Gospel Story Finder

“Mama, look at this one!” Joshua pointed to the Christmas tree. It was tall and skinny, with perfect green needles.
Mama paused and looked at the price tag. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Joshua sighed and kept walking. The market was crowded with stalls of food and Christmas trees. It was crowded with families buying trees and ingredients to make delicious treats, like bûche de Noël (Yule log cake). Mama had brought Joshua with her to buy some food, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the Christmas trees. Some of the trees were tall and thin. Others were short and round. Joshua even saw one that was just his height!
Mama said they didn’t have a lot of money this year. They probably wouldn’t be able to buy a tree. That made Joshua a little sad. Whenever he went to the marketplace with Mama, he kept looking for the perfect Christmas tree. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a tree to take home.
Joshua held Mama’s hand as they walked to the next row of trees. Joshua gasped. There it was—the perfect tree!
He ran ahead and put a hand on the tree. It wasn’t very green. It was missing clumps of needles. It wasn’t too tall. In fact, it was bent far over, like an old man leaning on a cane.
“Mama, it’s perfect!” Joshua said. “Can we take it home? Please?”
Mama glanced at the price tag. “Well, it’s not too many euros. And I think we can fit it in the car.”
Joshua could hardly wait. He kept playing with the sleeves of his coat as he waited for Mama to pay for the tree. Then a nice man helped them place the tree in the car. When they were finally home, his stepbrother, Matthieu, and Papa helped take the tree from the car. They carried the tree inside and set it in the corner of their front room.
“First, we need to do the lights,” Matthieu said.
It was hard to hang the lights up since the tree was so bent over. Matthieu put the lights on the top. Joshua put them on the bottom. Next they hung the ornaments. Finally Papa helped Joshua place the star on the top.
Papa plugged in the lights and put an arm around Mama. Joshua smiled at the tree. The tree’s lights made the whole room feel warm and cozy. He sat underneath the tree and looked up at the brightly colored ornaments. The tree didn’t look as bent over and sad now. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
“It’s a perfect Jesus tree,” Joshua said.
“What do you mean?” Mama asked.
“Our tree is just like Jesus,” Joshua said. “Jesus was born in a poor, dirty manger. Our tree was poor and sad in the marketplace. But now the tree is beautiful and grand, just like how Jesus is our glorious King.”
“Our perfect Jesus tree,” Papa said. “I love that.”
Joshua smiled. This was going to be a very special Christmas.
This story took place in France. Turn to page 10 to learn more about that country.

While raising our young family in Hawaii, my wife and I were grateful for the wonderful Latter-day Saints who assisted us. These dear members embraced us and treated us as their own family. On several occasions men in the ward would take my young son on ocean fishing adventures. These excursions did not involve boats but rather ancient fishing techniques developed by the early Hawaiians.
Using one such method, a skilled fisherman would meticulously fold and layer a circular net that had weights attached to the perimeter. He would then carefully carry the net to a location along the rocky shore above a clear pool of water. As he would see fish entering the pool, at just the right time and with great skill, he would throw the net, which would unfold to its full capacity and land in a large circular pattern on the water below, quickly sinking to the bottom and enmeshing the gathered fish.
While the skill of any such fisherman is impressive, he will be the first to tell you that without a good net that is clean, mended, and in full repair, his efforts would be futile. Experienced fishermen know that their success is contingent upon the integrity of their fishing nets and that effective, productive fishing does not begin until the nets are inspected and in good order.
We see an understanding of this principle among the original Apostles, several of whom were fishermen by trade. We are introduced to these fishermen in the early chapters of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where they are casting, mending, and washing their nets when they first encounter their future Master (see Matthew 4:18, 21; Mark 1:16, 19; Luke 5:2). These men fed their families and the families of others by toiling daily to catch fish. Their fortunes and their families depended on their preparation and skill and on the integrity of their nets.
When Jesus invited them to “follow me, and I will make you fishers of men,” “they straightway left their nets,” “forsook all, and followed him” (Matthew 4:19, 20; Luke 5:11; see also Mark 1:17–18).
I have thought of this example many times as I have considered that those who stand at the head of the Church have responded with similar faith to the invitation to “follow me.” Like the ancient Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is led by prophets and apostles, who have forsaken their nets and their hard-earned professions and have developed new skills in order to serve and follow the Master.
What does it mean to become “fishers of men”? In His simple words of invitation to the early Apostles, the Savior introduced what was to become His common and powerful form of teaching—teaching in parables. He knew that those called to follow Him would understand, to a degree, what He meant by the words “fishers of men.”
President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) taught, “To become ‘fishers of men’ is just another way of saying ‘become leaders of men.’ So in today’s language we would say … : ‘If you will keep my commandments, I will make you leaders among men.’”1
A leader of men is someone who is called to help others become “true followers of … Jesus Christ” (Moroni 7:48). Handbook 2: Administering the Church says, “To do this, leaders first strive to be the Savior’s faithful disciples, living each day so that they can return to live in God’s presence. Then they can help others develop strong testimonies and draw nearer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”2
All who have accepted the call to lead in the Church have accepted the Savior’s invitation to become fishers of men.
From the highest level of leadership in the Church to Aaronic Priesthood quorum and Young Women class presidencies, leaders are organized into councils. Leaders are instructed to prepare spiritually, participate fully in councils, minister to others, teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, and administer the priesthood and auxiliary organizations of the Church. Additionally, they are to build unity and harmony in the Church, prepare others to be leaders and teachers, delegate responsibility, and ensure accountability.3
Just as the early Apostles applied their knowledge of fishing to become fishers of men, we can apply the principles found in their use of nets to the councils of the Church. Like a net, these councils are organized and prepared to gather Heavenly Father’s children—each council member acting as an important and integral strand of the net. Just as a net is effective only if it is in good repair, so are our councils compromised when council members are not organized, focused, and functioning as they should.
Leaders of councils follow the example of the ancient Apostle fishermen by regularly inspecting and mending these “nets.” Council leaders do so by providing regular training, leading out in council meetings, giving timely and appropriate feedback to council members, and offering love, encouragement, and praise. There is no substitute for the effective strength and gathering capacity of properly functioning councils.
Perhaps the council with the greatest opportunity to influence individual members of the Church is the ward council. Men and women in this council are truly called to be fishers of men with the charge of leading the work of salvation in the ward, as directed by the bishop. They live and serve in their respective wards, where they can know and associate with those they have been called to lead.
“Members of the ward council strive to help individuals build testimonies, receive saving ordinances, keep covenants, and become consecrated followers of Jesus Christ (see Moroni 6:4–5). All members of the ward council have a general responsibility for the well-being of ward members.”4
Members of ward councils play an integral role in hastening the work of salvation. When the ward council is not functioning as it should, the work slows. The gathering capacity of the “net” is compromised, and council efforts yield limited results. But when the ward council is organized and focused on strengthening individuals and families, the results can be astonishing.
I am familiar with a ward that struggled with an ineffective ward council. It was difficult for the bishop to embrace the direction found in Handbook 2 because he was comfortable in his ways and liked his old patterns. After much counseling and training by a loving stake president, however, the bishop softened his heart, repented, and began in earnest to organize the ward council as instructed. He watched training videos available at LDS.org, he read sections 4 and 5 of Handbook 2, and he acted upon what he learned.
Members of the ward council quickly embraced the changes, and a spirit of love and unity settled on them as they focused on strengthening individuals and families. In every meeting, they spoke at length about investigators, new converts, less-active members, and members with needs. Their hearts began to be drawn out to these brothers and sisters, and miracles began to happen.
The bishop reported that almost immediately after these changes were made to the ward council, previously unknown less-active members began to attend church. These members said they suddenly felt moved upon to return to the Church. They said they had received a clear and compelling impression that they needed to once again associate with the Saints. They knew they would be loved and that they needed the support members would offer.
The bishop shared with me that he is certain Heavenly Father was just waiting for him to follow the counsel he had received and organize the ward council as instructed before He could put the desire into the hearts and minds of these less-active members to return to activity in the Church. The bishop realized that he needed to create the loving, nurturing environment these members needed before the Spirit would lead them back. His words remind me of the experience of Peter the fisherman:
“And [Jesus] entered into one of the ships, which was Simon’s, and prayed him that he would thrust out a little from the land. And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship.
“Now when he had left speaking, he said unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.
“And Simon answering said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net.
“And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes” (Luke 5:3–6).
As we listen to and follow the counsel given us by modern-day prophets, seers, and revelators—true “fishers of men”—and as we inspect and mend our nets while serving, our capacity to hasten the work of salvation will be greatly increased and we will become instruments in Heavenly Father’s hands to gather His children.

Connecting 150 generations was not easy. Like many others who are involved in searching out their ancestors, the Wu family acknowledges that they had help.
After going back 26 generations, they got stuck.
“About all we had was a nickname,” Sister Wu says.
On the final day of the Chinese New Year, Sister Wu had plans to attend a holiday celebration after serving in the temple. But when a friend on the shift mentioned she was going to stop by the family history center located on the temple grounds, Sister Wu felt impressed to go with her.
She went to a book containing information on people with the surname of the ancestor the family couldn’t find. When she opened the book, it fell open to a page that listed information on this particular ancestor. With that information, they were able to connect to other lines that led back many generations.
“It was a very special experience for me,” Sister Wu says. “I can feel that our ancestors are very anxious to have their ordinances done.”

President Hinckley’s words inspired one teen to stop using illegal drugs.
“Not too long ago I was deeply entrenched in the underground rave scene. With my involvement in this not-so-wholesome activity came abuse of a drug known as ecstasy. My life got to the point where I was rolling every weekend and spending all my money on illegal drugs. It wasn’t until the prophet spoke out against illicit drug use to the youth of the Church that I realized I was in big trouble. Listening to his counsel to be clean, however, helped motivate me and give me courage to stop using drugs.”

It has been said that “nobody ever lost his shirt with his sleeves rolled up.” This theory was recently put to the test by a very ambitious group of youths from the Layton Utah West Stake. Working hard they scraped the old paint off and put the new paint on their stake farmhouse in the short space of three and a half hours.
Lights in the homes of ward members began clicking on at about 5:30 A.M. one recent Saturday, and soon Mia Maids, teachers, Laurels, priests, and their advisers were gathered together at the stake farm for breakfast. (The official passport to the scrumptious meal of ham, pancakes, and orange juice was a paint scraper!) After eating, the youths found they had more than enough energy to complete their project. Within an hour most of the old paint had been taken off by paint scrapers; in some cases, it was beaten off with the ends of brushes. Nearly three hours of brushing or rolling the paint onto the house followed, after which the young people joined together for a group picture to help them remember the morning’s work.
That evening they enjoyed themselves at a dance, but the truly memorable part of the day was summed up by Anne Rowley who said, “Our greatest sense of satisfaction came from the feeling that we were following the guidelines set down by our prophet and other Church leaders. We had made a concrete attempt to keep our community clean and orderly.”

Towards the end of 1989, a friend of mine, Gregory Mutete, came home in our then small township of Dangamvura—situated in Mutare, Zimbabwe. He reported to me and Christopher Bangwayo—our other friend—that he had secured employment as a gardener from a missionary couple named Grant and Sharol Wilson. They had offered him a book called the Book of Mormon, but he had refused to take it—wanting first to confer with the two of us. As a group of three tightly knit teenage friends, we all had to agree before deciding to embark on any form of adventure, which we believed this was going to be. Little did we know that this was a beginning of a journey that would try our faith to the limit. We were skeptical about these missionaries—based on the lessons we had received in school—so we were prepared to disprove all theories they were to share with us.
A decision was taken that Gregory should invite the couple to visit us and to answer some of our questions. The following day the couple drove Gregory to my home and also delivered the Book of Mormon, which they introduced to us together with the story of Joseph Smith. All sounded like a fiction story from a movie script. How could a fourteen-year-old boy see God and His Son, Jesus Christ, and literally talk with them? It was preposterous, to say the least. This was my first time exercising my faith and putting to the test the invitation extended to us and find out for myself through prayer as Joseph Smith did.
In my nineteen-year-old mind, I felt that if fourteen-year-old Joseph Smith was able to see God and Jesus Christ, then I—being 19 years old—would also have the same experience, if not better. I retired to a high mountain close to our home, found a quiet place, knelt and delivered my supplication to God. For at least fifteen minutes I was talking to my God. You may have already guessed what happened after that heartfelt prayer. God and Jesus Christ did not appear to me. Instead as I embarked on my journey back home, I had this total feeling of peace and contentment envelop my whole being. At that moment I did not realize what it was until after some time much later when I realized that it was the language of the Holy Ghost confirming to me that what had been taught to me was truth. After that marvelous experience the three of us were baptized. It took us exactly eight days from the day we met the missionary couple to the day we were baptized.

Soren was also his father’s student in the art of living. When Knud Edsberg joined the Church in 1961, he invited his son to join him in his newly discovered faith. Sixteen-year-old Soren wasn’t particularly interested in religion at the time. But after his father told him how much it meant to him, Soren agreed to be baptized. “I had always loved my father and respected him,” he explains. “Whenever he asked me to do something, I usually did it.”

As a new member of the Church, Soren knew little about the Church or its teachings. For the first month, he did not even attend church meetings. Finally, feeling obligated to learn what the gospel was about, he read a pamphlet about the Book of Mormon. From that small pamphlet he gained a testimony that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God. That realization forever changed the course of Soren Edsberg’s life.

For one thing, he became devoted to serving the Lord. Just a few weeks after his conversion to the Book of Mormon, he was called to be a regular speaker in missionary meetings. Since then, he has served as a branch president, mission public relations director, high councilor, and Young Men president.

Another event that changed his life occurred in his Copenhagen (Denmark) branch when he met his wife, Johnna—a convert to the Church and a piano student at the Danish Royal Academy of Music. The Edsbergs were sealed in the Swiss Temple and have continued a life of Church service. Soren is now mission leader and Johnna is Young Women president in the Slagelse (Denmark) Branch. The Edsbergs have seven children, ranging in age from three to seventeen. In a country where families average one or two children, you can see the Edsbergs’s commitment to family values by their large family.

One of the most obvious changes in Soren Edsberg’s life involves his artistic course. “Of course, when you learn the gospel, it becomes your whole life,” says Soren, now forty. Now, instead of seeing artistic success as an end in itself, he sees his art as a means of serving the Lord and building the kingdom.

His desire to serve through his art has even transformed his painting style. “I thought about how important it is to be a missionary in everything we do,” Soren recalls. “I felt that if I wanted to do missionary work, I had to paint in a way that would communicate with people today.” Because in Europe realistic painting was not well accepted, he began to paint in an impressionistic style. Later, he turned to abstract art, always trying to make his paintings express positive values and gospel truths.

Brother Edsberg’s work has been exhibited by the Association of National Art in the Charlottenborg Palace, home of the Danish Royal Academy of National Arts. His paintings have hung in several museums in Europe, where his work has been a popular success. But he judges his work by its ability to influence the one who looks at it for good, not by its ability to sell.

He tells about one of his series of abstract paintings that was inspired directly by the scriptures and that had a scriptural “text” inscribed either on the back or below the painting. “My barber told me that he had seen them in a public show,” he recalls delightedly. “Then he quoted a scripture on one of the paintings word for word. It had made an impression on him, even though he didn’t believe in God.”

Soren Edsberg’s personality is warm and engaging, with just a hint of reserve. He becomes enthusiastic when he describes his latest work. It is a series of abstract paintings titled The Course of Life. It was inspired by an aerial view of the earth—looking down at people traveling on freeways and streets, all on various courses. The artist wants people to consider where their course is taking them. “Many times we have a goal,” he explains, “but without realizing we are on a course that is taking us away from that goal. I want people to think in an eternal way.”

The president of the International Association of Art Critics in Geneva, Switzerland, Alexandre Cirici Pellecier, has said that Edsberg’s Course of Life paintings, though truly abstract, are paintings with a positive message that is easy for the viewer to understand. Since Soren’s major goal is to be a missionary, this is high praise.

And missionary opportunities in Denmark—where religion plays little role in most lives—are not always easy to come by. “If you are a member of any ‘sect,’ you are seen either as not very intelligent, or as a weak person who needs something to hold onto, or as a crook who is trying to gain something from it,” says Soren. Even though missionary work can be difficult in such a setting, Soren has had some good experiences—the one closest to his heart in his own family.

Although three of the Knud Edsberg family—Knud, Soren, and Soren’s sister, Birgitte—were members of the Church, their wife and mother, Kirsten Edsberg, remained firmly Lutheran. For years, the family and church leaders had tried to convert her. Finally, Knud Edsberg became discouraged. “One morning my father came to my house. He stood in the doorway crying because he was so sad.”

Soren felt the Spirit come to him. He put his arms around his father and said, “Mother will be a member now. And when I say ‘now,’ I don’t mean in a year or two. I mean now.” After his father had left, Soren went to see his mother. “After I had talked to her for about ten minutes, she said, ‘I would like to be baptized now.’” Father, mother, and son wept together for joy.

A short time after her baptism, Kirsten Edsberg got cancer. As the disease progressed, Soren and his sister became disturbed. Their mother’s patriarchal blessing promised that she would live to fulfill her life’s mission. But she had not yet had her children sealed to her, nor had she had opportunities for church service.

When at last the doctors felt that she would die within days and had withdrawn all medicine except for pain killers, the elder Brother Edsberg called on Soren to give his mother another blessing. After several days of fasting and praying, says Soren, “I felt I had permission to tell the disease to obey the priesthood and to leave so my mother would be able to complete her mission in this life.” Kirsten Edsberg recovered and was able to go to the Swiss Temple to be sealed to her family. She was also able to serve as a Primary teacher. Then, a year after her healing, she became ill again and passed away.

With such experiences, Soren Edsberg’s priorities have become firm: “First, I have my personal commitment to my Heavenly Father. Second, I have my family. Third, I have my church calling. Fourth, I have my job.”

Soren does not consider that his job as an artist puts him in any special category. He feels that there can be artists in any work. “You can do any job poorly. You can do it well. You can do it very well. Or you can do it with genius, and at that level, you start to produce art. That means you can be an artist in whatever kind of work you do,” he explains.

This striving for excellence is something which Brother Edsberg tries to do in his church work. The Edsberg family home—a lovely four-hundred-year-old castle about eighty kilometers from Copenhagen—is often the site of activities for youth of the Slagelse Branch and Copenhagen Stake. Recently, the Edsbergs hosted fifty or so young people overnight at their home. With strong worldly influences in Danish schools, as well as society in general, Brother Edsberg feels that church youth activities need to be as fun and interesting as possible.

The Edsbergs also feel strongly about keeping their own children close to them. Although Brother Edsberg travels quite a bit, his studio is in his home. Since April 1986, one wing of the home has also been a public gallery, where works of many artists are on display. He is planning an exhibition of the works of Utah artists, particularly Latter-day Saints.

Helping their children stay close to the gospel is a continuing challenge. “I don’t think anyone can appreciate how difficult it is to raise children in Denmark,” says Brother Edsberg. “You have to teach them to make the gospel part of everything they do. You have to build their faith and testimony very strongly.” He emphasizes that parents cannot hope to fulfill such a responsibility unless they have the Spirit in their own lives to help them teach and influence their children.

As Soren Edsberg looks to the future, he speaks of artistic goals. He wants to explore his Courses of Life theme in larger mural form and also use such materials as marble, glass, and crystal. He anticipates seeing his children serve missions. In all, he is heading toward his eternal goal and steadily following the course that will take him there.

The Thomas J. Pappas Elementary School in Phoenix, Arizona, isn’t a typical school. At the end of the day, students don’t go home, because they don’t have homes. After school, the buses drop them off at various homeless shelters, old hotels, or even under bridges.
When the stake youth committee of the Mesa Central Stake learned about this school, they wanted to do something for the students. They wanted to give them a day of fun and activities, so they planned a carnival with games, sports, and food. But the youth of the stake found that they gained much more than they gave.
On the morning of the activity, anticipation was high. What would students from a homeless school be like? What would they talk about? How would they act?
The youth from the stake were each partnered with a student from the school as a “buddy,” or mentor, for the day. After eating breakfast with their new friends, everyone was divided into groups to rotate through the different activities.
Most of the youth who participated in this activity had the same observation—in their efforts to give, they had received. They came away from the activity more grateful for their blessings. In their efforts to provide a day of entertainment for homeless children, they learned a valuable lesson in gratitude.

Brenna was crying. She sat in a barber’s chair, hair pulled back, her ponytail just moments away from being cut off. The hairdresser holding the scissors was crying. Those watching the scene were also in tears.
Snip! Brenna’s long hair, which had taken years to grow out, was gone. Her ponytail would now become a gift, a donation to an organization called Locks of Love. It would be combined with other donated hair and made into wigs for children who had lost their hair because of cancer treatment or who suffer from alopecia, a permanent hair-loss condition.
Brenna Reaney is just one of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, Torrance California Stake, who donated hair. For Brenna, the sacrifice of her long hair represented something concrete she could do to help Jessica James, one of her friends from the ward. Jessica, 17, had been diagnosed with aplastic anemia, a life threatening illness that would require chemotherapy treatment. At first, the girls were upset that Jessica would lose her beautiful long hair. But after Jessica had a brain hemorrhage and sank into a coma, they quickly realized that they had not understood the full spectrum of what was important. As Peggy Kirts, a member of the ward, said, “It’s been a very helpless couple of months, with everyone wanting to help and not really knowing what to do or how to do it.”
The girls would visit Jessica in the hospital as she struggled to awaken from the coma and learn again to communicate. While there, they saw many little bald children in the same area of the hospital undergoing treatment. They read to Jessica and sat with her, but they felt that they wanted to do more.
Sister Kirts, a professional hairdresser, met a family who had come to her salon for haircuts. They were donating their hair as their family’s Christmas project. From them she got the information about donating hair and did a little research. A minimum of 10 inches of hair was needed, bound in a ponytail. Especially needed was fine, light colored hair that would be more appropriate for children’s wigs.
With some hesitation, Sister Kirts presented the idea to the girls in her ward. It wouldn’t help Jessica directly, but the donation of their hair would help other girls and boys. At first, the thought was stunning. Ten inches! That was so much. “They were petrified at first,” said Sister Kirts. “I didn’t want to pressure them. But later that day, the phone just started ringing. And, one at a time, the girls called and said, ‘I’m in.’ I couldn’t believe that they would do it.”
The word spread through the ward. Even two little girls from Primary joined the Young Women in donating their hair. The local newspaper and a television station covered the event because so many girls were donating their hair at the same time. And at Christmastime, people could not help but compare this event to O. Henry’s story “Gift of the Magi,” about a young couple who each gives up the thing they value most to buy a gift for the other. In the story, the young wife sells her long hair to buy a chain for her husband’s heirloom watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.
After the young women’s story aired on the news and was printed in the newspaper, the salon offered to cut the hair of anyone who wanted to donate it. Dozens of people responded. “Teenagers have so much power for good or for bad,” said Sister Kirts. “For these people who came to donate their hair, their biggest reason was that if an 18-year-old girl can do this, I can too.”
Rachael Ward, another of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, was a little frightened to go back to school after Christmas vacation with her new short hair. “It was awful waiting for that day. Everyone noticed my hair, even people I didn’t know before. A lot of people looked at me differently. They said it made them realize that people really do good deeds for each other. It’s not just a story on television. That made me feel good.”
Rachael’s friend Brittanie Streetmaker also donated her hair. “I was nervous, but now whenever I look in the mirror, I think of a little girl who will be so happy to have a cute styled wig. My friends ask me if I miss my hair, and I say I do, but I don’t regret it for a second.”
Editor’s note: Jessica is home from the hospital. She still suffers from partial paralysis and is continuing treatment for aplastic anemia. She loves the way the girls sacrificed to help others.

When I eat lunch in the school cafeteria, some kids talk about things that I know I shouldn’t listen to. I ask them to not talk about those things. Sometimes they stop, but sometimes they don’t. If they don’t, I move to another place so I don’t have to hear bad things. A couple of times I’ve had to eat alone.
Sometimes standing up for the right means that you aren’t liked as much, but I think it helps other people to want to choose the right too. It also means that you will attract good friends. I am glad that we have a prophet who asks us to be clean.

I remember watching other kids reading with delight in class. Everyone in my family could read and did a lot of it. I once asked my brother, Rob, what was so great about reading. He smiled when he told me that when you read it’s like a whole new world opens.
I had heard the stories of Joseph Smith only being 14 when he received answers to his prayers. I wanted to experience this new world of reading. I was 13, living in Arizona with my dad. In early October, I prayed, sobbing into the sheets of my bed, begging the Lord to grant me the gift of reading. I promised that if he would grant me this great blessing, I would read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.
Amazingly, in less than 18 days, I jumped six reading levels and was up to the same grade level as others my age. Once I had been told that was impossible. The miracle happened. I struggled but kept my promise and read the whole Book of Mormon. I have since moved on to the other scriptures.
Now that I am 15, I bear my testimony that the scriptures are so important that Heavenly Father allowed a girl with a learning disability to read. I know it is important to him that all of his children read his sacred books. The scriptures have changed my life forever.

The ambulance bounced and bucked even though we weren’t really going very fast. Its siren kicked on again, screaming to try to clear the way as we brought the woman down off the mountain. I struggled against the movement to hold her head still between the sandbags that cradled it, and I twisted around so I could see out the windshield. The driver in the car ahead showed no sign that he even knew we were there, and I mentally pleaded with him to either turn off his air conditioner and stereo so he could hear us or to look in his rearview mirror for our flashing lights.
The young man sat on the bench beside his mother. Ashen-faced, he stared down at her, saying nothing, doing nothing.
She had been cruelly pinned in the wreckage of their van when we arrived on the scene. A glance told me what had happened. The driver of the van had misjudged his distance and had caught the corner of the rear end of the slowly moving highway department truck—caught it right where she had been sitting.
The jagged metal and glass had folded back around her, trapping her. There had been a small fire, but one of the highway men had worked quickly with an extinguisher and had snuffed it. She had been semiconscious, in sharp pain from the metal biting her body. The first thing I had noticed when I crawled into her twisted prison was the blood and clear fluid coming from her right ear.
While I had stayed inside with her, the others on the scene had worked as quickly and as carefully as they could to tear apart the front of the van to free her. It had taken what seemed like forever. But once freed of the torn van, she was carefully strapped to a backboard and removed. The sandbags were piled beside her head to keep her neck from moving. Straps bound her tightly and uncomfortably to the board and to the stretcher.
She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and she fought the restraining straps as I completed a more thorough examination on the road behind the ambulance. As we loaded her, she managed somehow to pull loose the strap that crossed her forehead. She fought hard as I tried to resecure it, so I decided to leave it loose and cradle her head between my hands.
We were just about to lift the stretcher and its cargo into the back of the ambulance when the young man stepped forward. “Please,” he asked in a quiet voice, “may I ride with her?”
There’s an ironclad rule in ambulance work. Nobody rides unless they’re injured. The last thing you need in the back of an ambulance is a hysterical relative when you’re fighting to keep someone alive.
But for some reason I looked up into his eyes, saw what was there, and said, “Yes. Get in.”
The ride down the mountain was a long one filled with a narrow, twisting road and slow-moving, unheeding tourist traffic. She still fought the head strap, so I still cradled her head in my hands. The blood and fluid still oozed from her right ear. Her level of consciousness seemed to be fading. The words she mumbled no longer seemed to make sense. I looked into her eyes as best I could. The light was bright, yet the pupils seemed dilated. The thought ran through my mind again and again, “This woman’s in trouble. Head hit the windshield. Basal skull fracture. Heavy duty injury. She’s in real trouble!”
We hit the flats at the bottom of the mountain, and the driver stepped hard on the accelerator. The rocking and bucking increased as our speed climbed. I thought of asking him to slow down some and then decided against it, weighing the need for speed against comfort. I could hold her head steady with my hands.
The young man—her son—sat numbly, staring. He had been driving the van.
She pulled against the restraining straps again and mumbled something. Her eyes rolled toward me, and she mumbled it again. I tried to tell her to lie still, but she kept pulling and there was a pleading tone in the mumbled words. I placed my ear next to her mouth and tried to understand.
“Are you Norman?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “My name’s not Norman.”
She tried to shake her head, and I had to hold firmly against her determination. “No!” I heard her say. “Not Norman. Are you Norman?”
I looked up at the young man. “Is your name Norman?” I asked.
He shook his head as she pleaded again, asking for Norman.
“What about your father? Is his name Norman?”
Negative reply.
“Norman’s not here,” I said into her ear, trying to make her hear me above the wailing siren. “You take it easy, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll find Norman for you.”
Her eyes were almost wild with concern as she asked again, “No, no! Not Norman! Mormon! Are you Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormon!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”
“Can you give me a blessing?” she pleaded.
My hands were full, holding her head, and I didn’t want to let go. I looked up at her son. “She wants a blessing,” I said. “What priesthood do you hold?”
“Elder,” came the reply. “We were on our way to Provo and the MTC. I’m going to Norway.”
I nodded. “She wants a blessing. Move up here and help me. My hands are full.”
“Do you have any consecrated oil?” he asked.
“In a little gold canister with the keys on my gunbelt,” I replied.
I could feel him tugging at the keys, and in a moment the key ring with its little aluminum cylinder was in his hand. I nodded to him. “Unscrew the top and anoint her.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he answered, rather plaintively.
“Time you learned,” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just do it.”
He poured the clear oil onto her head. “I don’t know what to say,” he pleaded.
I pronounced the necessary words. “Now, it’s your turn,” I said to him. “Give her a blessing.”
A stricken look passed over his face for a moment, and he closed his eyes. Then he suddenly sat straight up, placed his hands on her head, and said in a loud, strong voice, “Marge Robinson, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stay alive until we can reach the hospital and medical help.”
Then he sagged back onto the bench, covered his face with his hands, and began to weep.
A smile crossed her face and she relaxed, letting her head slide down between the sandbags. There was no more fighting the straps, no more mumbling. I sat up, startled and concerned, and quickly checked her vital signs. Good. Everything was good. In fact, unless it was just my imagination, her signs were even better than before.
She was asleep when we reached the hospital.
I recited what I thought was my diagnosis to the doctor. He checked her ear and the red and clear drainage from it, nodded and looked grim. We wheeled her to the bright room filled with doctor tools, and the hospital team went to work.
I was restocking the ambulance when the doctor called me into the room again. The ear had been cleaned out, and I could see the laceration inside it clearly. “Take a look.” The doctor smiled and handed me the otoscope.
I looked deep inside the ear. There was the eardrum, clear pink. Intact. There was no clear fluid, no cerebral fluid draining from a basal fracture. The X rays hanging on the viewboard confirmed it.
The woman was awake, alert, smiling. She thanked me and my partner for all we had done. The rest of the family was there, standing in the hall. One of them was on the telephone trying to make arrangements for a rental car to finish the trip to Provo. “We’ll keep her overnight,” the doctor was saying. “But the rest of them will make it to the MTC on time.”
I was shaking hands with them all, listening to their thanks, which I certainly didn’t deserve, when my radio started talking, telling me to let my partner take care of the ambulance and to get back to my patrol car. I had another call. Somebody wanted to complain. Neighbor’s dog was in his trash can.
I left the hospital with a strengthened conviction that Heavenly Father watches over and guides his children. Without knowing why, I had let the young elder ride in the ambulance.
I have since found that many events defy explanation except in light of a knowledge of the gospel and priesthood power.

When I was in elementary school, we walked home on a paved trail that wound back and forth up the side of a hill. There was another trail, unpaved, called the “boys’ trail.” The boys’ trail was a path in the dirt that went straight up the hill. It was shorter but much steeper. As a young girl, I knew I could walk up any trail the boys could. More important, I knew I was living in the latter days and that I would need to do hard things, as did the pioneers—and I wanted to be prepared. So every now and then, I would lag behind my group of friends on the paved trail, remove my shoes, and walk barefoot up the boys’ trail. I was trying to toughen up my feet.
As a young Primary girl, that is what I thought I could do to prepare. Now I know differently! Rather than walking barefoot up mountain trails, I know I can prepare my feet to walk on the covenant path by responding to the invitations of the Holy Ghost. For the Lord, through His prophet, is calling each of us to live and care in a “higher and holier way” and to “take a step higher.”

The deacons in the Church have a sacred obligation to visit the home of every member to collect fast offerings for the poor. President Thomas S. Monson once related to me how he, as a young bishop, began to sense that the young deacons in his ward were complaining about having to get up so early to collect fast offerings. Instead of calling the young men to task, this wise bishop took them to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City.
There the boys met a disabled woman operating the switchboard. They saw a blind man placing labels on cans, and an elderly brother stocking shelves. As a result of what they saw, President Monson said, a penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed the end result of their efforts to collect the sacred funds that aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.

Now, with a wonderful and talented family of 11 children, Sister Groberg reflected on times Brother Groberg served as a Regional Representative of the Quorum of the Twelve to the Pacific Islands and was frequently gone great distances three weeks at a time. On one occasion a call from the prophet to Elder Groberg conveyed this message: “Tell your wife you won’t be gone over six months on this special assignment (it turned out to be only two months), but we’re not sure how long it will be.” Of these times she spoke tenderly: “When your husband is giving his all, it doesn’t separate you even while he is away. It really doesn’t separate you. You are a part of it with him,” she explained. “It was his letters,” she said. And she had already developed a deep appreciation for his sensitive writing. “He would write such inspiring letters. His letters to us as a family had a profound influence on everything we did. They always have been such a strengthening influence,” she emphasized. “He would share what he could of his experiences and then he would come home and the girls would look forward to their daddy coming back and telling them really special and inspiring things that had happened on his trip.”

I felt relaxed and unhurried as I drove home. Then, all of a sudden, I heard the repeated blaring of a car horn.
Illustration by Richard Mia
I was driving home from a young-adult meeting on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I felt relaxed and unhurried as I thought about the messages I had heard about developing our potential as children of God. I asked myself what I could do to develop the potential that is in me.
My route home took me through a narrow, two-way stretch of road. A long line of cars came from the opposite direction, but no one was behind me. Then, all of a sudden, I heard the repeated blaring of a car horn. There was now a driver behind me. He flicked his headlights on and off and yelled at me to get out of the way. It appeared he wanted to drive faster.
I thought that this person needed to learn patience and respect for others, so I slowed down. As we went past a number of streets, he kept blowing his horn and flicking his lights. He then turned off the road and stopped. I looked in my rearview mirror to see his reaction at not being able to go faster. I felt good about having taught him a lesson.
Suddenly, the driver jumped out of his car and opened the passenger door. A woman emerged quickly with a baby in her arms. I looked to see where they were going. In the distance, I saw the lighted letters: “Hospital Emergency Room.”
“What have I done?” I asked myself. I arrived home, fell to my knees, and with tears in my eyes, I asked God to forgive me.
That day I learned that the actions of those around us can be motivated by things we cannot always see or understand. Today, when I see someone act in a way I judge to be wrong, I prefer to think that I do not quite understand what they are going through. I try to show the love and compassion that Jesus Christ has asked us to have toward others and to focus on understanding and helping those around me.
How can I develop my potential as a child of God? I can respond to the actions of others with love and understanding. Doing so has enabled me to feel more of the Savior’s love in my own life and enables others to feel my love for them.

Claire was a sad hippopotamus, for today was the day of the jungle talent show. All of Claire’s jungle friends were going to be in it—but not Claire. Claire had no special talent. She didn’t dance. She didn’t sing. She didn’t juggle fruits, do somersaults, or play the drums. And she didn’t know any funny stories to tell. She was just a plain, ordinary hippopotamus.
“Oh, coconuts,” Claire sighed. “There must be something I can do.”
Then Claire had an idea. She went to visit Madame Gazelle’s Dancing School. “Will you teach me to dance?” Claire asked.
“I’ll try,” replied Madame Gazelle.
Claire put on a pair of pink dancing shoes. She learned to turn and curtsey. She leaped gracefully into the air. But when Claire landed, the jungle shook. Monkeys and bananas rained from the trees, mice bounced high into the sky, and everyone complained about the shaking jungle.
Claire did not want to make her friends angry, so she gave up dancing. She went to see Hester Elephant, who was famous for her singing. “Can you teach me to sing?” Claire asked.
“Of course I can,” Hester answered.
“Listen.” She raised her trunk and sang “Mary had a little elephant …” She had a lovely voice. “Now it’s your turn,” said Hester.
Claire roared, “Mary had a little hippopotamus …” as loud as she could. Her jungle friends had to cover their ears. She scared Lonnie Python right out of his tree house.
“This will never do!” Hester cried.
So Claire went to see the Great Chimpanzees. They had the best trapeze act in the jungle. “Please teach me to swing from tree to tree,” begged Claire.
“Sure,” agreed Bimbo Chimpanzee.
“But first you must climb a tree like this.” He scurried to the top of a tall tree and waved to Claire. Claire struggled up the tree after Bimbo. The tree began to bend.
“TIMBER!” shouted the Great Chimpanzees who were on the ground. The tree and Claire and Bimbo fell with a crash. The Great Chimpanzees were happy that Claire did not fall on them. But Claire was not happy at all.
“I’ll never be a part of the show,” she cried.
“I’ll teach you to catch rings on your nose,” offered Walter Rhinoceros.
“But I don’t have a horn like you do,” Claire protested.
“Oh,” said Walter, “I forgot.”
“I’ll teach you to juggle rocks,” suggested Randy Baboon.
“Wonderful!” said Claire. She tossed two rocks into the air.
“Ouch!” They hit Randy on top of his head. He went home to have it mended.
“I know a funny joke,” laughed Smiley Hyena, “but I need it for the show. I wish I had another one for you, Claire.”
Tara Tiger tried to teach Claire to play a harmonica. But Claire swallowed it by mistake.
“Who needs a talent show anyway?” she said crossly. “I’m going swimming.” All afternoon Claire swam around the lake. When she was tired, she took a long, long nap in the water. Voices woke her up.
“Claire! Claire!” the voices called.
Claire opened her eyes. Her jungle friends stood on the shore. They were wearing their talent show costumes.
“Claire!” called Madame Gazelle. “We need you.”
“Me?” said Claire. She swam to shore.
“We have a terrible problem,” said Hester. “You are the only one who can help.”
“What can I do?” sighed Claire.
“Because we’re all in the show,” Bimbo explained, “there’s no one to watch us. So we have no judge to choose the winner.”
“Oh, I can do that!” cried Claire. So Claire sat in the very first row. She clapped as loud as she could. She cheered. She whistled and stamped her feet. “Hooray! Bravo! Encore!” she shouted. “More! More! More!”
When the show was over, Claire clapped so long that everyone took ten bows. “You were all so good,” said Claire, “I can’t decide who the winner is—”
“The winner,” announced Tara Tiger, “is Claire Hippopotamus.”
“Me!” exclaimed Claire. “I wasn’t part of the show.”
“Yes, you were,” said Lonnie Python.
“You were the best audience a talent show ever had.”
Everyone clapped for Claire. She made a curtsey. Then she took her prize, a basket of fruit and went home—a happy hippopotamus.

At the weekly temple meeting on Thursday, 12 April 1990, after all the agenda items had been covered, President Hunter asked, “Does anyone have anything that is not on the agenda?” No one spoke, so he said, “Well, then, if no one else has anything to say, I thought I’d just let you know that I’m going to be married this afternoon.” There were gasps, then he went on to explain, “Inis is an old acquaintance from California. I’ve been visiting with her for some time, and we’ve decided to get married.”

This was a delightful surprise for the Brethren, who had been concerned about President Hunter’s being alone. And now, happily, they learned that he would have a companion who is outgoing, warm, cordial, and gracious. Since the time of their marriage, Inis has been unfailing in her concern for President Hunter and in her attentiveness to him. It has been a delight for him to have a traveling companion and to show her something of the dimension of Church service, with the many and varied assignments and responsibilities a man of President Hunter’s stature carries. For her part, she has experienced all the joys and emotions that come to the wife of a General Authority, and she quickly learned to speak extemporaneously as she was called on repeatedly to speak in Church settings and missionary meetings. Sister Hunter continues to be a comfort and a joy to him.

Fabian began taking the missionary lessons shortly after the full-time missionaries came knocking. He still remembers his first sacrament meeting.

“I didn’t know anyone when I entered the chapel, so I was a little nervous,” he says. “But I felt something marvelous. I felt that I had been in the Church for months or years.”

During his baptism a few weeks later, “I felt an inexplicable joy upon being immersed in the water and coming out again. I felt like a new person, knowing that I was going to follow Jesus Christ and do my best to keep His commandments.”

As Fabian’s unmarried parents, Leonardo and Angela, joined their son during the missionary lessons, they learned about temple marriage and eternal families. “A week later, my father set a wedding date,” says Fabian. “My mother was very happy.”

Four months after Fabian joined the Church, Angela followed him into the waters of baptism. “That was a wonderful blessing,” he says.

Other blessings quickly followed. Leonardo, who had been baptized when he was young, returned to activity in the Church. Gospel study became a staple in their home. Family members grew closer. Leonardo found steady work. And Fabian received the Aaronic Priesthood.

“I love holding the priesthood so that I can pass the sacrament to ward members and help them renew their covenants,” says Fabian. “I’m especially happy when I get to pass to my family and to the elders who taught me. The proud look my father gives me as he sees me pass the sacrament makes me very happy.”

“One cow in our team was very intelligent. In fact, she was so bright that she used to hide in the willows to keep from being yoked up but when father found her and yoked her she was a good worker and a good milker. She got very lame at one time and could scarcely travel. My parents were very much worried, having already lost one. They were afraid they could not keep up with the company, and so Mother said she would make a poultice and put it on as soon as the cow laid down for the night. She made a very large one that covered all over the lame hip. Well, the next morning, when father went to get the cows up he called out, ‘Why, Mother, you have poulticed the wrong hip.’ Mother said, ‘Never mind. It’s all right. It has gone clear through.’ And sure enough she [the cow] limped very little that day, and was soon as well as ever. I know there was a great deal of faith mixed up with that poultice.”