for her to rest her leg on. Next, he brought a blanket and put it on the chair. Then he lifted her leg onto the blanket.
Caressing his head, my wife said to him, “Go to the cupboard and get two beans for this beautiful act of service.”
But instead of going to the cupboard, Betito looked up to his mother and said, “Mamá, I don’t want any beans. I did this because I love you very much.”

I remember as a young missionary in New Zealand seeing men who stood way above the other people in that country because they had testimonies of the gospel and lived the way they should. One of them was a rugby player for the All Blacks (the equivalent of being an all-American football player in the U.S.). He had played rugby all over the world and told me that he always knelt down and prayed in the locker room before going out to play in any game. When I met him, his rugby career was over, but he was strong in the faith and a good, hard worker who could shear sheep with the best of the Maori men. He has always been one of my heroes.

Many appreciate this chance to be an example for their own family. Says Elder Vernon Snarr of Salt Lake City, “We felt that we could not expect our ten grandchildren to be obedient to a call from the Lord if we, as grandparents, were not obedient.”

During Sister LaVaun Asay’s orientation interview with her mission president, Elder M. Russell Ballard, now of the First Quorum of the Seventy, she confided to him that she didn’t know how to be a missionary and was nervous and frightened to try. So he kindly went through a practice session with her asking the golden questions.

Later, on her first missionary day in Kirtland Lake, Ontario, while her husband, Verl, was paying for their groceries, she found the courage to ask the lady at the grocery check counter the golden question. The lady responded positively.

After the Asays’ first discussion with this woman and her husband, Robert and Betti W. Guild, Robert invited his brother, Don, and his wife, Sheila, to join them. After a short time all four were baptized. Their influence among friends and other family members has led to at least twelve more baptisms so far—all because Sister Asay discovered courage she didn’t think she had.

Another blessing is spending twenty-four hours a day together—even though it takes some adjustment. Many couples reported their joy from working hard together, seeing their eternal companion doing the Lord’s work, and being involved in a spiritual atmosphere together for so many hours at a time.

Missionary couples and mission leaders are quick to insist, however, that a mission is not a leisure time—it is not a retirement vacation. “When a retired couple moves into missionary work,” says Elder Pinegar, “they have just accepted a challenging and exciting task.”

But Elder Dean M. and Sister Marchey Lloyd of Pocatello, Idaho, believe that shouldn’t discourage anyone. They appreciate the spiritual development they’ve had on their mission. “We were retired, and doing some long-planned traveling. We were enjoying our trips, but our spiritual life was not receiving much nourishment. Our decision to go on a mission brought new vigor, new emotions, new friends, new places, new challenges. It brought us closer together as husband and wife; we had a common goal and a real partnership. And best of all, it brought new spiritual growth, instead of spiritual retirement.”

I told this story to my daughter in Houston who has a son in first grade. She said that Sean had forgotten to take his books for library reading that day. She debated whether to take them to him at school. His teacher is very strict and trying to teach the children to be responsible. Then she said, "but he is trying so hard." Knowing the teacher may be critical of her intrusion she did deliver the books. Needless to say, Sean was so thrilled. He wants to be responsible and he is trying so hard.

In the exercise of agency and in the divine providence of God, Lucy’s sons Joseph and Hyrum ultimately sealed their testimonies with their blood. As the grieving mother looked upon their lifeless remains, she cried, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken this family!” As a kind blessing to a faithful mother, the Lord softened her grief and granted to her the peace that only God can bestow. A voice spoke to her soul: “I have taken them to myself, that they might have rest” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 324).

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

On June 2, 2002, my little granddaughter, Susan Melina, who was only seven months old, became ill, and her parents took her to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed her with a kidney infection. She also developed a serious bacterial infection that spread throughout her system, causing damage to her heart, liver, spleen, kidneys, lungs, and nervous and digestive systems. She was so ill she was admitted to intensive care.
The doctors advised her parents to prepare themselves because she could die at any time. She remained in intensive care for 26 days, during which time she was given antibiotics and many transfusions. Meanwhile, we, her family, fasted often and asked God for a miracle, for a complete healing—if it was His will. Two priesthood brethren anointed and blessed her.
When Susan Melina had been in the hospital for two weeks, her mother became ill also and had emergency surgery for appendicitis. This was a difficult trial for the whole family.
Twenty days after Susan Melina entered the hospital, she was no better. But because of the generosity of a person we didn’t even know, her parents were able to move her to a private hospital where she would receive better care.
One Saturday at noon I received a telephone call from my daughter, Susan Carolina. I was in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple, where I work in a custodial position. My daughter told me that her baby’s condition had worsened and that the infection had now lodged in one of the ventricles of her heart. According to the doctors, it was hard to do anything to help her because she was completely malnourished. She was so ill that it was dangerous to hold her because it could cause internal bleeding. When I learned about the situation, I immediately began to pray to my Heavenly Father. Once again I fasted.
The next day, Sunday, my daughter called and told me that the bacteria had completely disappeared. The doctors were releasing Susan Melina on Monday because she was out of danger.
As we rejoiced in this great miracle, we realized that not every prayer of faith is answered so quickly in the way we desire. But I am infinitely grateful to Heavenly Father. I have no doubt that He lives and hears our prayers.

I know it is important for me to keep in mind your perspective. This truth I learned from a granddaughter. I was speaking to her family about the importance of having sufficient numbers of young men and young women in a ward to maximize social opportunities and to learn together the principles of the gospel. I commented, “Why, do you know that when Elder Joseph Wirthlin was a bishop here in Salt Lake City, he had a full quorum of forty-eight boys who were priests.”

My granddaughter, who had been listening but saying little, suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, that would be wonderful!”

I came to appreciate the importance of having the right perspective. It has been said that the young want to change the world—and the old want to change the young!