Gospel Story Finder

My grandpa was not a member of the Church, but he taught me to be fair and honest with everyone. I remember being in the field with him when storm clouds quickly came up. Grandpa unhooked the horses from the wagon so that they could run back to the barn. Then he and I got under the wagon. As we lay there, waiting for the storm to pass, my grandpa told me all about his parents and brothers and sisters.

This proclamation was issued on the 150th anniversary of the organization of the Church, which occurred on April 6, 1830. It was announced by President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) and read by then-Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) during the Sunday morning session of general conference on April 6, 1980. It was broadcast from the Peter Whitmer Sr. log home, where the Church was organized.
“We testify that this restored gospel was introduced into the world by the marvelous appearance of God the Eternal Father and his Son, the resurrected Lord Jesus Christ,” it reads. “That most glorious manifestation marked the beginning of the fulfillment of the promise of Peter, who prophesied of ‘the times of restitution of all things, which God hath spoken by the mouth of all his holy prophets since the world began,’ this in preparation for the coming of the Lord to reign personally upon the earth (Acts 3:21).”9

Kris liked the sport from the start. She won her first tournament at eight and has been playing in singles, doubles, and mixed doubles competition ever since. During the winter months of her Primary years, Kris played at 5:00 A.M. on a makeshift court—a tennis net strung across a BYU basketball practice floor. Getting up early became a habit, and Kris attended early morning seminary in order to schedule her other classes and leave school at noon for more tennis practice.

The devoted Apostle Peter described “times of restitution of all things … since the world began.” The Apostle Paul wrote that in the fulness of times, God would “gather … in one all things in Christ,” “Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone.” I felt those prophecies so strongly when I participated in the dedication of the Rome Italy Temple. All of the prophets and apostles were there bearing testimony of Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the world, as had Peter and Paul. The Church is a living example of that restitution, brothers and sisters, and our members are witnesses of those divine prophecies long ago.

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, over a number of years had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help, and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.
Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?
A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.
They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.
There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.
The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.
Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.
Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”
She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing “just fine.” Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

Several years ago I wrote a story about my sister and submitted it to you. It was published in the April 1984 issue under the title “Lifeline.” It told of my little sister’s trials during the time she lived with my father (a Baptist minister) in southern Georgia. The story described the heartache she felt at being cut off from the Church she loves and the help she received when her home teachers listened to the promptings of the Spirit and came to visit her.
My sister (Jean Swilley) remained true to the gospel and passed through the refiner’s fire. She moved to Chicago in July of 1984 to live with my mother. Jean became active in her ward, and before long her bubbly spirit was charming the members in Illinois just as it once had in Mississippi. My Mom could not help but be influenced by the strength of Jean’s testimony, and she began her journey back into the fold of the Church. Both she and her new husband are now strong, active members of their ward. They are very happy even though they miss my sister very much.
Jean left Chicago last week to enter the MTC. Though she always insisted she had no desire to go on a mission, she obeyed her Father’s call and is now a very excited sister earnestly studying her discussions in Swedish. Though I am sure Jean will face many a refiner’s fire in Sweden, I know that she will come through them clinging to the lifeline her Father tossed to her many years ago. We thought you might like to know. Thanks again for printing Jean’s story.
Elizabeth (Swilley) SheridanIrmo, South Carolina

I’m going to tell you about a goal I made when I was 10 years old.
It all started on a trip to visit my grandparents. My grandparents had temple books in their living room, and I loved looking at the pictures. I decided that I wanted to make my own temple book. I made a long-term goal to draw all of the temples.
I decided to draw my first temple. I picked up a pencil, looked up a picture online, and drew the St. George Utah Temple. Then I drew the Logan Utah Temple and the Manti Utah Temple. My mom suggested that I use a big sketchbook for my temples. Now, a year and a half later, I am at temple number 81, the Reno Nevada Temple. I still have 105 temples to go!
There are times when I want to give up on the temple I’m drawing. When this happens, I like to say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to help me through the hard parts.

Even though the Kirtland Temple is not owned by the Church anymore and is not used in the same way that other latter-day temples are, Adam feels the Spirit when he thinks of what happened there. His dad once explained: “Imagine that we didn’t have keys to our house and we couldn’t get back in. That’s kind of like how it was before the Restoration. We had left our heavenly home and didn’t have the priesthood ordinances to help us get back. Then Moses, Elijah, and Elias appeared to Joseph Smith in the Kirtland Temple and restored the priesthood keys, making it possible for us to return to Heavenly Father.” The Spirit still testifies of the wonderful events that happened in the Kirtland Temple.

Eighteen years ago, during my first visit to general conference as a new stake president, I learned a valuable lesson in punctuality. I wanted to visit all the Church departments, which at that time were spread over a wide area of Salt Lake City. Above all I had an earnest desire to meet President David O. McKay. I inquired whether it would be possible to see the prophet for just a few minutes and was delighted when I was told to return at 1:30 P.M. for this great privilege. My heart sang as I made other visits during the morning, and the time passed very quickly.
Suddenly I looked at my watch and was horrified to see that it was almost the appointed time. I literally ran to the Church Administration Building, arriving red-faced and breathless. Imagine my feelings when I was told, “By being one minute late you may have missed a golden opportunity.” Those words still ring in my ears, even though I was subsequently able to meet President McKay.

Relating his mother’s sorrow at his rejection of the Buddhist faith for the gospel of Jesus Christ, Elder Komatsu said that he “promised her that if she would permit me to be baptized and later found that through my behavior I had caused her any embarrassment—or committed some shameful or dishonorable act, then all she had to do was ask me to stop going to Church, and I would, without question, obey her will.”
If, however, he were to become a better individual, he asked for permission to continue to attend because it was “the place where I [could] gain an education for an eternal life.” He added, “It is my testimony today that I never had to leave the Church nor cause my mother any concern about my behavior.”

The headquarters of the Church are in this city which recently hosted the 19th Winter Olympics. We made a deliberate decision that we would not use this as a time or place to proselytize, but we were confident that out of this significant event would come a wonderful thing for the Church. The great buildings which we have here—the Temple, the Tabernacle, this magnificent Conference Center, the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, Family History facilities, the Church Administration Building, the Church Office Building, our Welfare facilities, together with scores of chapels in this valley—could not be overlooked by those who walked the streets of this and neighboring cities. As Mike Wallace once remarked to me, “These structures all denote something solid.”

And beyond this, we had total confidence in our people, many thousands of them, who would serve as volunteers in this great undertaking. They would be dependable; they would be pleasant; they would be knowledgeable; they would be accommodating. The unique and distinctive capacity of our people in speaking the languages of the world would prove to be a tremendous asset beyond anything to be found elsewhere.

Well, it all worked out. The visitors came by the hundreds of thousands. Some came with suspicion and hesitancy, old and false images persisting in their minds. They came feeling they might get trapped in some unwanted situation by religious zealots. But they found something they never expected. They discovered not only the scenic wonder of this area, with its magnificent mountains and valleys, they found not only the wonderful spirit of the international games at their best, but they found beauty in this city. They found hosts who were gracious and accommodating and anxious to assist them. I do not wish to infer that such hospitality was limited to our people. The entire community joined together in a great expression of hospitality. But out of all of this came something wonderful for this Church. Representatives of the media, so often a tough and calloused group, with very few exceptions spoke and wrote in language both complimentary and accurately descriptive of a unique culture they found here, of the people they met and dealt with, of the spirit of hospitality which they felt.

Television carried the picture to billions of people across the earth. Newspapers and magazines ran story after story.

Thousands upon tens of thousands walked through Temple Square, admired the majestic House of the Lord, sat in the Tabernacle and listened to the matchless music of the choir. More thousands filled this great Conference Center to watch a wonderful production dealing with the Church and its worldwide mission. Other thousands visited the Family History Center. The media were hosted in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. We were interviewed for television, radio, and the press by correspondents from many parts of this nation and from across the world. I am told that nearly 4,000 stories about the Church appeared in the German press alone.

Georgie Anne Geyer, prominent syndicated writer whose column appears in many newspapers, wrote as follows: “How on earth could a largely Mormon state do something so daring as hosting an international celebrity meeting? Would the world come gladly to a state whose dominant religion asks members to abstain from alcohol, tobacco and even caffeine, three staples of international conferences?”

And then she went on to quote Raymond T. Grant, artistic director of the Olympic Arts Festival. He talked of the opening ceremony and said: “‘You know, 98 percent of the entire cast were volunteers, and that’s huge. In fact, most were not paid at all. This is an extraordinary story, and I’d link it directly to Mormon culture. As a Catholic boy from New York, I found it interesting that Brigham Young, the founder of the Utah settlement of the Mormons, built a theater before anything else.’

“He went on to tally up: The state has six dance companies; more pianos and harps are sold in Utah than anywhere in the United States; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir has [360] members; and the oldest Steinway dealership in Utah … was started as early as 1862. In Utah, their per capita spending on students is one of the lowest—yet they boast high test scores. ‘It has been fascinating for me, having to tap into this culture.’”

Miss Geyer concluded her story by writing: “It is simply the mix of a serious and upright religion, of families who foster and insist upon providing the highest levels of culture right along with the highest modern technology, and of generally sensible organizing and governing. In short, it is a modern mix of the old America” (“Salt Lake City and State of Utah Reveal Themselves to the World,” Salt Lake Tribune, 15 Feb. 2002, A15).

If there were time, I could give you many quotations from the seasoned journalists of the world, who wrote in a most laudatory fashion.

Was there anything negative? Of course. But it was minimal. We had private interviews with presidents of nations, with ambassadors, with leaders in business, and other fields.

This kind of faith gives Ghanaian members confidence that their Father in Heaven watches over them. One day, Beatrice Ashon withdrew five million Ghanaian cedis (about US $4,500) from her bank in Accra for use in her business enterprises. Apparently, someone was watching. That night, a gang burst into her home, fired several shots, tied up a relative, and locked a group of visiting children in another room. The gang demanded Sister Ashon’s money and also stole some household goods. But no one was hurt. Police learned later that this same gang had killed victims in other incidents. Sister Ashon believes everyone in the home was protected by the power of God.
After the robbery, her businesses failed because of the loss of the money. “That was a very big test,” she says, “but we are happy.” She is persevering in the gospel and looking for ways to begin again financially.

8. Apr. 1829 Having been promised the gift to translate (see D&C 6:25), Oliver Cowdery desired to assist in translating.
9. Apr. 1829 When Oliver Cowdery failed in his attempt to translate, Joseph Smith inquired of the Lord on Oliver’s behalf to understand why.

“Margaret and Neil, take this wheat to the gristmill on City Creek, please,” Mother said.
Neil smiled happily. He was only four years old, but he liked to help Mother as much as he could. He proudly took the small bag of wheat kernels in his arms.
“I’ll carry it,” Margaret announced, snatching the bag from Neil’s arms. “You’re too little. You might drop it, and you know we can’t afford to lose any of it!”
That was certainly true! When the Gardner family had arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on October 3, 1847, they had rejoiced that they had reached this sanctuary for the Saints. But that didn’t mean that everything was perfect. Now it was winter, and Neil was often hungry. Each family received a little wheat given out by weight. They ate sego and thistle roots. Once in a while hunters brought meat to the settlers.
When they got to the gristmill, Neil watched carefully as the wheat was ground. When a handful of kernels spilled on the floor while it was being ground, he and Margaret sprang to gather it up. Margaret wrapped it in her handkerchief. That evening they would parch it on the top of the stove at home. No food could be wasted.
After that cold, hungry winter, spring finally came, and Neil’s family moved to Mill Creek, a few miles from Salt Lake City. They planted a small crop of wheat. When the grain came up, it looked so strong and good. How wonderful it would be to have plenty of flour next winter! But then the crickets came.
Crickets were everywhere. There seemed to be no end to them. They were big and black and ate everything in their paths. Everyone worked in the fields, trying to kill the insects. But it seemed useless. There were just so many crickets.
Finally a day of fasting and prayer was planned. Father and the other men went to Salt Lake to pray for help from Heavenly Father.
While Father was gone, Neil, Mother, and Margaret went into the fields again to fight the crickets. Neil was tired, and the thought of another hungry winter made him want to cry. As they worked, it suddenly became darker. Neil looked up and saw thousands of gulls in the sky. Mother threw up her hands in despair. “What the crickets won’t take, those birds will!” she exclaimed.
Mother sat down and cried. Neil cried too. He didn’t know what would become of his family.
Too tired to fight the bird invaders, Neil and his mother and sister watched the seagulls.
“Mother, look!” Neil shouted. “The gulls aren’t eating our wheat. They are eating the crickets!”
“I believe you are right!” Mother said.
Mother, Margaret, and Neil held hands and danced in a circle. They hugged and laughed. The gulls were saving their wheat!
Suddenly, Mother stopped dancing and dropped to her knees. “Come, children,” she said. “These gulls were sent by Heavenly Father to save His children. Let us give thanks to Him.”
The three of them prayed right there in the wheat field. Neil never forgot the miracle of the gulls.

“Whenever we fall, whenever we do less than we ought, in a very real way we forget mother,” declared President Thomas S. Monson. He added, “Men turn from evil and yield to their better natures when mother is remembered.”1
President Monson’s message has been a strength to me, so much so that when I first read his words, they brought to mind my mother and the wise counsel she gave me years ago, shortly after I joined the Church.
My mother was a member of another Christian church, but she was kind to the missionaries who taught me the gospel. Once I decided to become a Latter-day Saint, she always supported me.
Everything had been going well in my new life as a member of the Church until I joined in Journalism Day observances in my home country of Peru. At a party I attended, talks and complimentary words filled the air. Toasts then followed. As the party grew, so did the temptation to drink with my friends.
The change that converts to the Church make when they accept the gospel often means that they must make new friends. In some circumstances, as I learned, former friends can be instruments of the adversary to tempt us to break the commandments and resume our old ways.
When my co-workers offered me a glass of beer, I took it, drank it, and kept on drinking. At the end of the party, my conscience convicted me. I had fallen. What would my mother say?
When I arrived home, I entered quietly and immediately went to bed. My mother said nothing, but I felt ashamed and decided to quit attending church. A week later, as we sat at the table eating lunch, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Son, never forget that you are a Mormon.”
To go to and from work, I rode my bicycle by the Church meetinghouse. Every time I did so, my conscience bothered me. One evening I decided I could no longer live with my guilt. I parked my bicycle directly in front of the branch president’s office, went in, and requested an interview.
I told the branch president what I had done and asked for forgiveness, after which he counseled with me. From that moment on, I have never broken the Word of Wisdom.
My mother died more than 20 years ago, but I have always tried to remember what she told me never to forget: I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Let’s change the setting. How would you like to be lying on your back on the launching pad at Cape Canaveral, looking at all those dials and switches and hear someone say, “Ten, nine, eight, …”? “Oh, dear, how did I get in here?” you’d think. They tell me that until the count gets to four you can call time, push the off button, abort the mission, and you don’t have to go. But once it gets past four, you are committed. Total commitment? Clear to the moon! That is total commitment.

Jennilynn Carson (12)—I think that my first day will be confusing because I will not know where to go. I will probably get lost and then I will be late for my classes. I probably won’t like my teachers very much. But I think I will like the idea of getting a lot of notebooks.

Joey watched as his mother opened her big trunk full of cloth. She was going to make new jackets for the boys. The first piece she pulled out was a beautiful red—redder than the apples on the tree outside.
Mother measured the fabric and said, “There’s enough here for one coat.”
Joey hoped it would be his. He held the red cloth against his cheek. It was soft and warm.
Mother searched for another piece. “Here’s a green one,” she said. “Let’s see if there is enough to make a jacket.” She stretched it out between her arms. The green reminded Joey of the grass in his backyard—the color it was when you lay down and looked at it closely.
“There’s plenty,” Mother said with a smile, handing the material to Joey. He took it and sniffed, hoping it would smell like the grass. Instead the material smelled just like the cedar trunk. But that was a good smell too. Joey thought he might like a green jacket almost as much as a red one.
Soon bundles of cloth were piled around Mother. One stack was taller than Joey as he sat on the floor beside the trunk.
“This is a beautiful bright yellow, Joey. Do you like it?” Mother held up some fabric the color of the school bus Joey’s brothers rode.
“Oh, yes. May I have a yellow coat?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Let’s measure you and find out.” She took the measuring tape and held one end on Joey’s shoulder, then stretched it down to the top of the pocket on his jeans. “Fifteen inches,” she said. She measured the yellow cloth and shook her head. “There isn’t enough for sleeves, Joey.”
Joey was disappointed. He sat down and picked up the red and green and yellow fabrics and looked at them carefully. All of them were pretty.
Mother found one last piece of jacket material. This one was blue. Joey couldn’t think of anything as blue as this piece of cloth. He decided that the blue material was the nicest color after all.
Mother carefully packed all the pieces of fabric that wouldn’t be used back into the trunk. Joey was sorry to see the yellow cloth disappear. He gathered the green, red, and blue pieces into his arms and carried them into his mother’s workroom. He wondered which of the bright colors his jacket would be made of.
As he walked past the window, Joey looked out and saw the school bus. His three big brothers were coming up the lane, and he ran out to meet them.
“Hey,” he shouted as he ran toward his brothers. “Mom is making new coats for everybody, and I’m helping!”
Peter grabbed him and swung him around. “How can you help Mom sew?” he asked.
“Well, she’s not sewing yet. She just got the material out. And it’s pretty.”
Tommy laughed. “Boys don’t wear pretty clothes.”
“Sure they do,” Joey said, smiling at Tommy. “Your football shirt is pretty.”
Tommy laughed again.
“We made cookies today too,” said Joey.
Tommy picked Joey up and carried him, upside down, into the house.
“Boys,” Mother said, “I’m making new jackets. Peter, please eat one cookie at a time. Which color would each of you like?”
Mike picked up each piece of fabric. He considered each color. “I really like the blue,” he said. “May I have the blue?”
“Does anyone else want the blue?”
“I do, I do!” said Joey.
“Who wants the red one?” Mother asked.
“I want the red too,” Joey said.
“But you can’t have them both. Besides, I like the red material too,” explained Tommy.
“Hey, Mom,” said Peter, “how are you going to make four coats with only three pieces of material?”
Joey was surprised. He hadn’t thought of that problem.
Mother smiled. “Would one of you like to have a patchwork jacket?” she asked hopefully. “There would be plenty left from three jackets to make one more.”
“Like the quilt on my bed?” Mike frowned. “No, I don’t think I would like that.”
“Peter?”
“No, Mom. I want the green material. It’s the same color as my Sunday pants.”
Mother looked at Tommy who asked, “Why not Joey? He’s the littlest and doesn’t have to go to school and be laughed at.”
Joey thought about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have a coat that Tommy, Mike, and Peter thought was funny.
“That’s a good idea,” Peter said. “Joey won’t mind.”
But Joey was beginning to mind. “Peter, why don’t you want a patchwork coat?” he asked.
Peter looked down at him. “Patchwork is made from scraps. I don’t want a coat made from leftovers.”
“Oh.” Joey sat down and thought about it. He looked at Mother. She looked sad. “It’s OK, Mom, I’ll wear the patchwork coat,” he said. He hoped that maybe the patchwork coat would get lost while he was at the playground or at Primary.
Mother smiled and got out her scissors. “OK,” she said, “four coats for four boys coming up.”
Finally the jackets were finished. Joey had watched Mother sew the red one. He had collected the scraps when she cut out the green material. And he had seen her putting the sleeves in Mike’s blue coat. But he had never seen the patchwork coat. He wondered what it would look like and if his brothers would laugh at him.
When the boys finished doing the supper dishes a few nights later, Mother called them into the sewing room. Dad came, too, to see the new coats.
First from the closet came Tommy’s red jacket. He put it on. “Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful,” he said. Joey agreed. It was a beautiful coat.
Next Mother handed the green jacket to Peter.
“Thanks, Mom, it just fits,” Peter said.
Mike was waiting impatiently. Mother gave the blue coat to him. He tried it on and zipped the zipper up and down. “Perfect,” he said.
Joey knew it was his turn next. He stood behind Dad, hoping Mother wouldn’t see him and would leave the jacket made of scraps in the closet.
Mother reached into the closet once more. Joey closed his eyes.
“Joey,” Mother said. “Joey, open your eyes.”
Joey opened his eyes. Mother was holding a jacket that was red in front, with bright yellow stars, one on each side. The sleeves were blue, and on the green back J O E Y was stitched in big yellow letters.
Joey put the jacket on.
Peter said, “Wow, Mom, that’s a super jacket.”
“It sure is,” Tommy agreed.
“Yes,” Mike added. “You’re lucky you’re so little. Otherwise your big brothers would wear your jacket and you’d never see it.”
Joey smiled. “Mom’s smart,” he said. “She knew I’d like all the colors best.”
Mother smiled and put her arms around all of her boys, squeezing them in a big hug. “Just like I like all of you best,” she said.

We had invited a special guest to join us for the home evening just prior to Christmas. We sat in our living room and I told her why she was there: “Marie, we have watched your actions and as a family have observed that you are one who loves the Savior. Since we could not invite him to join us in person as we celebrate his birth, we decided to invite someone who is striving to be like him. Marie, we chose you.”
Marie is a lovely single woman who, in spite of problems of her own, goes about quietly doing good for others. Tears welled up in her eyes as each of our children told her of the Christlike behavior he or she had observed in her.
But when it was our eight-year-old son’s turn his heart was so full he couldn’t speak. Earlier in the year he had needed extra tutoring in reading, and Marie had worked with him through the summer upgrading his reading skills—and she refused any payment for it. Now, several months later, he was finally achieving success in school.
Everyone in the room sensed the deep feelings our son was trying to communicate. So sacred was this moment that it seemed as though Jesus had come to be with us after all.
The spiritual feeling we all experienced that Christmas helped us determine that each year thereafter we would invite a Christlike person or family into our home to honor the Savior at Christmastime. By so doing we have been inspired to strive more diligently to be like him every day of our lives.

I give this brief summary to highlight another miracle, another revelation, if you will, that may have been overlooked by the general membership of the Church. In a way it was intended to be transparent to the public eye. I speak of the decision made by the Brethren just over a decade ago to cease placing any special assessments or other fund-raising obligations upon the members of the Church at home or abroad.
Inasmuch as this decision was made amidst the very international growth I have just described, how could this be done financially? How could we go to more and more distant locations at the very moment we were removing all ancillary assessments from our people? Logic in the situation might have suggested exactly the opposite course of action.
How was it done? I will tell you how it was done—with the wholehearted belief on the part of the presiding Brethren that the Lord’s principles of tithing and freewill offerings would be honored by even the newest member of the Church and that loyalty to such divine principles would see us through.
I was not in the Quorum of the Twelve when that momentous decision was made, but I can imagine the discussions that were held and the act of faith required within the presiding councils of the Church. What if the Brethren were to cease assessments and the Saints did not pay their tithes and offerings—what then? So far as I know, that thought was never seriously entertained. They went forward in faith—faith in God, faith in revealed principle, faith in us. They never looked back. That was a magnificent (if nearly unnoticed) day in the maturing of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.