Gospel Story Finder

Let me share with you a modern-day miracle which occurred a year or so ago at Murray High School near Salt Lake City, where every person was a winner, and not a loser was to be found.
A newspaper article highlighted the event. It was entitled “Homecoming Shows True Spirit: Students Elect 2 Disabled Girls to Murray Royalty.” The article began, “Ted and Ruth Eyre did what any parents would do. When their daughter, Shellie, became a finalist for Murray High School homecoming queen, they counseled her to be a good sport in case she didn’t win. They explained only one girl among the 10 would be selected queen. … As student body officers crowned the school’s homecoming [royalty] in the school gym Thursday night, Shellie Eyre experienced, instead, inclusion. The 17-year-old senior, born with Down syndrome, was selected by fellow students as homecoming queen. … As Ted Eyre escorted his daughter onto the gym floor as the candidates were introduced, the gym erupted into deafening cheers and applause. They were greeted with a standing ovation.”
Similar standing ovations were extended to Shellie’s attendants, one of whom, April Pershon, has physical and mental disabilities resulting from a brain hemorrhage suffered when she was just 10 years old.
When the ovations had ceased, the school vice principal, Glo Merrill, said, “‘Tonight … the students voted on inner beauty.’ … Obviously moved, parents, school administrators and students wept openly.” Said one student, “‘I’m so happy, I cried when they came out. I think Murray High is so awesome to do this.’”

On July 21, 1847, Orson Pratt and Erastus Snow went down Emigration Canyon ahead of the others to scout out the area. Having only one horse, they took turns walking and riding. A few miles from the mouth of the canyon, Erastus realized that his coat had fallen off the horse’s saddle. He took the horse and turned back to find it. Orson walked on alone and became the first of the pioneers to set foot in the Salt Lake Valley. He and Erastus returned to camp, and the next day the advance company entered the Salt Lake Valley and headed north.

Six weeks ago I received a letter from a very successful member missionary family, the Munns family of Florida. They wrote:
“Dear Elder Ballard, 30 minutes after the worldwide broadcast on hastening the work of salvation, we held our family missionary council. We were thrilled to find that our teenage grandchildren wanted to be included. We’re happy to report that since our council meeting, we have expanded our family teaching pool by 200 percent.
“We have had grandchildren bring friends to church, have enjoyed sacrament meetings with some of our less-active friends, and have had some of our new contacts commit to take the missionary discussions. One of our less-active sisters has not only returned to church but has brought new investigators with her.
“No one has turned down the invitation to take the missionary discussions. What an exciting time to be a member of this Church” (personal letter, Aug. 15, 2013).

The next morning dawned sunny and clear, promising a wonderful day. Instead, everything seemed to go wrong. To start things off, everyone (including me!) slept in. Unfortunately, when young people sleep in, it usually seems more important to spend five precious minutes on their hair instead of their knees. It must have happened to all of us that day. At breakfast, instead of laughing bravely at the cafeteria food and talking eagerly of the day’s activities, everyone complained, refused to eat, and asked the counselors if they had to go hiking. Not being in the best mood myself, I snapped back answers and rushed the kids around.
My spirits didn’t rise very much when I learned that I had to drive up the mountains instead of hiking. Someone had to bring the food and the kids who didn’t want to hike. Things didn’t look much better when I saw what I was supposed to drive. It was a huge van that growled viciously at me when I turned it on. It took every ounce of my strength to turn the steering wheel, and the stick shift threatened to break my arm every time I touched it. To top it all off, I got lost trying to follow the other cars in our group up the canyon.
In spite of all of this, we finally made it to the top, found the hikers, and started the barbecue. I cheered up a little bit and decided that we could finish the day on a good note.
Just when the meat was smelling good and the kids were starting to smile, it was discovered that someone had forgotten the spatulas and knives. All eyes, of course, turned immediately to the table I was trying to hide under. Thinking quickly, I saved my skin by showing everyone how we could flip hamburgers with branches and drop the watermelons onto sharp rocks instead of using knives. Everyone got to eat, but they were still pretty mad, tired, and ready to get out of the canyon.
No one wanted to leave more than I did, and after cramming everyone into the cars, I hurried the other counselors so we could get back as soon as possible. My vehicle was the last of the four cars in our group to come down the narrow, winding dirt road. Besides being in a hurry, all the drivers were tired and preoccupied with the kids. That must have been why no one noticed the big truck in time to slow down. The first two cars were able to swerve around it, and, amazingly, I was able to skid to a stop when I saw it. Then we watched helplessly as the car in front of us was knocked off the road. I sat in a daze as the car, filled with people I was responsible for, rolled over and smashed into a big tree, inches away from a steep drop-off.
I held my breath until, one by one, the kids started crawling out of the driver’s window. Then I jumped out of my car and ran to see if anyone had been seriously injured, praying that I wouldn’t need to use my newly learned first-aid skills. We got everyone out quickly, and I ran around making sure everyone was all right.
Miraculously, no one had even been bruised in that smashed car. Some of the kids were pretty scared and the car would need to be towed, but everyone was safe. As we helped the kids into other cars, another counselor showed me how close they had come to going right over the edge. Another girl saw it, too, and started to go into shock. She had been sitting right by the window during the accident and had been sure the car would go right over the edge. She was put into my car, and I was instructed to take her to the hospital, driving carefully this time.
I climbed into my car and tried to stop shaking long enough to pick up the keys. I couldn’t. All the girls were crying, and the boys who had been in the other car were giving everyone a play-by-play account of the accident, complete with sound effects. I had to calm these kids down, but I was too scared to even pick up the keys. I put my head down on the big steering wheel and tried to regain some composure before everyone else went into shock, too, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what had almost happened because of my impatience and anger. I started crying. I couldn’t get out of this canyon by myself! We were going to crash again if I drove! What would I say to the parents of these wonderful kids if anything happened? I couldn’t do it by …
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to look into the very dirty, but calm, face of a young boy sitting behind me.
“Viv,” he said bluntly, as only a 12-year-old can, “you’re a nervous wreck. You need to get control of yourself or we’re not going to make it down. We’d better have a prayer.”
I couldn’t do a thing but stare at him, so he gave a prayer, the shortest, simplest one I’ve ever heard. “Heavenly Father, we’re thankful that everyone’s okay. Help us to get home without any harm or accidents. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
I lifted up my head and looked at this skinny 12-year-old boy. Then I started to cry again, but they weren’t tears of fear or frustration this time. Harmer accidents. He had asked the Lord to protect us from Harmer accidents. And, without a doubt, he believed that the Lord would do it! Suddenly, I found myself believing it, too. We would be protected from harm or accidents as surely as if we had prayed specifically about Harmer accidents. Not since I was eight years old and thought people prayed specifically for my safety had I felt with such assurance that a supplication for my safety would be heard and valued in heaven.
Driving safely down Provo Canyon that night, I learned a long-overdue lesson. It’s not the words we use in prayers that make them meaningful. It’s not the length that makes the Lord listen, nor the style that brings comfort. It’s the faith and sincerity with which we offer our prayers that make them work. I thought of all the times that I had prayed for protection from harm or accidents without really meaning or believing it. It only took the simple faith and prayer of a young boy to restore my faith in that phrase. I could offer prayers with the faith I had at age three if I just made sure my words were accompanied by faith and sincerity.

“Don’t you just love running?” Olivia asked Ivy as the girls sat tying the laces of their shoes.
Ivy focused on her shoelaces and didn’t answer. All the fifth graders were training for the school’s mile race that would take place in a few weeks.
“Let’s go!” Olivia jumped to her feet and ran to the starting line.
Ivy watched Olivia’s athletic body glide across the lawn. Ivy stretched her legs out in front of her and reached to touch her toes, but her fingertips barely passed her knees. She sighed. “Why does running come so easily to everyone but me?” Ivy thought.
Ivy was tall for her age and broader than the other girls. Whenever she complained about her body, her parents would say, “You’re strong and healthy, and that’s what matters.” Still, Ivy always felt awkward when she participated in sports.
“Are you coming, Ivy?” her teacher, Mrs. Barrett, called. Mrs. Barrett was always encouraging.
“Yes, I’m coming.” Ivy walked to the starting line.
The race began. Ivy tried to push herself so she wouldn’t be the last one to the finish line. But then she had to stop and walk to catch her breath. When she crossed the finish line last again, Mrs. Barrett told her she had done a good job. Ivy didn’t think coming in last was a good job.
Breathing heavily, Ivy plopped down on the lawn. She thought about how embarrassing it would be to finish last in front of the whole school. If only she could finish before just one person. But then she realized that even if she beat one person, someone else would feel as bad as she had. Maybe she needed a different goal. Ivy decided that what she really wanted was to run the whole race without stopping to walk. Even if she finished last, she wanted to finish the race running.
Each day at practice Ivy tried not to think about the kids ahead of her. She focused on finding a pace she could keep up for the whole race. It felt good to work toward a goal that wasn’t measured against anyone else. As the weeks passed, Ivy walked less and less until one day she didn’t walk at all. She ran across the finish line. She was last, but that didn’t matter.
“Good job, Ivy!” Mrs. Barrett said, like always. Then she added, “I saw that you ran the whole way today.”
Ivy grinned. “Yes! That was my goal!”
The day of the official race came. Running at her own pace, Ivy crossed the finish line in last place. Afterward, medals were given to the top finishers. Ivy cheered for her classmates, happy for them and satisfied with her own accomplishment.
Then Mrs. Barrett held up a trophy with a star on it. “I have watched Ivy for several weeks during training,” Mrs. Barrett said. “She is not a fast runner. But Ivy set a goal for herself and worked consistently to achieve it. I’ve appreciated her determination as she worked to win a race that was only with herself, and for that I would like to present to her this trophy—the Spirit Award.”
Mrs. Barrett handed Ivy the trophy. The audience cheered.
Ivy could hardly believe it. She had been so worried about finishing last in front of everyone, but now they were cheering for her! She realized that by setting a worthy goal and working to achieve it, she could finish last and still win.

“It sure will be neat to have a holiday,” Stephanie mumbled, swallowing a bite of cupcake. “Thanksgiving’s almost my favorite holiday—after Christmas, of course, and may be Halloween. What could be better than no school and having all that good stuff to eat?”
Brushing a stray crumb of peanut butter sandwich from her cheek and crunching on a carrot stick, Winona declared, “This’ll be our first Thanksgiving here in Loganport.”
“Well, I’m sure glad you moved here, Winnie. Lunchtime is more fun with somebody like you to talk to. You should see our turkey,” she sighed blissfully, thinking of food again. “Mom says it weighs almost twenty pounds! How big is your family’s turkey?”
“We’re not getting one this year,” Winnie replied.
“Oh, sorry,” Stephanie said softly. “C’mon. There’s the bell. Just two and a half more hours and we’ll be free from school for four days!”
The crisp November air seemed to push Winnie along the sidewalk as she headed home after school. “Hi, Mom,” Winnie called as she closed the door to their apartment.
“I’m in the kitchen, dear,” Mother replied. “How was school? Glad to have vacation for a few days?”
“Uh-huh,” Winnie answered, coming into the kitchen. “Mom, what are we having for Thanksgiving dinner? Stephanie’s family has a twenty-pound turkey.”
“Well, dear, you know we can’t afford to buy a turkey this year. Moving to Loganport took a lot of money. But it’ll be worth it if your father’s work here holds out. It’s a shame the old hotel in Greensburg closed, but we should be glad that Dad likes his new job and that we have a nice place to live.”
“Nice place? This apartment is so plain, Mom. It’s awful! I’d be ashamed to bring anybody here.”
“Your friend Stephanie doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Stephanie understands, I guess. But the other girls at school wouldn’t.”
“Sure they would. Now, how about stirring the soup and setting the table while I put the corn bread into the oven. Dad will be home soon.”
Fifteen minutes later Dad came through the door. “Whew! What a busy day,” he said, hugging his wife. “That kitchen was really hopping today so that everything for the big Thanksgiving buffet tomorrow will be just right. I stuffed so many turkeys I’m going to dream about those birds all night.”
“I wish we were having turkey,” said Winnie.
“We are,” said Mother. “I have a can of turkey noodle soup that I’m going to make into the best turkey corn chowder you ever tasted.”
On Thanksgiving Day Winnie had to admit that the chowder tasted very good. Mom had even splurged and made a pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving wasn’t bad after all, Winnie thought as she helped her mother with the dishes.
Dad came up behind them and gave them both a squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving to my two lovely ladies,” he said with a smile. “You know, Mother, our Winona is really turning into quite a good-looking young lady.”
“She’s going to be a teenager before we know it!” Mother declared. She turned and smiled at her daughter. “In less than two weeks you’ll be thirteen years old, Winnie. I can’t believe it.”
“I’d say that calls for a party,” said Dad. “How would you like that, Winnie? You could invite some friends over.”
“A party,” Winnie gasped. “Oh, Dad, that would be super! But—I mean, can we afford it?”
“You and Mother work things out. You’re both pretty good budget balancers.”
The next afternoon Winnie and Stephanie sat at the kitchen table making invitations from colored paper. “Stephanie,” Winnie said after a long silence, “I’m worried. I want to ask the other girls to the party and at the same time I don’t want to. I wish we had a fancier home.”
“Hey, don’t be silly! Anybody dumb enough to worry about what your house looks like doesn’t deserve to be your friend. Besides, everybody likes parties.”
That evening Winnie heard her dad calling as soon as he entered the apartment.
“Where’s Winnie? I have a surprise for her.”
Winnie sprang up and ran to meet him.
“I don’t do this for just any lady friend,” Dad teased, “only good-looking women turning thirteen years old.” He held out a lump of aluminum foil.
Winnie carefully opened the foil. Inside lay ten wishbones.
“From the turkeys at the hotel kitchen,” Dad explained. “You can clean them up and use them for your party.”
“Neat, Dad!” Winnie exclaimed. She soaked the bones and pulled off any traces of meat. Then she put them on a sunny windowsill to dry.
The following week seemed like a blur to Winnie. “They sure have been piling on the homework since we got back,” she remarked to Stephanie at lunch.
“I’ll say! I’m stopping at the library on the way home. Want to come?”
Winnie shook her head. “I have to finish my book report before supper so I can help clean the house for the party. I still can’t believe everybody’s really coming.”
That night, tired but happy, Winnie snuggled under her patchwork quilt. It seemed like only minutes until she heard her mother’s voice. “Time to get up, teenager.”
Winnie scrambled out of bed and got dressed. Today was the big day. Almost before she knew it, she heard giggles on the stairs below. The girls were arriving for the party. Does everything look all right? she wondered. She whirled around and checked out the room: a plate of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a lovely cake with pink frosting. Mom’s old tablecloth looked elegant with paper flowers pinned to it. A knock sent her skipping to the door.
The girls bustled inside the apartment and began taking off their coats. “Well, what’s this?” asked Janice Jones, just about the classiest girl in the whole school. She sauntered over to the table. There, suspended on tiny threads above the birthday cake, hung ten wishbones, each tied with a slim pink bow.
“Wishbones,” said Winnie, thinking it was the dumbest thing she’d ever said. Her heart sank. She should have known Janice would think …
“That is absolutely the neatest thing I ever saw,” Janice announced. She made a quick count. “There’s one for each of us.”
“So nobody gets stuck with the short end,” explained Winnie.
“Everyone gets a wish come true today,” Stephanie chimed in.
Winnie knew Stephanie was right. Wishing for a turkey, wishing for a fancy house, wishing for friends—a girl could waste her whole life just wishing. A person thirteen years old ought to get out and do something and be happy about who she is. Reaching up with her scissors, she snipped off a wishbone and handed it to Janice. “Make a wish,” she said with a smile.

Some years ago in our meetinghouse in Darmstadt, Germany, a group of brethren was asked to move a grand piano from the chapel to the adjoining cultural hall, where it was needed for a musical event. None were professional movers, and the task of getting that gravity-friendly instrument through the chapel and into the cultural hall seemed nearly impossible. Everybody knew that this task required not only physical strength but also careful coordination. There were plenty of ideas, but not one could keep the piano balanced correctly. They repositioned the brethren by strength, height, and age over and over again—nothing worked.
As they stood around the piano, uncertain of what to do next, a good friend of mine, Brother Hanno Luschin, spoke up. He said, “Brethren, stand close together and lift where you stand.”
It seemed too simple. Nevertheless, each lifted where he stood, and the piano rose from the ground and moved into the cultural hall as if on its own power. That was the answer to the challenge. They merely needed to stand close together and lift where they stood.
I have often thought of Brother Luschin’s simple idea and have been impressed by its profound truth. Tonight I would like to expand on that simple concept, “lift where you stand.”

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bike without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray was fun to be with. He would often take Jason along with him when he went to the park or to the baseball field. But now Ray had gone to the store for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.
“Aaaah,” he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a profound hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“OK.” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding past the houses, with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason wished he could go farther than the corner. It would be neat to ride around the block. The thrill of such an adventure filled his mind. He decided to go partway around, then come straight back. But as Jason pedaled faster and faster, pretending that he was a fireman racing his truck to a fire, he sped down several blocks. “Aaaah!” he crowed happily.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but the longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bike and lowered the kickstand, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He thought about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God,/ And he has sent me here,/ Has given me an earthly home/ With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaah!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaah!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big bear hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard that off-tune hymn coming to me out of the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

As I contemplated the possibility of bearing my testimony tonight to you, my mind went back to many years ago when I was in the Aaronic Priesthood, and somehow I and one of my companions found ourselves over here by the stairs where we didn’t belong, just prior to the beginning of the priesthood meeting. President George Albert Smith, in his kindly way, saw our plight, saw that we really had nowhere to go, and invited us to sit on these stairs by the pulpit. I sat there with my friend and watched the proceedings of that great priesthood session, never believing that I would ever again get that close to this pulpit.
I remember that I said to my friend when we left the conference, “It sure would be nice to be a General Authority; then you would have one of those big red chairs to sit in.”
I would like to say, my brethren, that I have been sitting in a big red chair for just a few minutes, and the greatest desire of my heart is that I will learn through my obedience and my service to become comfortable in that big red chair. I pray that the Lord will bless me that I might properly represent President Kimball, his counselors, the Council of the Twelve, and all my brethren of the General Authorities; that as they send me forth on whatever errand it might be, I might do the will and the bidding of the Lord.

In standing up for Church standards, sometimes it’s possible to turn opponents into allies. When she started at her school, Carina Schultes was bullied and put down by others. “They couldn’t accept that I had my religion, my standards, that I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink alcohol. At first they couldn’t cope with it, but luckily after four years they accepted it so they thought it was really cool and really supported me and got others to leave me alone.”

When I was a newly called counselor in our stake presidency, one of my assignments were the youth. One of the first major activities I helped organize and execute was the Stake Youth Camp. It was held in a campground in Mt. Makiling Los Baños, Laguna in October 2012.
At that time, I have only been a member of the Church for 4 years. Prior to the activity, I never had any experience in camping much more lead a 3-day youth camping activity. On day 1, we were welcomed by unexpected heavy rains.
I was the only member of the stake presidency present that morning. All youth were drenched in rain while setting up their tents. Their lips were purple from the cold when we started our opening exercise. The bishops and youth leaders approached me and with a deep sense of concern for the welfare of the youth asked me what we were to do. I did not have an answer.
I tried my best to call the other members of the stake presidency to counsel with them, but the spotty signal and the heavy rains made it difficult for me to reach them. I was afraid of being judged as an inconsiderate church leader.
I felt the need to seek guidance from the Lord Jesus Christ through prayer. As I was walking around and thinking of possible solutions, I turned my thoughts to Him and asked for guidance and inspiration. I also pleaded for strength for myself and for all the participants of the Youth Camp so we won’t get sick from the rain.
I was impressed to seek the assistance of the campground officer. He said he completely understood our situation and he would allow us to transfer to a covered hall with minimal additional charges. It was an answered prayer.
But challenges were not yet over. All day one plans were scrapped. The entire day was spent moving all of our camping gear from under the rain into the hall. We tried our best to dry all the wet items.
Now, the next question was what were we going to do the following day if the rain did not stop? That evening, all members of the stake presidency were already there. Our stake president decided that if the rain continues, we will cancel the camp and just go back to our homes.
Despite all the difficulty in day one, which we consider as character building experiences, most of the young men and young women still had a lot of fun and wanted to continue the camp. This desire prompted them to kneel down in groups and pray for better weather the following day.
Next day, everyone rose to a very beautiful sunny morning in Mt. Makiling. We were astonished by the power of faithful prayer. We were excited to continue with the activities!
The day two activity for young men was river trekking. They were asked to wear white shirts and neckerchiefs. Since there was a very recent downpour, the river was filled with ankle to knee-high deep water. Young Men leaders were situated in front, in the middle, and at the back of the pack. We were having a great time appreciating the Lord’s creation in the company of fellow priesthood holders.
We began feeling the heat of the sun as proceeded with the trek. Most young men took their neckerchiefs off. Many of them dropped their neckerchiefs just about anywhere. I was prompted to pick up every neckerchief I saw along the riverbank.
After about two hours of trekking, our stake president instructed the leaders in front to start our way out of the riverbanks. Thirty minutes have passed, and we still could not find a safe exit.
Finally, the leaders found an opening, but the climb was quite steep. We tried the suggested route but found out that it was too slippery and that it was almost impossible for us to climb up and out of the riverbank. We figured we needed to hold on to something to pull ourselves up the hill and out. Going back or finding another route was too tedious and was going to take longer. We each said a prayer in our hearts for a miracle to happen.
I was reminded of the neckerchiefs I collected. We tied each end together until we were able to create a strong enough rope where the young men could hold on to and pull themselves out. With everyone helping each other, we were all able to get out safely. That was the miracle of the neckerchief!

I feel blessed to have been raised in the gospel and to have had many good examples of missionary service within my own family. My family members have served teaching missions all over the world.
I am autistic and serving a mission was something I presumed I would never be able to do. Then an insightful bishop discussed the possibility of a service mission with me and my family. Upon hearing about service missions and what they entailed, I immediately felt that it was something that I wanted to do; it could be such a wonderful blessing in my life.
At times, my life has felt challenging, living with autism can be frustrating and lonely. To be able to represent and serve the Lord as service missionary has made me feel included, valued, and loved. I have made many new friends within the mission and feel a great sense of belonging.
I was set apart as a service missionary in October 2021. I have received much support and excellent training from my service-mission leaders, Elder and Sister Crew.
So far, I have been involved with The Billion Graves Project linked to FamilySearch. With support I have transcribed information from headstones and uploaded this, for other people to access. I have transcribed information from many Commonwealth war graves and uploaded many poignant epitaphs. I have also taken photographs of headstones in local cemeteries and been involved in uploading them to FamilySearch for other people to access and use. Being engaged in this work has led to my greater appreciation of temple and family-history work. I feel a closer connection to my own ancestors.
I am shortly due to begin serving in a local food and clothing bank and look forward to serving and meeting new people in my local community.
My family and I consider it a sacred privilege that I have been called to a service mission in the Lichfield Stake. As I diligently serve and represent the Saviour in this way, other people will feel the love that He has for them. I hope others will want to serve a mission through my example. I feel that I am being blessed with a greater understanding and appreciation of Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour, as I emulate His example and serve people as He did.

Have you ever met a ten-year-old school teacher? No? Well, meet Ellen Morgan, a pretty blond with a sunshiny smile. Ellen, along with her sisters Anna (12) and Claire (8), set up a summer “school” for children in their neighborhood.
Ellen lives in southern Idaho, right beside the Snake River near a place called Thousand Springs. It’s not easy to organize a neighborhood school when your nearest neighbor lives almost a mile away, but the Morgan sisters were determined to earn money for school clothes. Besides, teaching reading sounded like more fun than baby-sitting or doing yard work. They got busy in the old, one-room schoolhouse that their father fixed up on their property, and they sent out announcements that Thousand Springs Academy Summer School was about to begin.
Eight students came. Three days a week for six weeks Ellen and her sisters taught phonics, reading, arithmetic, and music. They also had nature walks, games, recess, and a nutritious snack every day. On the Fourth of July, the students put on a patriotic play for their families.
Teaching school comes naturally to Ellen. Her parents, Randall and DeAnna Morgan, used to be schoolteachers; now they make educational films. Her grandfather owned a business college, her grandmother and great-grandmother were teachers, and several aunts and uncles have taught school.
Ellen has four other brothers and sisters besides Anna and Claire: Jess (14), Bo (6), Laddie (3), and Jane (1). Everyone has inside and outside chores (Ellen takes care of the chickens), and there are many interesting things to do right on their own property. In summer they ride their horses, raft on the Snake River, wade in ditches, and swim in a nearby hot spring. In winter they cross-country ski, put on plays, and have cozy evenings reading aloud. It’s fun getting snowed-in, because that means having school and church at home.
When Thousand Springs Academy Summer School ended, the old schoolhouse was soon bustling again with the Morgan children’s latest project: the Thousand Springs Rural Community Library. Ellen and her older brother and sister collected hundreds of good books for young readers. When they have finished cataloguing the books, the library will be open two days a week, and it will have guest lecturers, story hours, and plays.

In June 1993 I arrived at my mother’s home in St. Petersburg, where a friend invited me to study English with her. We called a number we found in the newspaper, and a young woman answered. She told us to come at noon the next day. Her name was Tat’yana. After the lesson we invited her out for tea or coffee. We were quite surprised when we heard, “I don’t drink tea or coffee.”
“Why?”
“I’m a Mormon.”
“What’s a Mormon?” I asked.
“I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you’re interested, come see us Sunday morning at 11:00.”
She wrote down the address. I was very interested to find out what kind of church this was.
The week passed slowly, but Sunday finally came. The meetings were held in a music school. Some young men were at the entrance, and they were smiling. When they found out that I had come for the first time, they took me into the chapel. A lot of people were there, but I felt out of place. I very much liked the opening hymn though, and then a miracle happened. A man walked to the front, and the first words of his prayer were “Heavenly Father.” That is what I had been searching for. Suddenly I felt at home. I was at peace.

I wondered, as I read that story so filled with pathos, what had brought him to this sorry state. I discovered it, in the Journal of Discourses, in a talk given to the Saints in this same bowery the year before by George A. Smith. I think, if you’ll bear with me for a minute or two, it is worth the telling to illustrate to all of us the need to be careful in dealing with small matters which can lead to great consequences.
According to the account given by George A. Smith, while the Saints were in Far West, Missouri, “the wife of Thomas B. Marsh, who was then President of the Twelve Apostles, and Sister Harris concluded they would exchange milk, in order to make a little larger cheese than they otherwise could. To be sure to have justice done, it was agreed that they should not save the strippings (to themselves), but that the milk and strippings should all go together.”
Now for you who have never been around a cow, I should say that the strippings came at the end of the milking and were richer in cream.
“Mrs. Harris, it appeared, was faithful to the agreement and carried to Mrs. Marsh the milk and strippings, but Mrs. Marsh, wishing to make some extra good cheese, saved a pint of strippings from each cow and sent Mrs. Harris the milk without the strippings.”
A quarrel arose, and the matter was referred to the home teachers. They found Mrs. Marsh guilty of failure to keep her agreement. She and her husband were upset and, “an appeal was taken from the teacher to the bishop, and a regular Church trial was had.” President Marsh did not consider that the bishop had done him and his lady justice for they (that is, the bishop’s court) decided that the strippings were wrongfully saved, and that the woman had violated her covenant.
“Marsh immediately took an appeal to the High Council, who investigated the question with much patience, and,” says George A. Smith, “I assure you they were a grave body. Marsh being extremely anxious to maintain the character of his wife, … made a desperate defence, but the High Council finally confirmed the bishop’s decision.
“Marsh, not being satisfied, took an appeal to the First Presidency of the Church, and Joseph and his Counselors had to sit upon the case, and they approved the decision of the High Council.
“This little affair,” Brother Smith continues, “… kicked up a considerable breeze, and Thomas B. Marsh then declared that he would sustain the character of his wife even if he had to go to hell for it.
“The then President of the Twelve Apostles, the man who should have been the first to do justice and cause reparation to be made for wrong, committed by any member of the family, took that position, and what next? He went before a magistrate and swore that the ‘Mormons’ were hostile towards the state of Missouri.
“That affidavit brought from the government of Missouri an exterminating order, which drove some 15,000 Saints from their homes and habitations, and some thousands perished through suffering the exposure consequent on this state of affairs.” (Journal of Discourses, 3:283–84.) Such is George A. Smith’s account.
What a very small and trivial thing—a little cream over which two women quarreled. But it led to, or at least was a factor in, Governor Boggs’ cruel exterminating order which drove the Saints from the state of Missouri, with all of the terrible suffering and consequent death that followed. The man who should have settled this little quarrel, but who, rather, pursued it, troubling the officers of the Church, right up to the Presidency, literally went through hell for it. He lost his standing in the Church. He lost his testimony of the gospel. For nineteen years he walked in poverty and darkness and bitterness, experiencing illness, and loneliness. He grew old before his time. Finally, like the prodigal son in the parable of the Savior (see Luke 15:11–32), he recognized his foolishness and painfully made his way to this valley, and asked Brigham Young to forgive him and permit his rebaptism into the Church. He had been the first President of the Council of the Twelve, loved, respected, and honored in the days of Kirtland, and the early days of Far West. Now he asked only that he might be ordained a deacon and become a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord.

When I was a deacon, the ominous signs of the Great Depression began to appear. Tens of thousands lost their jobs. Money was scarce. Families had to do without. Some young people did not ask their mothers, “What’s for dinner?” because they knew all too well that their cupboards held very little.
My parents were hardworking. They made every penny stretch as far as possible. That was probably the major reason everything they gave me was always two or three sizes too large.
I was 12 years old when I received my first pair of ice skates, so large that I had to stuff a third of the toe space with cotton.
When I took them out of the box, I looked up and said, “Mother, I can’t skate with these.”
“Be grateful for what you have, Joseph,” she’d say. And then, the phrase I had become so accustomed to hearing, “Don’t worry; you’ll grow into them.”
A year later, what I wanted more than anything else was football shoulder pads and a helmet. On Christmas morning, I opened my packages and there they were, shoulder pads and a helmet, except they were sized to fit Goliath—who, by the way, was six cubits or about nine feet tall.
“Mother, they’re too big,” I said.
“Be grateful for what you have, Joseph,” she said again. “Don’t worry; you’ll grow into them.”
Prior to high school I played a lot of neighborhood football. When I put on the new equipment, the shoulder pads hung so far over my shoulders that about the only things they protected were my elbows.
Even though I stuffed cotton and newspaper in the helmet, it jostled every time I took a step. When I ran, it would turn and turn until the only way I could see where I was going would be to look out through the ear hole.
One time I rambled for a long gain at full speed right into a tree. Each time I was tackled, the helmet would spin 180 degrees and I’d get up looking like my head had spun with it. Then I would have to repack the cotton and newspaper as best I could, put it back on, and head back to the huddle.
My father was truly a great man. I remember one day putting my feet in my father’s shoes. I was amazed at the size. Would I ever be big enough to fill his shoes? Could I ever grow into the man my father was? I wondered.
I think back on those days with some tenderness. Curiously enough, I also look back with tenderness to my dear mother’s encouraging words, “Don’t worry, Joseph; you’ll grow into them.”
In a similar way, we all need to learn how to “grow into” our responsibilities as priesthood bearers.

In the early ’90s, before Melbourne had a temple, our stake hired a bus once a month to take us to the Sydney Australia Temple.
In preparation, I would ensure my visiting teaching was done. One Tuesday evening before a Friday bus trip, my companion and I visited one sister. As we sat chatting, her husband came into the lounge, and I felt to ask him for a priesthood blessing.
In that blessing, he said that two of the sisters whose work I would do in the Sydney Australia Temple would come and thank me in the celestial kingdom, which of course, was very nice to hear.
The next day, I received a phone call and was told that the bus wasn’t going to the temple on Friday.
I thought, “Oh dear, what am I to do?” I rang my friend, Bev, who always went on the bus, and she confirmed that the bus trip was cancelled.
I suggested that we hire a little bus for a few of us to go, but she didn’t want to do that.
“What about these two sisters?” I thought, recalling the words in the priesthood blessing I’d received. “I have to get to Sydney somehow!”
I worked on Fridays for a lady who owned a home in Ivanhoe for people with special needs. I did a lot of cooking and was responsible for all the meals there, which needed to be served exactly on time. The day before we were meant to bus to the temple, 24 ladies were to have dinner at 5:00 pm. I needed to have them fed and everything cleared away by 5:25pm so that I could get to the travel agency and book my airline ticket to Sydney.
Throughout the day, whenever I had a chance, I kept ringing the travel agent hoping to secure a ticket but to no avail. Anne, the travel agent, said to me at one point, “Give up, Bev.”
Well! That was like waving the red flag at the proverbial bull!
I managed to clear the evening meal and ring the bell and by 5:25 pm, with my bag in hand, I was waiting at the front door ready to leave—then off I went in my car to the travel agency.
Fortunately, another client was booking an overseas trip, so the office was still open when I arrived at 5:35 pm. The agent who assisted me looked at the screen and said, “I don’t think you’re going to find a flight.”
I stood there, smiled, and waited, and then she said, “Hang on. There is still one left.”
I said, “Thank you,” paid for my ticket and raced out to my car to get to the airport as soon as I could.
I knew I was a little late getting to check-in. I apologized to the attendant and asked, “Am I okay?” She had a look, found that the plane was running 20 minutes late, then handed me my ticket and said, “Go to Gate 11.”
From the Sydney Airport, I needed to catch a train to my girlfriend’s house in Epping, which is not far from the temple. When I landed, I thought I might get a taxi to her place instead, but it was 11:00 pm by then and no taxis were available. I had to walk in the dark for nearly two kilometres.
When I finally arrived at her home, I saw there were no lights on I had to carefully make my way down the dark driveway, lugging my suitcase, one step at a time, to knock on the door.
My friend had thought I wasn’t coming because I’d forgotten to tell her about the mayhem I had been through, but all is well that ends well.
I was able to do the work for those two sisters, and I often think of the time when I will greet them in the celestial kingdom of God.

A few years after my wife and I returned home from our mission, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) asked us to meet with him. During that meeting, he extended a call to me to serve as a General Authority. He reflected on my experiences as a young missionary and as a mission president and told us that although there were many people who were qualified to be General Authorities, the Lord would use me because of my previous experiences and decisions.

Since President Thomas S. Monson announced the change in the missionary age, young people have been asked to counsel with their parents, counsel with their bishops, and counsel with the Lord through prayer. When you know it is the right time to go, then you should go. As you have patience and exercise faith, I know that the Lord will make His will known unto you.

I testify that as you are obedient to the will of the Lord, you will be blessed beyond measure.

Every June my parents go rafting on the Snake River near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. In 1991 my dad let me float the river for the first time. I had waited a long time to be able to go. I felt very excited as I dressed, first in my swimsuit, then in my wet suit. I put on my life jacket and climbed into the raft with my mom and dad, and the other adults with us.
The river was muddy and running very high due to a heavy spring snow melt. The color of the water was like hot chocolate. I rode in the very front of the raft with my feet tucked under the thwart (rower’s seat), and held tightly to the front rope. I laughed and screamed as we rode through the rapids. The water was very cold, so I ducked my head as the big waves crashed over me. To keep the boat straight, the adults paddled through the rapids. During the calm parts, we would talk and laugh.
My dad thought that we had already passed a dangerous rapid called Three Ordeal. He doesn’t like going through it because it’s a hydraulic wave, which means that it’s like a big washing machine with one strong wave. He says that it’s like riding over a spillway, then getting caught on the powerful wave at the bottom.
The adults were talking during a calm stretch in the river, and the raft was floating kind of sideways. My dad looked up and realized that we were heading right for Three Ordeal. He had just enough time to get the boat straight. The grownups started paddling as hard as they could to pick up enough speed to pull us over the wave.
I ducked my head as we hit the first big wave, and when I looked up, I saw Uncle Jerry being thrown from the raft. Clinging to the rope, I looked around. The raft was empty except for me! The force of the wave had knocked all the adults into the churning river. I learned later that the force of the collision folded the raft in half, with the back almost touching the front.
While the adults were being swept downriver, the wave trapped the raft and me in the middle of the river. The raft twisted and turned and rocked up and down like a teeter-totter. I was very scared, but I clung to the rope, keeping my feet wedged under the thwart. I looked for my mom and dad—where were they? Should I jump into the river with everyone else? What should I do?
Then I felt something in the middle of my heart tell me, “Stay in the raft.” Suddenly I felt calm instead of panicky. I felt I was being helped and protected. I believe it was the Holy Ghost. I obeyed the prompting and stayed in the raft. Soon it broke free of the roaring wave and started floating down the river. Oh, what a feeling to be safe and protected by the Holy Ghost!
Once I didn’t have waves crashing around me, I saw my aunt and uncle on the bank. Again I wondered if I should jump in the river and swim to the shore. Again I had a strong feeling to stay in the raft. I kept still, and the raft floated to the bank by itself. I grabbed some branches and held on to them until a friend came and tied the raft to a bush.
I learned many things from that experience. I learned that as soon as the adults reached shore, they prayed that Heavenly Father would protect me. Twice I had felt the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Twice I obeyed the promptings and was kept safe from the dangers of the river. I learned that maybe the raft didn’t float to the bank by itself after all. I learned that Heavenly Father can accomplish things when people can’t. He can accomplish all things.

I don’t know what to say! I was pleasantly surprised and happily shocked when I found the August 1987 contest issue of the New Era in my mailbox. I guess it came at the perfect time for me.
My older sister and I are both interested in drama. She is a wonderful actress and sister, but it seemed as though we were always competing against each other. I was beginning to think perhaps drama wasn’t really for me because of it, but your issue helped me to understand that we can share the drama field while at the same time we each have our own talents. For instance, she sings and I play the piano. She writes and I decorate. Even now the Lord is waiting for the right time in our lives to bless us with even more. Thank you for a wonderful magazine that adds so much to my life.
Name withheld