Gospel Story Finder

We just got our November New Era, and I especially enjoyed “If This Happened Tomorrow—What Would You Do” concerning bad language. My husband is in the U.S. Army, and friends often visit him and use this kind of language in our home. At first I was afraid to say anything to them for fear of offending them, but I think I have found a solution. I made a little box, and everyone who curses in my home has to put a nickel in it. Everyone’s name is on the box, and each time someone slips he gets a mark by his name. At first it was just a joke, but now if one of them sees that he is way ahead of the others, he sure watches his language. The money we get is given to the bishop to be used for a good cause. Perhaps this system could help another family or individual too.
Monika HiettDarmstadt, Germany

In April 1829 Oliver Cowdery, hearing that Joseph had received the plates, journeyed to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and immediately became involved in the work of translation, assisting Joseph as a scribe (see History of the Church, 1:32–33). During this month, sections 6, 8, and 9 were given as questions arose from the translation of the Book of Mormon.

Where there were branches, we met in lodge halls, and it was the duty of the elders to go early on Sunday morning to clean up the cigar and cigarette butts and other leftovers from the regular Saturday night parties. Oh yes, part of that cleaning up was emptying the spitoons. By opening all the windows we were able to clear out some of the stench and make the place more fitting as a place for the Saints to meet.

Church members had survived every hardship endured by other citizens of their country. For example, Elfrieda (Frieda) Glasnerová Vanecková, a Jewish convert baptized in 1932, spent two years in a concentration camp, as did her husband and two sons. On the day she was freed, Frieda had been scheduled for execution. When President Toronto found her recovering in the hospital, she wept with joy to see him. Eleven members of her extended family had perished at Auschwitz. Now she had been reunited with someone of her faith. Her two sons were later baptized.

During the next week and a half, our team worked hard to get ready for the regional games. The games were scheduled for Friday and Saturday.
Friday I woke up to a gray, overcast sky. “You don’t think it will rain, do you?” I asked Dad as we drove to the field.
“The clouds will just make it nice and cool,” Dad said, trying to be optimistic.
But Dad was wrong. Throughout Friday and Saturday it rained off and on. Games were postponed, schedules were changed, and by late Saturday we were finishing the semifinal championship game. Our team was tied with the Tigers. We didn’t give up, though. The game went into extra innings, neither team able to get the advantage over the other. Then, with Bobby Simms on second base, I hit the ball to right field. Bobby raced around the bases, scoring the winning run.
After our team celebrated the victory, the coach gathered us around him. “Well, guys, one more game and we’re regional champs!”
“When do we play?” Chad asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. The weather’s supposed to be good all day.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
Coach Decker shrugged. “It’s too late to play tonight, so everybody decided to play Sunday afternoon.”
I felt sick. Nobody else seemed to care that we were going to be playing on Sunday.
“The game starts at 2:00 P.M.,” Coach Decker told us. “I’d like you here no later than noon. That will give us time to get ready for the game. Any questions?” He looked around the circle of eager faces. I felt worried inside.
As the group broke up, Coach Decker slapped me on the back. “Don’t look so glum, Marcus. We’re one game from the championship. You’re not nervous, are you? You’re going to pitch us to the championship.”
I tried to smile. “Do we have to play on Sunday?”
Coach Decker laughed. “No, Marcus, we get to play on Sunday.”
“I have church tomorrow,” I said quietly.
The smile on Coach Decker’s face began to fade. “Marcus, this is the championship. You can go to church any Sunday. But this is the only time you’re ever going to play this game. Now you head home and get a good night’s sleep.”
I slowly walked to where Mom and Dad were waiting for me. Looking at their faces, I knew they had heard about the Sunday game. They waited for me to speak. I was quiet until we got in the car.
“Church starts at 8:30,” I remarked. “It’ll be over at 11:30.” I hesitated. “I’d be a little late getting here for practice, but we could still go to church. I’d be able to give my talk in Primary.”
Mom and Dad were quiet for a moment. Then Dad said, “Do you feel good about that?”
“Dad, I didn’t want this game to be on Sunday. That’s just the way things turned out. If it hadn’t rained so much, we would have played the championship game tonight. I have to pitch in that game. The whole team’s depending on me. We’ll lose if I don’t. Tony’s the backup pitcher, and he can’t do it on his own. I have to play.”
“It’s a tough decision,” Mom commented. “You have to make sure you do what is right.”
“I’ll be going to church,” I said defensively. “Isn’t that what Sundays are for?”
“Is that the only thing Sundays are for?” Dad questioned gently.
“That’s the main thing.”
Dad took a deep breath. “The Lord has asked us to keep His day holy. We are to worship Him. Not just when we’re at church, but all day.”
“Sunday has always been a special day for us,” Mom added. “That’s the way the Lord intended it to be. That’s why we don’t go to movies or shop on Sundays. We’re careful not to do some things that we do on other days of the week.”
“But I can’t play this game any other day of the week,” I argued. “Do you think it’s fair for me to let Coach Decker and the team down? I owe them something.”
“Do you owe the Lord anything?” Dad asked. “You made a commitment when you were baptized to obey His commandments. That was long before you ever agreed to pitch for the Chiefs.”
“It’s going to be just one time, Dad. One time can’t hurt anything. Besides, the Lord has helped me this season. I know He has. That’s what I was going to say in my Primary talk. Did He help me all this time just so I could sit home and not play in the biggest game of the season?”
“Marcus,” Dad spoke again, “do you know what a covenant is?”
“Isn’t it like a promise?”
“That’s right. But it’s a special promise, a promise between you and the Lord. When you were baptized, you made a covenant to keep the commandments, including honoring the Sabbath. And the Lord has made a covenant to bless us if we keep His Sabbath holy.”
“But I’ve kept the Sabbath holy,” I argued. “This is just one time.”
“Maybe this is a chance for you to show the Lord that you will keep your covenant. Was it easy to keep the Sabbath holy last week?”
“Yes. It was just like any other Sunday.”
“So if you really wanted to show the Lord that you are obedient, which Sunday would show Him that—last week or tomorrow?
“Marcus,” Dad continued. “We’re not going to tell you not to play tomorrow. This is a decision you have to make.”
We didn’t say anything the rest of the way home. I did a lot of thinking, though. I thought about the team. I thought about Coach Decker. I thought about the championship trophy.
Then I started thinking about the Lord, my family, and everyone else who was depending on me to make the right decision. I thought of all the things the Lord had given me. I thought of what I could offer Him. Deep inside I knew the only thing I could really give the Lord was the way I lived my life—to show Him He can count on me, no matter what.
I offered a silent prayer, asking Him to help me know what to do and to have the courage to do it. After the prayer, there was no question in my mind.
“I need to call Coach Decker,” I said quietly as we pulled into our driveway.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Dad asked.
In a way I did, yet I knew that wouldn’t be right. “No,” I answered softly, “I want him to know this is my decision.” Looking at Mom, I added, “And I think I’m going to change my talk for Primary tomorrow. I’m going to talk about keeping the Sabbath holy.”

A few years ago I gave some rather intensive attention to the four gospels as found in the New Testament. When I had finished this study, using these words of John as a text—“But these are written, that ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing ye might have life through his name” (John 20:31)—I wrote these words:
“And so endeth the gospels—
“Those sacred scriptures which tell of the birth, ministry, mission, atoning sacrifice, resurrection, and ascension of the Son of God;
“Those revealed records which teach with power and conviction the eternal truths which men must believe to gain salvation in God’s kingdom;
“Those true histories of the life of Christ which lead men to love the Lord and to keep his commandments;
“Those sacred and solemn testimonies which open the door to the receipt of peace in this life and eternal life in the world to come.
“In this holy writ, in these gospel accounts, in these testimonies of the life of our Lord—
“We see Jesus—the Almighty, the Creator of all things from the beginning—receiving a tabernacle of clay in the womb of Mary.
“We stand by an Infant in a manger and hear heavenly voices hail his birth.
“We observe him teaching in the temple and confounding the worldly wise when but twelve years of age.
“We watch him in Jordan, immersed under the hands of John, while the heavens open and the personage of the Holy Ghost descends like a dove; and we hear the voice of the Father speak approving words.
“We go with him into a wilderness place apart and behold the devil come, tempting, enticing, seeking to lead him from God-directed paths.
“We view in wonder and amazement his miracles: he speaks and the blind see; at his touch the deaf hear; he commands and the lame leap, paralytics rise from their beds, lepers are cleansed, and the devils desert their ill-gotten abodes.
“We rejoice at the miracle of sin-crippled souls being made whole, of disciples who forsake all to follow him, of saints who are born again.
“We stand in awe as the elements obey his voice: he walks on the water; at his word storms cease; he curses the fig tree and it withers; water becomes wine when he wills it; a few small fish and a little bread feed thousands because of his word.
“We sit with the Lord of life, as a man, in the intimacy of a family circle in Bethany; we weep with him at Lazarus’ tomb; we fast and pray at his side when he communes with his Father; we eat and sleep and walk with him down the lanes and in the villages of Palestine; we see him hungry, thirsty, weary, and marvel that a God should seek such mortal experiences.
“We drink deeply of his teachings; we hear parables such as never man spake before; we learn what it means to hear one with authority announce his Father’s doctrine.
“We see him:
“In sorrow—weeping for his friends, lamenting over doomed Jerusalem;
“In compassion—forgiving sins, caring for his mother, making men whole spiritually and physically;
“In anger—cleansing his Father’s house, blazing forth with righteous indignation at its desecration;
“In triumph—entering Jerusalem amid shouts of Hosanna to the Son of David, transfigured before his disciples on the mount, standing in resurrected glory on a mountain in Galilee.
“We recline with him in an upper room, apart from the world, and hear some of the greatest sermons of all time as we partake of the emblems of his flesh and blood.
“We pray with him in Gethsemane and tremble under the weight of the burden he bore as great drops of blood come from every pore; we bow our heads in shame as Judas plants the traitor’s kiss.
“We stand at his side before Annas and again before Caiaphas; we go with him to Pilate and to Herod and back to Pilate; we partake of the pain, feel the insults, shudder at the mocking, and are revolted at the gross injustice and mass hysteria which hurl him inescapably toward the cross.
“We sorrow with his mother and others at Golgotha as Roman soldiers drive nails into his hands and feet; we shudder as the spear pierces his side, and live with him the moment when he voluntarily gives up his life.
“We are in the garden when the angels roll back the stone, when he comes forth in glorious immortality; we walk with him on the Emmaus road; we kneel in the upper room, feel the nail marks in his hands and feet and thrust our hands into his side; and with Thomas we exclaim: ‘My Lord and my God!’
“We walk to Bethany and there behold, as angels attend, his ascension to be with his Father; and our joy is full, for we have seen God with man.
“We see God in him—for we know that God was in Christ, manifesting himself to the world so that all men could know those holy beings whom to know is eternal life.
“And now what shall we say more of Christ? Whose Son is he? What works hath he wrought? Who today can testify of these things?
“Let it now be written once again—and it is the testimony of all the prophets of all the ages—that he is the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father, the promised Messiah, the Lord God of Israel, our Redeemer and Savior; that he came into the world to manifest the Father, to reveal anew the gospel, to be our great Example, to work out the infinite and eternal atonement; and that soon he shall come again to reign personally upon the earth and to save and redeem those who love and serve him.
“And now let it also be written, both on earth and in heaven, that I also know of the truth of those things of which the prophets have testified. For these things have been revealed unto me by the Holy Spirit of God, and I therefore testify that Jesus is Lord of all, the Son of God, through whose name salvation comes.” (Bruce R. McConkie, Doctrinal New Testament Commentary, vol. 1, pp. 873–876.)

There is a hammock in our backyard. After treatments I sit in that hammock most of the day just feeling sorry for myself. I look up at the trees and think, lucky trees. Trees don’t get cancer. I look up at the birds. Lucky birds. They can just fly away from their problems. I wish I could fly away.
On one of those days after I’d been sitting on the hammock crying and feeling sorry for myself, I went into my house and watched television. The Jerry Lewis Telethon was on. The parents of children who had multiple sclerosis were telling what it is like to have a child with the disease. Most of them talked of the hope they had for a cure for their child’s condition. One woman, however, said she didn’t have any hope that her child would even live much longer, but she said that she was going to love her child as much as she could as long as she could. She also said that her family had grown tremendously from the experience. They’d learned not to let sorrow drown out their happiness.
I was so mad at myself. I was bitter. I had so much to be thankful for, and I was wasting so much of my precious time. That little boy seemed so happy. He was smiling, and his parents also seemed happy. I’m sure they felt pain because they knew they were going to lose their son, but they weren’t letting that get in their way. They were making the most of every minute they had with him.
I realized then that it doesn’t matter how much time I have left. What is really important is what I do with what I have. I decided to fight to the end.

“It was a good message, boy,” Bill called to me as I climbed out of his ancient, army-green Plymouth and pulled my coat more tightly around me to protect me from the icy night. Bill stared down the street into the darkness, his cracked, calloused, grease-stained hands clasping the steering wheel. It was always hard for me to know what Bill was thinking. All his secrets were locked behind the wide, leathery face topped by his graying, short-cropped hair.
“I’d sure like to know the scriptures like you, boy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But,” he added with resignation, “I figure I’m too old for all that now.” He cleared his throat, and a hoarse chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I could tell you plenty about diesel engines—I’ve worked on them for over fifty years—but I never had much time for the Bible and that sort of thing. Yeah,” he added with a sigh, “it was a mighty fine message, boy.”
I coughed nervously into my fist and muttered a short good night. I didn’t ever know what to say around Bill. I had known him all my life—at least I had lived down the street from him—and yet, I still felt uncomfortable when he was around.
Slamming the car door, I started up the front walk. I glanced about me. The porch light was encased in a misty haze of snow. I ducked my head further into my collar and leaned against the white wintery onslaught.
“Well, Daniel, you’re back early,” Dad greeted me. I pulled my coat off and shook the melting snow from it. “How did it go?” Dad asked.
I shrugged. “Same as usual,” I grumbled, dropping down on the sofa and closing my eyes.
“How’s Sister Rencher?”
“She says she feels a lot better. At least she can get up and around with her walker.” For a while both of us were quiet, and then I said, as much to myself as to Dad, “Well, there’s one advantage of home teaching with Bill. When he’s not in a talkative mood, which is most of the time, we can visit all three widows in about thirty minutes. That must be some kind of record.”
There was a rustle of paper and I opened my eyes. Dad had dropped the newspaper he had been reading into his lap and was staring at me. “What’s wrong with Bill?” he asked.
I heaved a sigh. “Nothing. I guess. That is if you don’t mind doing everything yourself,” I added sarcastically. “All he ever does is show up and beep his horn. The second Wednesday of every month. There are some things that never change: Bill’s beeping horn is one of them. No appointment. We’re just supposed to know that he’s coming. But all the rest is my job. I do the talking, give the lesson, everything.
“Why does Bill home teach anyway?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
I shrugged and shifted my weight. “Well, ever since the bishop assigned me to Bill three months ago, I’ve wondered why he even goes. Has Bill ever gone to church?”
Dad dropped his paper on the floor. “He used to go some. Before his wife, Tillie, had her stroke. But even then he always seemed more at home in his garage dressed in a pair of dirty coveralls with grease to his elbows.”
“I can believe it,” I grinned. “He always smells like an old engine. He’s never able to get all the grease off his hands.” I hesitated. “Bill smokes, doesn’t he?”
Dad looked over at me and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him.”
“You don’t have to see him. All you have to do is look at his yellow-stained fingers. And he sucks those awful green lozenges to kill the tobacco smell. That’s why I can’t understand Bishop Clark letting him be a home teacher.”
“Those three widows never complain,” Dad said.
“But a home teacher is supposed to set an example. And don’t tell me this is my chance to get Bill to come to church. You and I both know that’s not ever going to happen.”
“I suppose the Lord knows that home teaching is one place where Bill can do some good,” Dad answered somberly.
“Do some good?” I gasped. “But he’s totally inactive!”
“You can learn something from Bill.”
“I don’t want to be a diesel mechanic.”
“Maybe you can learn something about the gospel.”
“From Bill?” I asked incredulously. “I’ll bet he has never read a scripture in his life!”
“I don’t think you know Bill. When he stands before the Lord, I doubt the Lord will be looking at his greasy hands and tobacco-stained fingers.” Dad cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Can you deliver newspapers for your brother again in the morning? He still has that bad sore throat and cough.”
The next morning I was up a little before five o’clock, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped, and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people, I didn’t make the effort to set the newspaper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were shoveled completely clean of snow. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold ninety minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off our walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were completely clean.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”
The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month! You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ‘63 green Plymouth was ancient, but his black Ford truck was an antique, something from the early ‘50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late!”
“Just tell him,” she said. “Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we had planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went to get my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat, and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully. “I wondered if you would come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together, and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I had given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency Message that month, I had emphasized it pretty heavily. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright red with embarrassment. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?” he asked.
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much anyway. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth. …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I’ve got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood! Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I would never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t have forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need to be taken care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later, all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Then we drove to Sister Hatch’s home. She seemed to be waiting for us and opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These are for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly, and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again, and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock, and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more, Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson, and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me.
Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back, and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard, glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into it and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment, she sat very still. Then she began to rock, ever so slowly. And as she rocked, a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too,” said Bill.
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads. As Sister Rencher prayed, I understood why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” Sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he has pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story—at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands.
They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray, and the Pharisee …” (See Luke 18:10–14.)
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t recall ever hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s—you know, about the two fellows going to the temple.”
He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to him and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

Mary Hobson, the eighth of nine children born in Farmington, Utah, in 1853, kept house for her older brother Alma. He had a store in Richmond, Utah, and was the first telegraph operator there. He taught Mary, age 15, telegraphy and sent her to a special school for this in Logan. She helped him and was the first woman telegrapher in Richmond. Then Alma moved to Franklin, the oldest town in Idaho, and kept a store, post office, and telegraph office there. Mary helped him and thus became the first woman telegrapher in Idaho. When Alma moved back to Richmond, Mary stayed in Franklin and managed the store, post office, and telegraph office for several years.

Eighteen-year-old Keri Ainge of Sutton Coldfield, England, barely caught her breath after baptism before she was totally immersed in missionary work, both for the living and for the dead.
Keri helped the missionaries teach her own mother, and then together she and her mother started sorting out their family history. They’ve researched six generations back into the 1700s. “We searched one graveyard at Hockley, Birmingham, for three days hunting for one great-grandparent’s grave,” said Keri. “It was amazing when we found the right one.”
Keri has also spent several weeks helping the sister missionaries in Coventry and Northampton. This helped her love the work so much she’s determined to serve a full-time mission of her own just as soon as she turns 21.

In 1899 there was not enough water in southern Utah. For more than two years there had been no rain. The streams and wells around the town of St. George had dried up. There was no water for the crops, so the plants died. The cattle died too. Many people began moving away.
Nell was a little girl living in St. George at that time. Her father told her their family would have to move away soon.
In June, Nell and her mother went to a Church conference in St. George. President Lorenzo Snow, the prophet at that time, was going to speak. Nell’s father stayed home to pack for their move. Nell listened carefully to what the prophet said. After the conference, she hurried home. She told her father that President Snow had promised if the people would pay their tithing and plant crops, it would rain and they would have food for the coming year.
Nell’s father explained that their family couldn’t survive another year if the crops didn’t grow. Nell reminded him that her grandfather had talked about how the people in his day were blessed by doing exactly what President Brigham Young (1801–77) asked them to do. Grandfather had promised Nell that if she followed the living prophet, she would be blessed too. Nell believed her grandfather, and she offered to give her father her own savings to help pay their family’s tithing.
The next morning, Nell saw her father plowing the fields, getting ready to plant. Her family stayed in St. George and did exactly what the prophet asked them to do. During the hot, dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George paid their tithing, planted their fields, prayed, and watched the cloudless sky for rain. They were grateful when two months after the conference, it began to rain. The crops grew in abundance that year!

Rose Hicks, 18, Melbourne. Maybe Rose Hicks typifies the variety of Australia as much as anybody. Born in New Zealand, she considers herself Samoan, but has German, Fijian, Russian, Chinese, and Tongan blood running in her veins, too.
There’s a fierce determination about Rose. At the stake athletic games one day, she garnered five ribbons—four first-place and one second-place. “I hate coming in second!” she grimaced, stuffing the ribbons in a pocket. “I love competition.”
With that kind of drive, Rose will probably reach her goal of becoming a civil engineer and an architect. “I want to take part in building the New Jerusalem,” she says.

In Sweden, during my last year of high school, I decided to apply to Brigham Young University in Utah. There was only one problem: no matter how fervently I prayed for God to confirm my decision, it just never felt right. I thought, “The answer couldn’t possibly be no, could it? In so many ways, BYU seems like it should be the right decision, especially because I want a temple marriage and my prospects at BYU are so much better than in Sweden.” Except it wasn’t right. Not for me. Not at that time.
Disappointed, I discarded my plans to attend BYU and applied to a university in Sweden. At about the same time that I would have left for my BYU adventure, I fell in love with Jonas—a recently returned missionary. Although we must have attended several youth activities together before Jonas left on his mission, I had never noticed him. How his charisma and infectious laugh escaped me remains a mystery!
Early in our relationship, Jonas told me that he had applied to BYU and hoped to attend the following semester. After his first semester in Provo, we married in the temple and began attending BYU together, graduating on the same day.
Now I look back and see why Heavenly Father initially said no—or really, “not yet”—to my fervent prayer about attending BYU. Although He said no to my desire at that particular time, He was actually saying yes to a much more important desire. As a young girl, I had often prayed that my future husband and I would find each other when the time was right. We might have met at BYU, but I am convinced that, as part of a greater plan, Jonas and I needed to find each other in Sweden. Perhaps many of Heavenly Father’s “no” answers to our prayers are integral parts of his “yes” answers to greater plans for our lives.

Shortly thereafter he was called on a mission and reported for training. He prayed for a personal witness of the gospel. While observing some instructors teaching about the First Vision, he says, “I received a testimony so powerful that I could hardly stay in the room.”

I just wanted to thank you for printing the article “Roots and Branches” (Aug. 1999). There are only two members, besides me, at my high school, and all of the people and friends I have in my ward go to another high school. It gets pretty lonely, and that article helped me to get another perspective. I now cherish the time I get to spend at seminary and Mutual more than ever. In that same issue, “In Madagascar” really taught me a lot too. I think the members there have so much courage to stay strong and be proud members of the Church. I really wish I had the courage that they must have.
Julianne BurnhamPomona, California (via e-mail)

Several months ago, thousands of people visited our Church’s booth at the Frankfurt Book Fair where they had the opportunity to learn about the Book of Mormon, read it, and talk about their impressions. On the other side of the booth, crowds of visitors could experience family history for themselves and were astonished at the scale of FamilySearch’s work.
After gaining insights, many visitors asked me: Why are you doing all of this?
Profound conversations about the gospel of Jesus Christ and the plan of redemption ensued. These conversations made some things very clear to me again:
There is no reason to be reluctant in sharing our testimony of Jesus Christ.
The hand of the Lord is clearly manifest as we act righteously in His name.
Nothing comes close to the magnitude and majesty of the plan of redemption and the gathering of Israel on both sides of the veil.
Working at the book fair was very exhausting. At the end, all of us were drained physically, but beautifully awake in spirit and full of joy.

Becky Craven(9) An eyewitness complains that a train engineer did not try to swerve before his train hit a car stuck on the tracks.

Janice Kapp Perry grew up on a farm in Oregon. When she could, she traveled to the Idaho Falls Temple to do baptisms for the dead. “I Love to See the Temple” reflects her feelings on those trips.

When Elder Bednar moved away from Provo, he left with more than a degree. It was there that he met his future wife, Susan K. Robinson. She was at BYU studying to receive a degree in education, and they were in the same student ward. One Monday night their family home evening groups got together to play a game of flag football. Susan was on the receiving end of a long pass by Elder Bednar, who had been a quarterback for his high school team. He was very impressed by her catch, but he didn’t know that the pass reception was the only one she can remember ever catching (see “I’m a Teacher Who Is Now a College President,” Summit, 1997, 10). Still, there was a connection made, and the couple was sealed in the Salt Lake Temple in 1975. They now have three sons and three grandchildren.

For 11 incredible months, we shared many special moments until José began feeling unwell. After numerous tests, he was diagnosed with advanced cancer. We held onto hope through treatments, but his health declined rapidly. Despite his physical deterioration, his spirit grew stronger, his testimony deepened, and his gratitude never wavered. We spent our days reflecting on our experiences, feeling God’s love even in the most challenging moments.
Every day, we meditated on what we had learned that day and enjoyed sharing our feelings and the teachings of the Spirit. One of the most important things the Father taught us was patience because we prayed to be patient. We realize He doesn’t give us the gifts we ask for but allows us to develop them as we experience trials. Through the nights of tears and pain, we felt gratitude for the covenants we were able to make in the temple that promised us we would be together after this earthly life and through the eternities. It was the most beautiful blessing we received.