Gospel Story Finder

In the warmth of late morning on July 7, 1972, President Harold B. Lee walked purposefully from the Salt Lake Temple toward the Church Office Building and the newsmen waiting for his first press conference as the 11th President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had just been set apart for his new calling by Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then President of the Council of the Twelve. Upon assuming the leadership of the Church, and flanked by his two newly called counselors, President N. Eldon Tanner and President Marion G. Romney, President Lee said, “The greatest message that one in this position could give to the membership of the Church is to keep the commandments of God for therein lies the safety of the Church and the safety of the individual. There could be nothing that I could say that would be a more powerful or important message today.” (New Era, August 1972, p. 13.)

Another sister said: “Sisterhood has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Several years ago my husband died suddenly, and I felt as if my world had collapsed around me. But just as suddenly, I was surrounded by a wonderful circle of sisters who helped bear my burden. They are always there. Our weekly trips to the temple bring such peace and comfort into my life. I rejoice in this sweet sisterhood.”

Ericka sat in the back of the room. When the teacher asked questions, even if Ericka knew the answers, she never raised her hand. She was too shy. Instead, she’d duck her head behind her books to hide.
But today, she couldn’t hide. The teacher came and stood beside her desk.
“You don’t want to be captain for field day?” he asked, looking down at her.
Ericka slid down in her seat. “Not really.”
“But the class voted for you.”
Ericka bit her lower lip. “I’m not good at being in charge. Someone else could do it better.” She looked up. “Please ask Keith or Tara or …”
Mr. Folster patted her shoulder. “OK, we’ll get someone else.”
Ericka sat up straight and watched the hands of the clock tick off the minutes until recess.
Once out the door, her friend Lauri tugged her sleeve. “How come you don’t ever want to be captain?”
Ericka shrugged. “It’s hard for me to tell people what to do.”
“But you’re so good at sports, and the whole class wants you to be our captain.”
“It’s just …”
“Oh, forget it,” Lauri laughed as she ran to the swings. “It’s just like you to want to be invisible.”
Ericka walked over to the swings and sat in the one next to Lauri. She pumped hard, trying to get her toes to touch the leaves of a nearby tree.
Across the playground, some kids were jumping on tires that had been partially buried in the ground to form an obstacle course.
Pump. Pump. Pump. Up she went.
Jump. Jump. Jump. Across the playground, children sprang from one tire to the next.
Then she saw it—a duck. A very upset duck!
She dragged her feet to stop. “Lauri,” she called as her friend swept past on her downward swing. “There’s a duck.”
“Can’t be,” Lauri called back. “Ducks like water, not playgrounds.”
Ericka pointed. “There, by the tires.”
Lauri kept swinging.
Ericka slid off the swing and hurried over to the tires. The kids were still jumping; the duck, flapping its wings, waddled in front of the tires, squawking furiously.
Ericka peeked into the farthest tire. There was a nest with two light green eggs in it.
She held up her hands, motioning for the jumpers to stop. Nothing happened. “Please, Heavenly Father,” she silently prayed, “help me have the courage to help the duck save her nest.”
“Please stop,” she said quietly, “you’re scaring the duck.”
Jump. Jump. “We’re not hurting it.”
Jump. Jump. “Anyhow, it’s just a duck.”
“Just a duck!” Ericka’s voice was no longer soft. Hands on hips, chin thrust forward, she glared at her classmates. “It’s one of God’s creatures, just like you and me. And”—she pointed to the tire—“there are eggs in her nest. That’s why she’s so mad at you.”
The jumpers stopped. They’d never seen Ericka like this. She insisted that everyone move away from the tires, and she asked Mr. Folster, who was on playground duty, to find some way to keep the tires off limits.
Mr. Folster put a wide strip of yellow plastic around the tires. And the art teacher printed a sign: Stay Off—Mallard Nursery.
Each day, when the class checked the nest, there was one new egg. Then, after a few days, the mother duck never left the nest. She just stayed in the tire. The class worried that something was wrong, but Mr. Folster explained that everything was fine. The mother duck was just keeping the eggs warm until they hatched.
At last, there were seven little ducklings. Six were mottled brown with just touches of yellow. But one had a lot more yellow.
“That one is so different,” said Ericka. “Will it always be a different color?”
“No,” Mr. Folster answered. “When the ducklings get older, they’ll all look pretty much the same. That yellowish one, though, reminds me of you.”
“I don’t look like a duck,” Ericka giggled.
“No, but for a short time, you were willing to stand out from the crowd because of something you believed in.”

Jeffrey Holland, who remarked just two weeks ago of his own unspeakable love for BYU, recounted in a 1987 address something that happened in the early years of the Brigham Young Academy. This remarkable event teaches us about the faith of a young student who was willing to speak of what was surely a prophetic vision and also about the love of the larger Provo community for BYU. As I read this long account, I want you to think of this upper campus as one consisting of the Maeser Building, nearly complete, and several large fruit orchards extending to the mouth of Rock Canyon. Hold that thought. Now, in his talk President Holland had just spoken of Karl Maeser’s last visit to his beloved campus. He then told this story:

Several years after Brother Maeser’s death a proposal was made to construct a memorial building in his name, not downtown on University Avenue but high atop Temple Hill, where a new campus might be built consisting of as many as three or perhaps four buildings someday. The cost would be an astronomical $100,000, but the Maeser Building would be a symbol of the past, a statement of aspiring tradition, an anchor to the university’s future.

In spite of a staggering financial crisis clouding the very future of the university at the time, the faculty and student body took heart that in 1912 the Maeser Building was at least partially complete and the university would give diplomas to its first four-year graduating class. But even as graduation plans were being made, equally urgent plans were underway to sell the remainder of Temple Hill for the development of a new Provo suburb. The university simply had to have the money to survive. Eighteen members were graduating in this first four-year class, but even if the student body tripled in the years ahead, surely there would be more than enough room to accommodate them on the space now occupied by the Maeser, Brimhall, and Grant buildings on our present campus. Yes, the rest of the space on the hill should be sold. The graduation services would conclude with a sales pitch to the community leaders in attendance.

When Alfred Kelly was introduced that morning as the student graduation speaker, he rose and stood absolutely silent for several moments. Some in the audience thought he had lost the power of speech. Slowly he began to speak, explaining that he had been much concerned over his remarks, that he had written several versions and discarded every one of them.

Then, early one morning, he said, with a feeling of desperation regarding his approaching assignment, he walked north from his downtown apartment to where the partially completed Maeser Building stood (as Horace Cummings would later describe it) as an “air castle” come to earth on Temple Hill. He wanted to gain inspiration from this hope of a new campus, but he felt only grim disappointment. The sky was starting to glow from the morning light, but the darkly silhouetted Maeser Building seemed only a symbol of gloom.

Kelly then turned his eyes to view the valley below that was also still in shadow. The light from the rising sun was just beginning to illuminate the western hills back of Utah Lake with an unusual golden glow. As morning came, the light gradually worked down from the hilltops, moved across the valley floor, and slowly advanced to the spot where Kelly stood.

He said he partially closed his eyes as the light approached and was startled by what he could still see. He stood as if transfixed. In the advancing sunlight everything he saw took on the appearance of people, young people about his age moving toward Temple Hill. He saw hundreds of them, thousands of young people coming into view. He knew they were students, he said, because they carried books in their arms as they came.

Then Temple Hill was bathed in sunlight, and the whole of the present campus was illuminated not with one partially completed building, nor with homes in a modern subdivision, but rather with what Kelly described to that graduating class as “temples of learning,” large buildings, beautiful buildings, hundreds of buildings covering the top of that hill and stretching clear to the mouth of Rock Canyon.

The students then entered these temples of learning with their books in hand. As they came out of them, Kelly said their countenances bore smiles of hope and of faith. He observed that they seemed cheerful and very confident. Their walk was light but firm as they again became a part of the sunlight as it moved to the top of Y Mountain, and then they gradually disappeared from view.

Kelly sat down to what was absolutely stone-deaf silence. Not a word was spoken. What about the sales pitch? No one moved or whispered. Then longtime BYU benefactor Jesse Knight jumped to his feet and shouted, “We won’t sell an acre. We won’t sell a single lot.” And he turned to President George Brimhall and pledged several thousand dollars to the future of the university. Soon others stood up and joined in, some offering only a widow’s mite, but all believing in the dream of a Provo schoolboy, all believing in the destiny of a great university which that day had scarcely begun. (See B. F. Larsen, “Fifty Years Ago,” speech given at a BYU Alumni meeting, 25 May 1962, B. F. Larsen biographical file, BYU Archives, pp. 4–5.) [In Holland, “Who We Are,” pp. 24–26]

Allow me to relate a personal experience. About 20 years ago, I was assigned to be the ministering brother to a man who had just moved into our ward. I soon learned that he was in a seemingly hopeless situation. He had just been rebaptized after his membership had been removed. He was going through a painful divorce. He was also facing financial hardship and a challenging work situation.
My companion and I decided to help him envision his bright future and see his true potential as a son of God. We encouraged him to begin with the end in mind and picture himself at the altar of the temple surrounded by his beautiful eternal family, all dressed in white. We testified to him that this would happen if he remained faithful.
We visited him for seven straight years, at least once every month. We often cried together. We rejoiced in each baby step he was taking. Despite the many ups and downs along the way, we got to love this man as a dear friend.
After seven years, he called me one day and told me he had received his first temple recommend in 20 years. I accompanied him to the Frankfurt Germany Temple, where we did work for his deceased family. It was a marvelous day!
From that time on, greater blessings began to flow into his life. A wonderful sister was baptized in our ward. She appeared to be the perfect match. They got married and had two beautiful children. They were later sealed together in the temple.
Some time ago, Valérie and I attended a session in the Paris France Temple. As we entered the temple, I saw my friend standing at the desk in the lobby. It was he who asked me to show my temple recommend.
We looked at each other. It was a quiet moment, filled with peaceful joy and infinite gratitude. It was like I heard him say, “Thank you for not giving up on me and believing in my eternal potential.”

One of my favorite hobbies is Irish dance. I try hard to practice my choreography at home so I am ready to perform. I practice very thoroughly, but when I am backstage about to perform, I commonly get the backstage jitters. At every competition, my mom and I find a quiet place to say a prayer. Sometimes it’s behind a curtain or in a room off to the side. I know that it doesn’t matter to Heavenly Father where we are, just that we have faith in Him.
At my last performance, my mom wasn’t with me to say a prayer. She was waiting in the audience. I got really nervous but decided that it didn’t matter if she was with me or not. I stepped away from my friends and said a prayer. I asked for safety as I danced and that I could do my best. I did very well that day, and I remember the feeling of peace that I felt as I walked on stage.

On my sixth birthday my parents gave me a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written inside the front cover. They challenged me to read it before my eighth birthday and baptism. As part of my bedtime routine, I read the Book of Mormon every night. Sometimes I read it while driving around or at the beach. The more I read, the better I became at reading. When I was seven and a half years old, I finished the Book of Mormon. It strengthened my testimony, and I know that the Book of Mormon is true. I feel prepared for my baptism and am excited for it. I have started to read the Book of Mormon again.
Lana B., age 7, Hawaii, USA

Please travel back with me to the evening before the announcement was made that Ricks College would become Brigham Young University-Idaho. Earlier that afternoon, President Bednar was informed that President Hinckley planned to announce the change the next morning at a press conference in Salt Lake City. There was not much time to pull loose ends together, and members of the President’s Council and a few other administrators were at the office late that night making last-minute preparations. It was close to 11:30 when things were finally wrapping up and winding down. I was at the copy machine; President Bednar was leaving the building. I said to him, “President, does any of this scare you? Do you feel a bit sick to your stomach?” I will never forget his response. Without even a hint of a hesitation, he said: “If I thought I had to do this by myself, I would be scared to death. But I know who is in charge.”

Some young men in one of the dorms shared how they worked together to solve a problem. They had been having some friction in their group. Although no one had been blatantly unkind, a competitive feeling was pushing these friends apart and making them dwell on their inadequacies. So one night the young men decided to take some positive steps. They determined to have family prayer in their apartment each morning and read a few verses in the scriptures together. They set goals to sincerely encourage and support each other. Simple though this remedy may sound, it made all the difference. One kind word led to another. One thoughtful act invited another in return. It did not take long before the situation had turned around and their apartment became a warm and inviting place again. These young men were willing to ask, “What am I going to do about this?” And the Lord blessed them with a solution to their problem.

The members of the Asunafo Branch Relief Society presidency said they dedicated each Thursday to speaking to each other only in English. “It made some conversations longer that day because we could not think of the right words to say to each other,” said Evelyn Agyeiwaa, Relief Society president. “But we soon began translating for each other, finding the right words to say. Because we were learning together, none of us were embarrassed or afraid to say the wrong words. We simply helped each other.”

“Mother, what are we going to have for dinner tonight?” Eliza quietly asked. She was hungry, and she knew that her mother had given her and her brothers and sisters the last of the potatoes for lunch.
Her mother didn’t answer. Eliza’s hope fell as she watched her mother scurry around the small kitchen looking for a little flour or wheat to feed her family. As Eliza’s stomach rumbled, there was a knock at the door. When Eliza’s mother opened the door, there stood a pretty lady carrying two small children.
“Sister Peterson, please come in. What brings you by?” Eliza’s mother asked.
Eliza had seen Sister Peterson at church. She knew her husband owned a large farm and that their family always wore nice clothes.
Sister Peterson set her two children on the floor. “I was scrubbing my floors and tending to my children when a quiet thought came into my mind: ‘Put the wheat in the buggy and go.’ I ignored the thought and continued tending to my children,” she explained.
“A few minutes later I heard the voice again: ‘Put the wheat in the buggy and go.’ This time the thought was a little louder. I told myself that this was a silly thought. Where would I go with the wheat? I ignored the voice again and went back to my work.
“A third time I heard, ‘Put the wheat in the buggy and go.’ This time the voice was so loud that I looked around the room to see if my husband had come in from working in the fields. But no one was in the room except my two small girls who can’t speak yet. I decided that I should listen, that maybe the Holy Ghost was giving me a prompting.
“I bundled up my two small children, filled the buggy with bags of wheat, and hitched the horses to the buggy. I didn’t know where to go. I held the reigns loose and let the horses lead me. They brought me straight to your house. Could you and your family use this wheat?” Sister Peterson asked.
Eliza’s mother wept as she looked around their small house filled with young children. She replied: “My children were hungry and I didn’t know what I was going to feed them for dinner. We have no food in our house. Thank you for listening to the Holy Ghost.”
That night Eliza went to bed with a full stomach. She thanked Heavenly Father in her prayers for sending Sister Peterson to their house with food.

The young women of the Stevensville Montana Stake wanted to do more than just camp at their last girls’ camp; they also wanted to do some good. Reaching out to needy children around the world, the young women put together 72 hygiene kits and gathered around 250 toys and stuffed animals to be distributed by LDS Humanitarian Services.
This project helped the girls realize how blessed they are to have what they have. Many talked of wanting to do more and said they were grateful that the Church has the ability to send these items to people who are truly in need.

Read your scriptures. “It’s one of the best ways to come closer to Heavenly Father and to have your problems answered,” says Doralee Solomon, 17, of the Douglas Georgia Stake. “You can always go to your scriptures for help and get answers.” At one time Doralee had a friend who was smoking, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She didn’t know whether she should talk to the person, the bishop, or the parents. But after reading, praying, and listening to her Young Women lessons, she knew she needed to confront her friend. “I know reading my scriptures helped put me in tune for an answer,” Doralee says.

Someone has said it this way: “Thee lift me, and I’ll lift thee, and we’ll ascend together.” What does that mean? I can remember an experience in my life that illustrates this idea. I was at Harvard Business School. I was stretched to my capacity. In the first year of that institution, the teachers take away every bit of self-confidence you have, no matter what your background is before you get there, so that you learn what it’s like to have to achieve more than you’ve ever done in your life before. The program is designed to teach you how to think under pressure. They try to duplicate real life.

At an important point in my schooling, a mission president, John E. Carr, asked me to be an elders quorum president. It is the only time in my life that I ever questioned an assignment. I went home to talk to my wife. For every woman here and every man here the question will come in life, “When is the time to serve? When is the right time?” The only answer I can give you is, “When you are asked.” So I went home and said to my wife, “There is a chance of failing in my schooling if I become an elders quorum president.” She said to me the words which have helped for many years: “Bob, I would rather have an active priesthood holder than a man who holds a master’s degree from Harvard.” But as she put her arms around me, she said, “We’ll do them both.” That is eternal partnership.

“Thee lift me, and I’ll lift thee, and we’ll ascend together”—that’s the message.

Clare couldn’t stand the quiet at dinner. Why wasn’t anyone talking about him? Did they think about him every minute, as she did? Clare got a terrible feeling she was going to cry and there was nothing she could do about it. It seemed impossible to fill up the hole someone left when they died.
“Clare, why don’t you go upstairs until you feel better,” her mother suggested.
“Yeah, Clare,” her brother said. “You’re not the only one who feels bad.”
“Well, you don’t act like you even care.”
“Oh, Clare,” Aunt Nettie sighed. Her eyes looked sad, twisted by wrinkles that tried to close them up.
Clare was glad to get away from the table. She lay down on her bed and tried to picture herself walking with her grandpa, the way they had every summer night after dinner. He would walk fast, talking all the time. And then he’d sing, loud schmaltzy songs that embarrassed Clare but gave her a secret pleasure. They’d pass a neighbor’s house here and there, and watch the lights come on as darkness came down through the trees. By the time they’d get home, stars would be out and crickets would be singing all over.
“In the city, a light in the window gets lost,” Grandpa would say. “But in the country, it really means something. Every light looks important, like a bright star that dropped down to rest among the trees.”
Aunt Nettie opened the door a crack. “Clare,” she said, “I’ve got a job I want you to help me with.”
“What is it?” Clare sat up, realizing she had been asleep.
“I want you to help me cut up your grandpa’s shirts.” Nettie turned on the light. “For a quilt I’ve been wanting to make.”
“I don’t want to cut up his shirts.” Clare grabbed for the box under Nettie’s arm. “Why can’t we just leave them? Put them away somewhere?”
Nettie was silent for a moment. “I’d like you to help me make a quilt,” she said, sitting down on the bed. “That’s something you and I could do together this summer.”
“I don’t think so. Thanks anyway, Aunt Nettie.”
The next day Clare was drawn to the guest room by the quiet, methodical slice of scissors. Seeing Nettie there made it seem like Grandpa might walk in at any moment. They had always come to visit together. Nettie was cutting up a blue striped shirt. Clare had to smile, remembering Grandpa in that shirt, sneaking her a piece of candy after Nettie had said, “Absolutely not!”
“Sit down,” Nettie invited. The floor on either side of her was piled with long strips of fabric, light colors on one side, dark colors on the other.
“All those shirts,” Clare sighed, seating herself on the floor by one of the piles. She tried to picture Grandpa in every one of them at once. A blue work shirt seemed alive with his long, tanned hands as they searched the shadows of his garden, his whole face smiling when he brought up the first carrots and tossed them to Clare.
On a moleskin shirt, she could imagine flecks of sawdust as Grandpa bent to his workbench, sanding a birdhouse and testing the finish with his palm, over and over. Clare sniffed the limp sleeve, delighted to find a trace of that fresh wood smell. But she mostly felt sad watching those shirts come away from the scissors in long ribbons of blue, white, brown.
“A quilt is a wonderful thing, Clare.” Nettie stopped cutting. Then her head bent to work again. “There’s a story in every one. Somebody put in every stitch, and they thought a thought for every one of those stitches—sometimes humming, sometimes laughing or crying, sometimes just dreaming. There,” she said, the last shirt slipping through her fingers. “Tomorrow we set to piecing.”
Clare found Nettie at work early the next morning. “What are those for?” Clare asked, noticing a new pile of small yellow squares.
“They go in the center of each block. That’s how the pattern goes.” Nettie picked up a yellow square and stitched it to a blue strip. Then another strip went on, and another. The block grew. Nettie rocked and stitched. Her old alarm clock ticked.
Grandpa would never have chosen yellow, Clare thought. It would get dirty too fast. Grandpa had worked hard. He was the only man Clare knew who could wear down a shovel.
As the days went by, the piles of strips became a little smaller. First there were five blocks, then ten.
“Set them together and see how they look,” Nettie said one morning, handing the finished blocks to Clare.
Clare played with the blocks. They were kind of like a puzzle. As the colored strips came together, they raced across the blocks like railroad tracks. Clare and Grandpa had walked along the tracks a lot, collecting things. He collected anything he came across—rocks, songs, lighted windows, even people. Grandpa had a friend wherever he went.
Nettie held up a strip for Clare to examine. “Now that was your grandpa’s favorite shirt,” she said, laughing. “He always thought he looked so fine in that shirt. ‘Nettie,’ he’d say, ‘it’s a crime for anyone to look as handsome as I do.’”
Clare laughed. “Some of these work shirts are pretty faded,” she said, fingering the fabric. “They might not look very good.”
“Won’t matter,” Nettie said flatly. “That’s one reason I chose this pattern. Every little piece doesn’t matter. It’s how they all work together that makes the quilt come alive.”
Aunt Nettie was always wanting to teach you a lesson. Grandpa had just talked for fun, about everything.
“What pattern is it?” Clare asked. She knew Nettie was waiting with the answer.
“Log cabin,” Nettie said. “There’s a name for every pattern and a reason for the name. Look at the way those strips go round and round. Don’t they remind you of a log cabin? It’s had that name for a long, long time. The men built the cabins, but it must’ve been the women who made them warm inside. With their quilts,” Nettie added. She smiled at Clare’s arrangement of blocks. “There, that’s not so hard, is it?”
“I guess not,” Clare said. She tried to picture the finished quilt. “But I’ll leave the stitching to you, Aunt Nettie.”
One day when the strips were nearly gone, Nettie called Clare.
“Ninety-nine blocks and one to go,” she announced. “That one’s for you to do.”
“Oh, Aunt Nettie,” Clare complained. “It will look so much better if you do it.”
“Nonsense,” Nettie said, handing Clare a spool of thread. “You’re going to put in one block of this quilt, Clare, if it kills us both. Your grandpa would’ve been proud of you.”
Clare tried to follow Nettie’s instructions. Her stitches looked big and wobbly, but the block did grow. It took her most of the afternoon to finish, with Nettie rocking patiently all the time.
Clare’s brother poked his head in. “The little homemaker,” he said. “What a sweet picture.”
“You look out, buster,” Nettie said, shaking her scissors, “or I’ll set you to piecing with her. You wouldn’t be the first man to make a quilt. Your grandpa put in a stitch or two in his day!”
“He did?” Clare laughed with her brother. “Imagine Grandpa quilting!”
“You bet he did,” Nettie went on. “He’d sit and work with me at night sometimes. But you should have seen how fast he could get it put away if he heard someone coming up the drive!”
They all laughed.
“Finished,” Clare said. “Block one hundred. It’s a good thing I didn’t do them all. I’d have been a hundred before they got finished!”
“Look at all those yellow squares,” Nettie said, laying out the blocks. “Do you like it?”
“I guess so, sure,” Clare said. “But why did you choose yellow?”
“I told you there’s a reason and a name for every quilt,” Nettie said slowly. “Well, in the log cabin quilt, a red square in the middle of each block stands for the hearth.”
“I think Grandpa would have liked red better,” Clare said.
“Maybe,” Nettie nodded. “But this isn’t his quilt; it’s yours. And a yellow square stands for the light in the window.” She smiled. “I loved him for a long time too, Clare. He was always saying things like that.”
Clare felt warm and somehow lighter. It was as if the sadness had been pushed back a little. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to finish that quilt. She wanted to wrap up in it, to smell it and feel it all around her. She wanted to keep it forever, with its hundred lights and Grandpa smiling through the window of every one. “Aunt Nettie,” she said, “if I practice, could I help you join the blocks?”

I live in Perm, Russia, in the Ural Mountains. In March 1996 I met the missionaries. At that time I was all alone; during the previous four months, I had lost my husband and both parents and had gone through two operations. The missionaries told me about the Book of Mormon, about the life of Jesus Christ, and about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They invited me to their meetings. I became friends with the members of the Church and was baptized. We are now like a family; we support each other through difficult times.
I was given a copy of the Liahona (Russian). I have found in it much to help me in my life and in teaching others. The support and testimonies we receive from members throughout the world have helped me the most. I testify that the Church is true and that the Liahona helps bring people together.
Margarita Andreyevna Rusanova,Penn Central Branch, Russia Yekaterinburg Mission

I would like to share my story with other deaf members in the UK and Ireland.
I live in Northern Ireland, and since the coronavirus outbreak early in 2020, my life has changed. I realised for the first time that I can make things happen.
At the beginning of October 2020, I was texting a hearing Church member, Elaine Crawley, about some videos made by professors at Brigham Young University that support the Come, Follow Me curriculum. I asked Elaine about how she occupied her time. She told me of three regular virtual firesires that I didn’t know about, provided by Solihull Ward, Sunderland Stake, and Lichfield Stake.
My initial thought was, “Fantastic!” This could be the start of a connection between Church members, me and my family in lockdown. I began to worry if there would be no access to interpreters, or subtitles for deaf members like myself.
To my surprise, Bishop Hesekaia Fakatou from the Solihull Ward made it possible for me to have an interpreter on 11 October 2020 for the virtual fireside, with guest speaker Brother Tyler Griffin, with less than three hours’ notice, which is very unusual. In a work environment I would normally have to book an interpreter at least two to four weeks in advance. That was my first miracle.
My second miracle was to watch an interpreter, Sandra Pratt, on the same screen as the guest speaker on YouTube. That had never happened before for me. I was amazed and asked how it happened. I found out that Bishop Fakatou used StreamYard (a live streaming facility used in web browsers). I immediately told my youngest deaf sister, Heather, who is married to our stake president—I wanted to make it happen in Belfast Stake, Northern Ireland.
My third miracle was listening to Brother Griffin talking about the tree of life, The lost sheep, the lost coin and the prodigal son.
The lost coin parable stood out for me because I realised for the first time that the lost coin was lost because of neglect. I began to think about people in general and wondered how often we neglect others in our lives to the point that they don’t feel part of society. Then I remembered a verse that my deaf mission president, Derrick Siswick, quoted to his missionaries at a zone conference: “And in that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book, and the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity, and out of darkness” (Isaiah 29:18).
From that moment on, I felt that deaf members and investigators can ‘hear’ the gospel in their language. How grateful I am that Bishop Fakatou agreed to have two interpreters for the Solihull Ward’s weekly virtual fireside each Sunday evening.
This is one way of uniting both deaf and hearing members during this lockdown. I plead with everyone to share what they know with deaf members. Tell them of virtual firesides or videos that can uplift. Remember, I relied on hearing members for information, which led me to my story, which I wanted to share with you all. I need you, and you need me. Together we can move forward and build Zion.
My fourth and last miracle was to make it possible for an interpreter and a guest speaker to be present in my weekly ward Zoom meetings for Sunday School, Relief Society and sacrament. That was ‘live’ for the first time on Sunday, 24 January 2021, with David & Jess Templeton’s support.
We can make things happen with the Lord’s help. In Luke 1:37, it says, “For with God nothing shall be impossible.” I know this is true, and I am very grateful for my uplifting experiences during my lockdown. I know that Heavenly Father is mindful of what we are going through. This is a beautiful opportunity to use modern technology to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with everyone.
President Nelson has spoken to us of his great desire to help hasten the Lord’s work in the latter-days. Hasten means to cause something to happen more quickly. Using modern technology will hasten the Lord’s work and help us to work together to make things happen for everyone. However, it is vital to understand that hastening is not just about acceleration and speed. It is also about strengthening.

Janarthn liked going to church each week. He didn’t want to miss a single Sunday! He was the only child in his family, so his friends in Primary were like his siblings. He liked learning about Jesus with them and singing with them. His mom went to church with him, but his dad never did. Dad wasn’t a member of the Church.
One night at dinner, Janarthn asked, “Dad, why don’t you come to church with us?”
Dad looked up from his plate. “I’m pretty busy on Sundays.”
“But, Dad, it’s important to keep the Sabbath day holy,” Janarthn said. “It says so in the scriptures.”
Mom looked surprised. “You really listened during your lessons at church. But it’s OK that your dad doesn’t come with us. He helps us in many other ways.”
While Janarthn got ready for bed, he thought about what it would be like if Dad came to church. He sometimes felt a little sad when he saw his friends sitting with their parents. He wished Dad could be there with him and Mom.
Before bed, Janarthn knelt to pray. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he said, “please let my dad have time on Sundays so he can come with Mom and me. I’d really like to sit with him at church.”
One Sunday a few weeks later, Mom called Janarthn to her room.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t go to church today,” she said. “I’m not feeling well.”
Janarthn frowned. “But I will miss my friends and the lesson today. I really want to go to church.”
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “It’s just one Sunday. And if you want, we can call your Primary teacher so you know what the lesson is about.”
Janarthn kissed Mom’s forehead. “It’s OK. Just rest, Mom. I know Heavenly Father will know why I can’t come to church today.”
Janarthn went to his room and grabbed a copy the Friend magazine. Even if he couldn’t go to church, he could still read the stories to keep the Sabbath holy.
“Janarthn!” Dad called.
Janarthn came out of his room. “What is it, Dad?”
Dad was smiling. “Get dressed. I know how much you like church, and I don’t want you to miss it. I’ll go with you.”
Janarthn’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe it! He had a big smile while he hurried to get ready.
At church Janarthn introduced Dad to his friends. Dad sat beside him during sacrament meeting. Janarthn felt so happy to be with his dad at church!
After the meeting, Dad said, “I need to go somewhere. I will pick you up after your Primary class, OK?”
“OK,” Janarthn said. He wished Dad would stay, but he was glad he had come. It really was a great Sunday surprise!
Illustrations by Nadiyah Suyatna

Youth in the Short Hills Ward, Caldwell New Jersey Stake, got their “mission calls” a few years early, when a group of missionaries in their area planned “the ultimate missionary Saturday” for them at the local meetinghouse.
The youth were instructed in advance to wear missionary clothing, bring their scriptures, and keep an arm’s length from the opposite sex. Once they arrived, they got a mini-MTC experience, then went tracting through the building, where members were staged and gave them both rejection experiences and discussion-teaching experiences.
By the end of the day, some were reluctant to be “released.” Others decided they would try to carry the missionary spirit they’d gained that day with them for the rest of their lives.

How powerfully this lesson was taught once in France when a family got into their car to go see the grandparents. While en route they saw the grandmother coming in another direction and pulled the car over to stop and get her attention. As soon as the car stopped, a small boy jumped out of the backseat and began to run across the busy highway to see his grandmother. The father, seeing his son in danger, just yelled, “Stop,” as the boy reached the center of the road. There was no time to give instructions or reasons, just direction. The boy, hearing his father’s voice, stopped and froze there until rescued. How profound it really is to be like a child and be obedient!