Gospel Story Finder

One way we can share our testimony is to have a nativity in our home so we can spark conversations about the Lord’s birth. Another way is to relate stories like that of John Weightman in The Mansion.

John Weightman was a successful man whose charities brought him attention and renown. One evening, after perusing a pile of newspaper clippings praising him for his generosity, he picked up his Bible. Soon he fell asleep after reading the Savior’s words: “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal” (Matthew 6:19).

As he slept, John found himself in “the heavenly city,” traveling with others as they received their mansions. When the Keeper of the Gate stopped in front of a tiny hut built of cast-off materials, he said to John, “This is your mansion.”

John protested, listing his many public contributions.

“Were not all these carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit?” asked the Keeper of the Gate. “You have had your reward for them. Would you be paid twice?”1

During this Christmas season, I hope each of us has the opportunity to give anonymously.

Mary Nash, another student from the past, who married classmate Clive North after his mission, comments, “I have rich memories of rising early to catch the 7:25 A.M. train from Birmingham to Leicester to be present for the 8:30 A.M. devotional at Wakerley Road Chapel one Saturday each month. There were a handful of us from all over the stake, but our teacher, John M. Madsen (Church Educational System Regional Coordinator), made those classes so much fun. I still recall his saying, ‘Welcome to cemetery,’ as tired, bleary-eyed youngsters sat yawning through his opening remarks. I remember the struggle I had at first with homework and daily scripture study, but through practice and Heavenly Father’s help, I coped with both and succeeded.”

My father helped me see the consequences of trying something “just once.”
He and I are industrial mechanics. One day he suggested that I should go to work wearing a white shirt instead of my regular work clothes. I couldn’t do that, I said. The shirt would be badly stained by the grease and powder from the machinery. Oh, it’s all right, my father replied; it’s only for one day. But again, I protested that the stains and dirt would be difficult to remove. That’s when he explained that trying alcohol or tobacco “just once” would be like wearing a white shirt to work. The alcohol and tobacco may not harm my body, he said, but using them even once would harm my spirit.
Sin is like grease; it stains us, and the stain can be hard to remove. Repentance is possible, but it is never easy. It is better to never sin—even if it is for just one time, or just a little bit.
Fábio Máximo, 20,Campinas Fourth Ward, Campinas Brazil Stake

Many years ago, I moved from the small market town of my birth in Yorkshire to London to become a student. It was a great cultural shock, even in Church terms; I was catapulted from a small branch into a thriving multinational ward. There was a particular sister I remember for all the very best reasons; she loved the Lord. The Lord has commanded us to attend church on the sabbath, and she was always there. When the bishop needed any help, this sister always volunteered, and when he announced that the ward choir needed more members, she joined.
This kind sister had a unique voice; it was loud and shrill and always a fraction off key. She sang with enthusiasm, despite her rather obvious lack of natural talent, and went to every practice. She also paid to have singing lessons.
I’ve never forgotten her because she taught me several important lessons. The choir leader was a professional opera singer and I marvelled at her patience and understanding, and how she didn’t let an obviously difficult situation dampen her enthusiasm. But most of all, I marvelled at the sister who couldn’t sing. She obviously loved the Lord with all her heart. Anything that was asked of her she willingly did. She did not use any excuse for not accomplishing what was asked. The choir needed members and she was going to do her bit. She worshipped God in song, though it was not one of her talents. She sang the same way that she loved the Lord—with all her heart.
She taught me to live the gospel as she did, happily doing whatever was asked. I may not do it as well as someone else could do it, I may not get through each day perfectly in tune with the Spirit, but I should keep trying and refuse to make excuses for not giving my best—even when my best falls short of perfection.
This sister has probably passed away by now, and joined the heavenly choir, and been gifted with the voice of an angel. To my mind, she has earned it.

At a stake conference before Caleb’s passing, I spoke with a General Authority about our experience with Caleb. After he acknowledged the exhausting effort needed to care for Caleb, I thought he would encourage me to faithfully persevere in the service and sacrifice I was providing. Instead, his next four words transformed my relationship with Caleb forever.
He simply said, “You are being exalted.”
The Lord taught a similar principle when Joseph Smith, while incarcerated in Liberty Jail, prayed for relief from the great suffering he and the Saints were experiencing. The Lord responded with a comforting promise:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:7–8).
Similarly, Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles testified: “Adversity is not evidence of the Lord’s disfavor, nor a withdrawal of His blessings. Opposition is part of God’s plan to refine us and prepare us for an eternal, celestial destiny (see 2 Nephi 2:11).”
All this time I thought we were taking care of Caleb. In reality, God, through Caleb, had been taking care of us. The Lord was performing a miracle on me, on my wife and children, and on all those who met Caleb.
Caleb could have quickly returned to heaven, but instead he brought heaven to us for seven remarkable years. In our toughest times, God never abandoned us. With faith, courage, and hope, we learned that His blessings often shine brightest during our trials. Caleb’s constant wink was a tender reminder of God’s profound love for us all.
The author lives in Utah.
Like the Moody family, how can you “purposely choose hope and trust in the Lord” in your own trials?

My brother gave me his old cell phone. It was red and shiny. A few days later my mom said that my sister who was going to college had just called. She had forgotten to take her cell phone out of her pocket and ran it through the wash. It wasn’t working, and she couldn’t afford a new one. I wrapped up my cell phone and we went to see her. I will never forget her face when she opened it. I know Heavenly Father was happy with me because of the good feeling I had inside.

It was in February of 1976 that they came to Salt Lake City to be the guests of Dave and Chris Boyd. The Boyds did not speak Spanish nor did the Bolivians speak English when they first arrived in Utah. Chris said, “It’s close to a miracle how we have been able to communicate. We’ve been able to work with the time schedules, solve medical problems, and enjoy each other’s company.
They learned English quickly and after only a few months could understand much of what was being said around them. When they played for school children throughout the Salt Lake Valley, they would ask them in English to clap or answer their musical questions in certain parts of the songs. They learned easily to say “Thank you,” “I’m very happy to be here,” and “My name is _____. What is yours?” They also learned to say “I’m hungry!”
They were most homesick for Bolivian food. Chris said that they would graciously eat anything she cooked for them. But they are used to food that has no chemical additives in it, and when they began eating American food, they had a hard time adjusting to it. In Bolivia they eat a lot of vegetables but insist on cooking them. Many Americans eat raw vegetables; Rama Nueve calls it rabbit food.
They make most of their own instruments. The flutist makes his flutes from cane stock. The bell tones he can make are pure and clear and seem even richer than those from flutes of silver. One of the instruments they use is the charango. It is made from an armadillo-type animal, a tatú. The shell is used as the back or sound part of the instrument.
All of the young Bolivians are exciting, accomplished musicians, but not one of them can read printed music. They began playing instruments by ear at a young age. “Many of the youth have a great desire to learn to read music but don’t have access to teachers who know the skills,” Chris said.
They brought seven different costumes with them from South America. They explained that there are 40 or 50 regional costumes in Bolivia. These costumes grew out of early uniforms worn by the Bolivians when they were required by European occupants to wear certain clothes as marks of identification.
When asked what it is like to have six Bolivian youths move in, Chris said: “It is like having brothers and sisters move into your home for a few months. I will really miss them when they’re gone. Their tempo of life has affected my way of living. I’ve had to learn to relax. But on the other hand, their tempo has changed too. They are so busy right now that they hardly have time to watch the sunset.”
During the time they weren’t singing at concerts or benefits of some kind, they were catching up on their sleep or writing letters home. One of the favorite things they learned while they were in Utah was how to roller skate. “It’s a sport we don’t have in La Paz.” It may well be introduced upon their return. They have also learned to swim and dive. Chris said that anything they enter into they do with their whole soul. They have taught others the Bolivian folk dances and want very much to learn how to dance in the American fashion.
From the first week they arrived in Utah they wanted to be involved in a family home evening at least once a week. So, on Monday nights they were invited into homes all over the Salt Lake Valley and enjoyed American family home evenings. But on Sunday nights they decided to get together and take turns giving the lesson to their own group. They made popcorn and usually ended the evening singing LDS hymns in Spanish.
They like Utah and its people. The thing they noticed most was the layout of the Utah communities where most of the streets run directly east and west or north and south. “In Bolivia,” Luis said, “the telephone books are full of street names—no numbers. A taxi driver knows how to get to any address. Some streets wind up into the mountains, and it’s really easy for a stranger to get lost. Here, you just figure out the numbering system, and you can find your way around. It’s so organized. I like that.”
On May 26, 1976, Rodolfo Villalba left Salt Lake City to return home to Bolivia as a full-time missionary for the Church. “My heart is full of beautiful things I want to share with my people,” he said. After his mission he wants to come back to Utah and Brigham Young University; then he will return again to Bolivia to become a productive member of his community.
Rodolfo Murilla also returned to Bolivia at the end of May—there was a rumor that he had someone special waiting for him. The other four, Raul, Luis, Elizabeth, and Lidia, stayed in the U.S. to attend Brigham Young University. They are serious about becoming good representatives of Bolivia. After their education, they all say they want to go back to help their homeland. Lidia wants to study sociology. Luis wants to go into some technical field. Raul feels that it is a great opportunity, “one in a lifetime, to study in another country. And to do it in the Church university is really something!” His father is not a member but wants the best opportunities for his son. Raul is the oldest of the children in his family, and his father wants him to set a good example for his younger brothers and sisters.
When asked what was the greatest experience they had while they were traveling, they immediately replied, “Meeting President Kimball.” On April 26 in the Church Office Building, the group was introduced to President Kimball. They spent time speaking with him through an interpreter. “It was the highlight of my life,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll remember that over everything else. It was a privilege and a humbling honor.”
Each of the youth has a vibrant testimony of the gospel and is aware every moment of the need to be a good example of Church membership. Every concert they gave while in Utah was closed by singing the simple song “I Am a Child of God.” They sang it first in Spanish and then in English. They said it was how they could bear their testimony so that everyone could understand.

Visit the home of James Christensen and you will find that his walls are full of windows onto some other world. Go to a gallery where his paintings hang and you will find more windows. The worlds beyond those windows hold dragons and dwarves, wise fools and magic fish, homemade spaceships and angels.
Brother Christensen is a professor of art at Brigham Young University and enjoys a national reputation as a fantasy artist. His work has appeared in Time/Life Books’ series The Enchanted World, as well as on many book covers and in magazines. He has served as president of the National Academy of Fantastic Art. His paintings are exhibited in galleries throughout the United States.
First of all because it’s fun, and I love doing it. Also because I agree with Lloyd Alexander, the popular fantasy author, who feels that fantasy is an essential ingredient in a balanced intellectual and emotional diet. He warns of “spiritual malnutrition” if we limit ourselves to a strict diet of reality. He adds that fantasy, unfortunately, has come to be seen as dessert, whereas in a well-balanced life, it is one of the four basic food groups. Without it, we are in danger of believing that the world is so totally ordered and “figured out” that there aren’t any miracles left around the corner.
Madeline L’engle, another respected author, suggests that as we grow up we are taught to surrender our sense of wonder. When we were little we could see angels. We could walk on water. We knew that anything was possible, and yet we’re taught to repress that faith and openness, that willingness to accept things as possible, in order to become adults and deal with the “real” world.
Fantasy is one place where we can nurture our sense of wonder, where we can keep our intuition of the wonderful possibilities life affords.
As children, it was acceptable for us to use fantasy and play to experiment with various solutions to the problems of reality. We explored the possibilities in imaginary worlds where the right and wrong of things were easily identifiable, and the consequences of wrong choices—selfishness, ignorance, jealousy—could be examined, and felt, but tempered in the end by benign magical rules that allowed us to mend our ways and live happily ever after. Our fantasies were also a place for us to renew ourselves, to refresh our souls and give us strength to deal with the real world.
I believe that we still need that oasis of wonder at least as much as we did when we were children.
Not at all. It can be the means of expressing some very profound truths. Fantasy may not correspond to the surface reality of our day-to-day lives, but it often catches a glimpse of a better, deeper reality. As C. S. Lewis proved in the Chronicles of Narnia, it can sometimes capture the most profound truths of all.
Yes, by exercising it. Imagination muscles have to be developed the same as physical muscles. I believe very strongly that just as wagon wheels once carved ruts by traveling over the same road too many times, we make ruts in our minds and then lose the ability to leave them. Life gets to be a pattern, and it’s too easy to follow the old trails. There are familiar answers for everything, so we stay in those ruts, and we don’t ever strike out across the field to find out what’s behind those trees or beyond that mountain. We don’t even need to steer as long as we stay in the rut.
Children make new paths naturally and unself-consciously because their minds are so open. They don’t compare their thoughts to great people’s thoughts or say, “Is this idea as good as so-and-so’s?” or “Is this meaningful?”
As we get older, especially about the time we reach junior high school, we become more self-conscious, and peer pressure takes over. We jump into the rut so that nobody who’s in there already can point across the field at us and say, “What is that idiot doing?” So we stifle ourselves, and ultimately too many of us lose our ability to imagine. That’s a terrible loss because imagination is an intrinsic part of what makes us human.
The next thing to realize is that creativity is not making something from nothing. Creativity is taking information that we already have and putting it together in a new way. Our brain can be compared to a card catalog in a library. When we’re born we’ve got millions of blank cards. In mortality we fill in the cards. And every card is a single perception. Creativity is simply taking the cards and putting them together in a new order or new combination. In order to be creative we need to associate ideas freely and be willing to try unlikely combinations in the hope that something might come of it.
But first, we must have cards in our catalogs. If somebody only knows 50 words, his ability to write a great novel is seriously impaired. The more knowledge you have of as many things as possible, the more cards there are in your card catalog, the more worthwhile combinations you can make. Read books; look at pictures; study science and language and history. The more you know, the more creative you can be.
The source can be anything. I’ve always read voraciously. Lately, I’ve been listening to books on tape while I paint. Last year I listened to 50 books on tape—all kinds of things. I’m feeding my card catalog.
Many have. When I first read the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis I said, “This person has imagination, whimsy, delight, wonder, exploration, and yet there’s the Savior right at the center of the book. There are metaphors for selfishness, for selflessness, for sacrifice and atonement. There is the gospel put in a nongospel context. And he’s not writing just for a religious audience. He’s accepted out there in the real world.” I found the same thing with J. R. R. Tolkien. This happened while I was in college. The fact that their fantasy was considered as a viable kind of expression gave me the courage to say, “Why don’t I try to do the same sort of thing visually and see what happens?”
Another great influence is the Book of Mormon. I know that it is real and true, but it is also a great epic adventure. There are ancestral swords and directional devices that work and don’t work according to our feelings and attitudes. There are natural disasters and divine interventions and quests and wars and miracles.
The best of my overtly religious painting may be the best things that I paint, but they’re very hard for me to paint because I don’t want to simply illustrate. I have no interest in doing things that are sentimental and one-dimensional. I want my paintings to have layers of meaning within them.
The other reason it’s difficult is that I have very tender feelings on the subject of religion. I have very deep feelings about the gospel and the Savior. What if I put those feelings on canvas and my ability doesn’t reach the level of my belief? Or what if it’s not read correctly by people? What if they say, “That’s not a very good painting?” They’re saying I don’t have a very good belief. It’s too personal to put on the block. It would be like bearing your testimony to somebody and having them say, “So?”
Both. I believe very much that art is for people. It is a communication medium. A painting is not complete until others have seen it and responded to it. My paintings are meant to excite the imagination and invite the viewer to become a participant in the creative process. And so while much of contemporary art repels and confronts the viewer, I try to entice him with detail, fantasy, and a lot of fun things that will make him want to stop and look. And then hopefully he keeps going down through the layers of the onion, and finds out that the more time and thought he’s willing to put in, the more is revealed. Some people just like to look at the designs and the doodahs and the costumes, and other people will pick their way down through it and get meaning. And the fantasy allows that to happen very easily because I’m not constrained by gravity or location or costume or anything real.
Once involved, the viewer not only discovers, but actually helps shape and create the meaning of a piece, making connections and discovering echoes of shared experience. If his interpretation goes beyond my original intention, I’m delighted. Not only has my work been the catalyst for a creative experience, but the painting itself is enlarged. I like the idea that art is a “trigger,” a point of departure for the viewer. I want to give him enough stimulation, enough “raw material” that he can take off on his own fantasy. I want to activate his imagination.
I think the most important thing is to believe in yourself, and then pay the price. It does not come easily. You have to work for it and not lose your vision, because nobody makes it right off. It’s only through dedication and persistence that you eventually prevail.
I also think it’s essential that our spiritual side be developed along with our craftsmanship. Fifteen years ago I had a conversation with Elder Boyd K. Packer. He said, “As an artist what is your concern?” and I said, “My problem is that I watch the non-LDS artists paint 50 paintings a year and I paint 25 because I have made a commitment that I will seek first the kingdom of heaven. I will be active in the Church, and so I’ll be Young Men president and take my kids around to collect fast offerings and go to Mutual and go home teaching and all those things that eat up one’s time, while other artists can paint twice as much as I do. And because the more you paint the better you get, they just keep on outdistancing me.”
He said, “Why do you fail to recognize that with the help of the Spirit, which is what you’re spending all that time being active in the Church attempting to obtain, you can accomplish more in 10 paintings than another painter can in 30 or 40? It’s not the quantity of paintings, but the quality of the spirit within you that will move you to do good work.” And his words just went right to my heart.
Of course, just being spiritual isn’t enough by itself either. It’s by growing in both areas, making our skills and our spirit grow side by side, that wonderful works of art in music or literature or painting or whatever medium will be created. I try to tell my students at BYU not to compartmentalize. We cannot separate our spiritual development from our artistic development. We must work at both.
I don’t think being a member of the Church inhibits anybody from getting out there and succeeding in the world. I’m pleased when somebody comes up to me—as they did recently when I was at a show in California—and says, “I don’t understand your work. I’m delighted by it, but I have a feeling that you’re keeping a secret, that there’s something going on that I don’t know about. You know something that I don’t—something good.” It pleased me to think that somehow a little of that showed through. Essentially the gospel is what makes the difference. People find it refreshing to meet somebody positive.
I think that every serious artist reaches a point in his career when the question is no longer, “Can I paint this thing? Do I have the skill and mastery of technique to accomplish this idea?” After years of study and experience one develops the ability to paint anything. Then the more difficult and frightening question arises: “Do I have anything to say? Am I just a highly skilled technician or do I have something significant within me to share?” I think that you have to believe that you do in order to keep working. Whether you really contribute anything will not be resolved until after checkout time.

“Let’s Create Night has always been one of my favorites. Last time Dad assigned me to be in charge of Let’s Create Night. I decided that it would be fun to challenge everyone to create something beautiful from something that was not so beautiful. I gathered six ugly, dirty rocks and during the week presented one to each member of the family, asking each of them to create something beautiful from the ugly stone. The results were fun and fascinating—real beauty and some unique ideas grew from the rough exteriors of those unsightly rocks.”

Years later I thought of that moment again. My wife and I were being taught by the missionaries. The missionaries asked me, “Do you believe that you can become like God?” I had never thought about it. But I thought, If Heavenly Father is actually my Father, He would want the best for me, like my dad did. He would want me to be able to become like Him. So I said to the missionaries, “Yes, I believe I can be like my Heavenly Father.”
The moment I answered, I knew what I said was true.

In March, his physician told us that John had two options: (1) have a feeding tube inserted, which might sustain John’s life for a few more months but that would require him to stay mostly in bed; or (2) have John continue without the feeding tube and endure the difficulties that came with his inability to eat. The doctor said, “It’s your life. You should make the decision. What do you want to do?” Calmly and remarkably clearly, John replied, “No tube.”
Tears trickled from my eyes as we left the doctor’s office. Memories of John’s recent remarks and actions came to mind, making it clear that he had known this was coming and had already accepted it. My love for John led me to support his choice.
I believed I knew what that meant. In reality, I did not. Neither did I know how gratitude would ease my pain.
Throughout his life, John had loved the words of 1 Thessalonians 5:18: “In every thing give thanks.” Before mealtime prayers, for instance, John never asked someone to “say the blessing.” Instead, he always said, “Let’s give thanks.” John knew that gratitude was vital to happiness. He also knew, as the rest of that verse from Thessalonians continues about gratitude, “for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”
John recognized that death is part of God’s plan (see Alma 42:8–9) and that for him, death was near. But he continued faithful in Christ with gratitude.
After leaving the doctor’s office, John and I called a family council. Our family who lived far away joined us through video conferencing. We began with prayer. Then, as I held John’s hand, I shared his decision and what the doctor told us to expect. I spoke of the peace we both felt and reminded our family of the comforting feelings everyone had experienced for months. All of us, including the grandchildren, realized that Papa (as they called John) did not have long to live.
We had expressed gratitude to God for letting us all know that time with John was short and for granting us the opportunity to prepare emotionally. A few weeks prior to this day, our son Spencer had asked John how he felt about dying. John had responded, “I’ve lived a good life, and I am still trying to do so. I’m grateful for my life! As long as Carma Lee is by my side, I’m not eager to die, but I’m also not afraid.” John was prepared and, because of that, he felt at peace (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:30).
We sat in family council, with our hearts aching and tears falling, yet we also felt peace. We asked John if he had any last wishes. He looked at us with love and longing in his eyes; then, although for weeks he had only spoken in a whisper, he said one word distinctly: “Temple.” His sons immediately replied, “We’ll make that happen, Dad!”
Our family council ended with our sons, who were with us in person, giving both John and me a priesthood blessing. As they laid their hands on my head, gratitude filled me. I felt warmth, like that of a loving hug. I knew God would help us traverse the challenges ahead. He would soften the grief and help us find the joy.
That is exactly what happened! We soon attended the temple again, with our sons helping John through the endowment session. I was so grateful! The Spirit filled our hearts.
As John’s condition worsened, he and I continued our practice of beginning and ending each day with prayers of gratitude. As we did so, we found that grief did not overwhelm us or our posterity. Each one had opportunities to hug Papa and express their love and gratitude for him. We found moments of joy. Peace seeped into the hearts of our posterity and others who visited, strengthening them and softening their grief too.
However, despite the peace that prevailed in our home, watching my vibrant, exceedingly active husband deteriorate and lose 50 pounds in a month was heart-wrenching. Late at night on April 21, John lay in bed. He was surrounded by his children and me. We sensed that his spirit would depart his body at any moment. I lay beside him, holding his hand and whispering words of love and gratitude for our life. I thanked him for the inspiring example he had set as he responded to his afflictions by turning to the Lord in faith and gratitude. I kissed him. Within seconds, he was gone.
After John’s body was taken away, our family sat together in our home. Tears fell from our eyes as we expressed thankfulness that John’s mortal suffering had ended. Words of gratitude spilled from my mouth as I thought of the many tender mercies Heavenly Father had given to us (see 1 Nephi 1:20). God had enabled me to care for John in our home, despite having physical issues myself (which actually necessitated multiple surgeries not long after John died).
As we talked, I was comforted as I expressed thanks for the eternal promises of our temple covenants (see Doctrine and Covenants 132:19–20). I told my children I felt like Johnny was hugging me, confirming what I was saying as I expressed gratitude. What a joyous feeling! I reminded my family of President Russell M. Nelson’s words in November 2020: “Practicing gratitude may not prevent us from experiencing sorrow, anger, or pain, but it can help us look forward with hope.”1
Suddenly, I felt a heavenly embrace so strongly that it filled me with awe. I also felt that John was well and happy and that I should be too. Right then, I promised myself—and my sweetheart—that I would be.
As the weeks passed, I marveled that most often peace and joy, not grief, dominated my heart. I contemplated why. One day, I decided to research the words of our prophets and apostles that relate to grief and gratitude. They confirmed what I had already concluded: that I had been strengthened by the comforting power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, along with my gratitude.
The title of a 2005 Ensign article by President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) struck me deeply. It was called “The Profound Power of Gratitude.” In that article, President Monson said:
“God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ [John 14:18].”2
I realized I had been experiencing God’s comfort and embrace. They were profound and powerful! They enabled me to look at John’s picture each morning and smile as I said, “Thank you!” to him and to God!
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has perfectly described what I experienced: “When we are grateful to God in our circumstances, we can experience gentle peace in the midst of tribulation. In grief, we can still lift up our hearts in praise. In pain, we can glory in Christ’s Atonement. In the cold of bitter sorrow, we can experience the closeness and warmth of heaven’s embrace.”3
These blessings were what I had felt within minutes of John’s death and in the days since! I am grateful for the peace in my heart and how I continually feel God’s embrace. I never want to lose those feelings! And so, I continue to express gratitude daily for my sacred experiences, for gospel knowledge that brings me closer to Jesus Christ, for the strengthening comfort made possible by Him and His Atonement, and for an eternal perspective and the hope of spending eternity with my Johnny.

He blames it on a short attention span, but it’s more likely the spirit of missionary service that doesn’t allow Brandon Fields to sit still. He’s always wanted to go on a mission, but just wanting to go wasn’t enough. He needed to prepare. When he was 16, the constant urgings of full-time missionaries and a talk he had to give on missionary service in sacrament meeting prompted this Seattle, Washington, priest to do some thinking.
Brandon thought, You know, I should probably start praying for missionary experiences, because that’s what I’m going to be doing for two years, so why not start now? He hasn’t sat still since. And his prayers for missionary experiences have definitely been answered. Between visiting the less-active families in his ward, going team teaching with the missionaries, attending school, and working, it’s a wonder this first assistant to the bishop even has time to breathe. He says he’s able to fit it all in because he just never stops moving.
Brandon’s momentum started to build when he and his best friend, Steve Wells, started to go teaching with the missionaries in their area. “We volunteered a couple of times, and it turned out we were the only priests who could go. So it was us for five months.” Now that he’s only six months away from his mission, Brandon is still helping the missionaries, but he does get a break every once in a while, since there are now a few more priests to help out. Steve is now on a full-time mission in the Philippines.

A few years ago, I was invited to the Beehive House to meet with a group of girls who had been shepherded there into a club during the war years in an effort to keep them from falling into evil ways while they were away from their homes—they came from country towns for the most part. After I had fulfilled my assignment and was about to leave, a young girl drew me aside and asked if she could speak to me a moment. She opened her purse and took out of it a picture of a handsome young soldier in uniform, and underneath it said something about love and was signed. Then she took out from behind the picture a folded piece of paper, and as she was doing this, the tears were swimming in her eyes, and I asked, “Well, what does this all mean?” She replied, “Brother Lee, I met this young man out here in one of the nearby camps. He was a fine young man, clean, good habits, and he always treated me with respect, gentlemanly. I felt perfectly safe when I was out on a date with him; all but for one thing. He was not a member of the Church. Finally he proposed marriage and I said, ‘Well I love you, Jack, but we have to think about something else. Marriage to us is more than just something for this life. If it is the genuine kind of love, it should last always and should make us husband and wife forever.’

“Well, at first he argued with me; then he became angry; and then he was out of patience. Finally the time came when he received his overseas orders to go into a combat area, and at this time he pressed the matter of our engagement, and so I said to him plainly, ‘No, I can’t marry anyone until I can be married in the House of the Lord.’ And he had replied in anger, ‘All right, if you think more of your Church and your religion than you do of me, why you can have them but you can’t have me.’”
I guess she cried herself to sleep or cried all night without sleep; I don’t know which. Two or three weeks passed before he arrived at his destination down in Australia, which was to be the staging area for the war raging in the Pacific Islands. On the way over he had time to think about all she had said to him, this sweet, lovely girl who to him represented the ideal of his life. She was everything that he could ask for in a sweetheart, a wife, the mother of his children. Then he started thinking, “I wonder if I have been too harsh. Maybe it’s the religion she believes in that has made her the kind of girl she is.”

Prompted by that thought, when he arrived in Australia, he located our Latter-day Saint boys and our Latter-day Saint chaplain who was over there. He began to attend meetings, and he began to ask questions, and finally, on her birthday, he was baptized, and he sent her his picture with his baptismal certificate as a birthday present. With it was a letter in which he said, “I am going to try hard to live as a Latter-day Saint should so that when I get back home I will be worthy to be ordained an elder so I can take you to the House of the Lord where at last you and I can have that eternal marriage you have planned for so long.”

This Christmas seemed the worst ever. I longed for a BMX mountain bike like snowflakes want cold weather. My friend Simon had one for his 14th birthday last month. Cool blue and chrome with 15 gears. He’s always raving about riding through the Clent hills and forests, a couple of miles from our village in the central part of England.
But I didn’t get one. Instead my presents were a track suit, new skateboard, and the promise of a job starting the day after tomorrow. A paper round. A 6:00 A.M. paper round! I mean, how bad can things get?
Not only would I miss skimming over frosted hillsides at breathtaking speeds, but I would have to get up early, starting Wednesday. And it’s holiday time. Lying-in-bed time.
What were my parents thinking of? I can guess, of course. It’s all about working for things you badly want, so you’ll appreciate them. Old-fashioned nonsense if you ask me. Of course, I’d appreciate that bike. What could be more amazing than bombing into the distance along those mountain tracks? I’d be there every spare minute. Life can be mean at times.
It felt even more mean Wednesday morning. “Come on, Robert,” Mum whispered. “It’s quarter to six. Rise and shine. There’s porridge and hot black currant on the kitchen table.”
I couldn’t even focus properly. Surely this wasn’t for real. It’s liquorice black out there, freezing cold and lonely. The whole world’s asleep except for me—and my crazy Mum.
Breakfast didn’t taste too good. Lumpy porridge bounced in thick clumps as I stumbled onto our porch. Muffled in track suit, red jacket, white scarf, red woolly hat and boots, I felt like some undersized Santa.
“Now don’t forget houses 50 and 66 don’t want papers delivered,” Mum reminded, helping me stuff endless sheets into the dirty yellow bag.
I lifted the sagging load onto my shoulder. “Mum, I don’t want to sound weak or anything, but this is killing me. Have you felt the weight of these things?”
“Never mind, dear. Think of the muscles you’ll build. Here’s your skateboard. And remember, be quiet in the block of flats. Elderly people don’t like being wakened this early.”
“Huh!” I muttered, heading lopsidedly down the path. “They’re not the only ones.”
The first morning was painful. I never realized how many different letter box shapes there are. The wide ones move along with the newspaper. But others—I nearly lost my fingers a few times. Heavy gold ones that grab before the paper’s through are the worst. They look rich and splendid, but they grab.
I got quite a shock at one house. As I slid a paper through the wide chrome flap, I heard a snarling thud as a body hit the door, snatching the paper and just missing my fingers. A little shaken, I walked down the path and rode to the next house.
A muffled figure was climbing into his car. He turned as he heard me coming.
“Ah, there you are my lad.” The man actually sounded pleased to see me. No dogs. No fighting metal slits. Human hands to receive my offering.
“I hoped you’d arrive before I left for work.” His voice was soft, kindly. “We’ve been away, so we didn’t give our usual tip this year. Here, have this.” He put two pound coins into my hand in exchange for a paper. Two solid pounds. Brilliant!
“Thanks very much, sir.” I stood, open-mouthed, wondering if I should bow or shake his hand or something. But he was in the car and gone before I could move. I made mental notes never to take shortcuts over this man’s garden.
I moved on. With feet half iced and fingers black with ink, I began dreaming of earnings. Let’s see—if I get five pounds a week for sixteen weeks, in four months there will be enough for a secondhand bike. And I already have two pounds. I could almost smell spring sunshine and scorching tyres.
As six-thirty appeared, so did a lighter sky and household stirrings. I had ten houses to go before freedom. I never even saw the small lad until I reached his doorstep, because something else caught my eye. The newspaper fell open at page 4, and there, taking up a whole sheet of pictures, were bike adverts. Oh man, how my feet itched for those pedals. And look at those wheels!
The sound of sniveling brought my head up sharply. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting outside, let alone a little tot in his pyjamas.
“Hey, what’s up, mate?” I whispered, trying not to frighten him.
Lifting his brown curly head a moment, he wiped a sleeve across his face, like my youngest brother does when he’s trying to act braver than he feels. “Nothing much,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, pyjamas aren’t exactly outside gear, and that stone step can’t be the warmest place on earth.
I crouched at his level. “So why are you out here freezing?”
He squinted at me, as if weighing the friendship in my voice, then screwed up his face, pushing small fists at his eyes to stop the tears.
“Look kid,” I said, wondering how to get him inside without too much fuss. “It’s Christmas week. Don’t you want to go back in where it’s warm and play with your toys?”
Gulping sobs began shaking his body. Wrong line.
“Er … what’s your name?” I asked kindly.
His feet were curling sideways on the cold stone. I took off my hat, wrapping it around his purple toes. He half smiled. I put my scarf around his shoulders.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, “and … and … I wanted a bike for Christmas.”
You too, I thought.
“But my … my dad left home before Christmas came, and …”
Giving him a slightly grey tissue from the depths of my coat pocket, I nodded slowly and patted his arm. “You mean you didn’t have the bike after all?” I interrupted, feeling pleased at my cool detective instincts.
His big eyes looked up, reproaching me for being so dumb. “Yes, I did,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, mystified. “Then why … ?”
“I was trying to tell you,” he interrupted. “You see, my mum got one for me. She thinks I think it was Santa, but I know it wasn’t ’cos I heard her talking on the phone. Anyway, all over Christmas I thunk and thunk. Dad used to take me to get her a present, but …” He scrubbed at fresh tears and hiccuped. “But this year no one did, and I didn’t have anything for her and …”
He stopped, and began shivering all over. I couldn’t think what to do next. Suppose he was getting pneumonia or something out here.
That’s when the brain wave arrived.
I touched his arm again. “Look, you get inside and sit by the window, watching. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
He rose to his feet, staring owlishly, one finger stuck in his mouth, his face filled with awe. He nudged open the front door and his voice sounded husky, wondering, as if magic were beginning. “What you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” I called, skating up the path.
By the time I’d finished the last delivery but one, I had second thoughts. Okay, so most of the shops are closed, but Dillons will be open already. It will take all of two pounds to get a present though. My dream bike slid into the distance. My subconscious dragged it back. I needed every penny. The kid won’t really expect to see me again. It was a stupid idea. He’ll be all right. He’ll soon forget.
I battled toward the final letter box … a gold one. As my cautious fingers outmanoeuvred the gleaming flap, I suddenly pictured Jamie’s pinched face gazing at me in wonder.
That did it. I slung the bag across my back and skated fast. Dillons looked warm, inviting. The box of chocolates came to £1.80.
I raced back to number 9, my skateboard taking bumps in harmony with my legs and feet. A strange bubbling was building inside me—and it definitely wasn’t the porridge.
Some massive clouds began unloading snow just then, but I could see Jamie’s window from several houses back. His nose was flattened against the glass, face squashed and goggle-eyed.
By the time I reached his door he was out on the step, bare feet wriggling, and eyes and mouth all but meeting in one huge grin.
“You forgot these,” he whispered, swapping my scarf and hat for the brightly wrapped box.
“What will you say to your mum?” I asked, catching his excitement.
“Happy Christmas!”
I nodded, “But where will you say the present came from?”
“Santa’s helper, of course.” He spoke the name firmly, the grin shouting pleasure and satisfaction.
I glanced down at my red jacket, feeling a little foolish. “Of course,” I muttered. “Who else?”
The door closed, but curiosity got the better of me. Gently lifting the letter flap, I peeped through. It was one of those scenes you know will stay in your mind forever.
Jamie was yelling, “Mum, Mum!” She came rushing from the kitchen. As she received her gift, both their faces shared a kind of glow, as if some magnetic power were zapping back and forth.
I could almost touch the joy. My inside felt odd once more—happily odd—as if something were melting deep down, melting and spreading upwards until it reached my throat.
The scene blurred. I had to swallow hard. Softly letting down the flap, I tiptoed back to the pavement.

Some years later I again visited the Grand Junction Stake. Again I met the same parents. Still the father had not qualified to have his large and beautiful family join mother and father in a sacred sealing ceremony, that this family might be a forever family. I suggested that if the family would earnestly pray, they could qualify. I indicated that I would be pleased to be with them on that sacred occasion in the temple of God. Mother pleaded, Father strived, children urged, all prayed. The result? Let me share with you a treasured letter that their young son placed under Daddy’s pillow on Father’s Day morning.
Dad:
I love you for what you are and not for what you aren’t. Why don’t you stop smoking? Millions of people have … why can’t you? It’s harmful to your health, your lungs, your heart. If you can’t keep the Word of Wisdom you can’t go to heaven with me, Skip, Brad, Marc, Jeff, Jeannie, Pam, and their families. Us kids keep the Word of Wisdom. Why can’t you? You are stronger, and you are a man. Dad, I want to see you in heaven. We all do. We want to be a whole family in heaven … not half of one.
Dad, you and Mom ought to get two old bikes and start riding around the park every night. You are probably laughing right now, but I wouldn’t be. You laugh at those old people jogging around the park and riding bikes and walking, but they are going to outlive you. Because they are exercising their lungs, their hearts, their muscles. They are going to have the last laughs.
Come on, Dad, be a good guy—don’t smoke, drink, or anything else against our religion. We want you at our graduation. If you do quit smoking and do good stuff like us, you and Mom can go with Brother Monson and get married and sealed to us in the temple.
Come on, Dad—Mom and us kids are just waiting for you. We want to live with you forever. We love you. You’re the greatest, Dad.
Love, Todd
P.S. And if the rest of us wrote one of these, they’d say the same thing.
P.P.S. Mr. Newton has quit smoking. So can you. You are closer to God than Mr. Newton!
That plea, that prayer of faith, was heard and answered. A night I shall ever treasure and long remember was when this entire family assembled in a sacred room in the beautiful temple that graces Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Father was there. Mother was there. Every child was there. Ordinances, eternal in their significance, were performed.
A united prayer of gratitude brought to a close this long-awaited evening.

Jill Johnson of Sandy, Utah, tells how the Lord blessed her family: “As newly married college students, we had carefully budgeted our meager monthly income. Then the landlord raised our rent. We prayed for a blessing. The next day our old car broke down beyond repair. We wondered why we had these trials all at once, but the loss of the car turned out to be a blessing. With help from family and friends, we found we could manage without a car. The money saved on gas and oil was the same amount as our increase in rent. Sometimes we are blessed for obedience in unexpected ways.”

Several weeks after the experience with the apples I set out to join my friends in the wooded area close to home, anticipating that we would devise some activity or game to play. As I approached them, they were huddled together. I saw smoke rising in the air above them and recognized the aroma of burning tobacco. One of them had obtained a packet of cigarettes, and they were smoking. They invited me to join them, but I declined. They persisted, suggesting that my reluctance to participate was a sign of weakness. Their taunts turned to ridicule, combined with condescending remarks. But nothing they could say or do could persuade me to change my mind. I had not been raised with a knowledge of the restored gospel and knew nothing of the Word of Wisdom, but I was restrained by a feeling within that I should not participate with them.
As I walked home reflecting on the decision I had made, I felt good inside. Although my expectations for the day had not materialized and I would have to find a way to occupy my time without my friends, I had discovered something about myself—about the source of real happiness and the invigoration that results from making the right decision, whatever the circumstances or outcome may be.

After this, my fiancé sent the missionaries to teach me. I told them I already knew the restored gospel was true and that I understood what the Holy Ghost feels like. But I was concerned that it would be difficult for me to give up smoking and drinking coffee and tea.
I began to attend church, read the Book of Mormon, and meet with the sister missionaries three or four times a week. Eventually, the Holy Ghost helped me stop smoking and drinking coffee and tea.

Needing income, Henry and his father went downriver to St. Louis, Missouri, to find jobs. His father joined George Betts’s shoe shop, which employed 25 men. Henry took a job at a small shop belonging to three LDS shoemakers. His mother and sisters joined them in St. Louis in the spring.
Henry’s good friends from Nauvoo, Algernon and John Rigdon, visited him in his new home. Their father, who had been Joseph Smith’s counselor, had decided to leave the Church and was moving to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In “the last conversation that I had with them as we were saying good-bye,” Henry said, “the boys declared that they would return to the Church. … Knowing they were … sincere, I expected for some years to hear from them but was disappointed.” (John Rigdon rejoined the Church in 1904 just before he died.)

I try to be like Jesus Christ by helping other people. When I went to Kibben-Kuster School, some of the children in my class had special needs. I helped them by talking to them and giving them hugs when they felt left out—I even learned some sign language. One of the children got hurt at recess, and I went to him and took him to the nurse. Another child lost something she had brought to class, and I helped her to find it. Now I go to a different school, but I still remember my friends from Kibben-Kuster.