Gospel Story Finder

There came a time, early in my mission, when I knew that I had to know whether the Church was true and Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I felt what President Thomas S. Monson expressed so clearly in our last general conference: “If you do not have a firm testimony of these things, do that which is necessary to obtain one. It is essential for you to have your own testimony in these difficult times, for the testimonies of others will carry you only so far.”4 I knew what was necessary. I needed to read the Book of Mormon with a sincere heart, with real intent, and ask God whether it is true.
Listen to our Heavenly Father’s remarkable promise given through the prophet Moroni: “When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”5
In order to receive what was in the Book of Mormon, I needed to read it. I started at the beginning of the book and read every day. Some receive a witness very quickly. For others, it will take more time and more prayer and may include reading the book several times. I needed to read the entire book before I received the promised witness. However, God did manifest the truth of it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
In my missionary journal, I described my joy in knowing the truth as well as my personal expression of commitment and real intent to act on the truth I had received. I wrote: “I have pledged with my Father in Heaven and with myself to do my very best, to give it 100 percent for the rest of my life, whatever I am asked, I’ll do, but for now I have the rest of my mission and I am going to make it a great mission, one that I won’t feel bad about, but not for me, for the Lord. I love the Lord, and I love the work, and I just pray that that feeling will never leave me.”
I came to know that constant nourishment and continuing effort to repent and keep the commandments are needed to never have that feeling leave. President Monson said, “A testimony needs to be kept vital and alive through continued obedience to the commandments of God and through daily prayer and scripture study.”6

On another occasion, I shared a hospital room with a delightful woman in her eighties who had broken her hip. Despite her intense pain, she was determined to walk again and was full of faith and optimism. A few weeks after the hospital stay, I took my daughters to meet this good woman and her husband. We had a wonderful visit. They told us many stories of faith and love for the gospel. Now, four years later, the girls still retain an impression of the faith, joy, and love that comes from growing old in the gospel.

For some kids one night a week of Mutual is enough, but not for Claudine Miller of Sandy, Utah. Besides going to her own Mutual night on Wednesday, Claudine also volunteered to help with her region’s handicapped Mutual every Thursday night.
One of Claudine’s most memorable times with the girls was on “Cinderella Night,” she says. The Mutual girls dressed up in fancy dresses and learned how to put on makeup and fingernail polish. “It really helped them feel pretty,” says Claudine.
Another great experience came when Claudine helped the handicapped Mutual do baptisms for the dead in the Jordan River Temple. “It was really neat,” she said. “The Spirit was so strong!”
Her service project ended up lasting two years, but the time flew by for Claudine. “It made my testimony grow so much to feel their spirit and hear them say thank you and express their love for me,” she says. “When I serve I feel like I’m doing it for Christ, and it makes me feel really good.”

The heat was sweltering, and it was raining heavily. Still, the missionaries continued down the road, a mix of perspiration and rain rolling off their backs and faces. To their left and right were the humble houses of the people of Hong Kong.
As they walked, Elder Tavita Sagapolu seemed a giant. Standing 1.8 meters tall and weighing over 120 kilos, the former college football star, who was now a full-time missionary, towered over most of the people in this city. And now he discovered that he towered over their homes, too. The buildings came up only to his chin.
After approaching one of the houses, Tavita’s more experienced companion, who had been on his mission several months, turned to the young Samoan man and offered to let him knock on the door. This would be the first door Tavita would knock on since arriving in Hong Kong, and it would be an experience that he would remember throughout his life.
Tavita shook with nervousness as he prepared to knock. “My mouth went dry and refused to open,” he recalls. Nonetheless, he mustered the courage to approach the door, a door so small he had to kneel down to knock.
“As I was kneeling there, I forgot how strong I was. I didn’t even have to knock—my hand was shaking so much that all I had to do was put my arm up to the door.” Before Tavita knew what was happening, the door fell in under the weight of his arm. Panic swept through him as he tried to put the door back on its hinges before anyone came.
Suddenly, an elderly woman appeared at the door. When she opened it, it fell on her. She came out screaming. “I grabbed my companion and put him in front of me. I said to the woman, ‘Here, talk to him!’ The memory of that little old woman’s face after the door fell down will always be with me.” Now, when he recalls the episode, Tavita chuckles.

One Sunday evening the family’s home teachers visited. The family was struggling through unemployment at the time, and that night she had only a half cup of rice, a little bit of oil to cook it in, and two small tomatoes. But appreciative of these faithful home teachers, she asked them if they would like to stay for dinner.
“My daughter asked how I could do that,” Sister Daggi recalls. She told her daughter to set the table. Then she went into the kitchen and prayed, “Lord, Thou fed 5,000. I’m asking only for seven.”
“That rice fed seven people,” she testifies.

A few weeks after my husband died unexpectedly, I came home from work tired and depressed. My sons met me at the door with two pieces of interesting information: we still had no water (it had stopped running in the middle of the night), and in about two hours there was a Cub Scout fathers and sons’ cake contest and sale, and they needed a cake.
When I walked into the kitchen, I could see that dirty dishes had multiplied alarmingly. There was hardly any space for mixing a cake, and we still needed to solve our water problem!
I located a simple cake recipe and recruited a son, against his will, to give his younger brothers directions. Then I changed clothes, rummaged around in the barn for a pipe wrench, and crawled down into the well. I had watched my husband fix the pump several times and had no doubt that in a few minutes I could have it running.
The connections looked OK. I rattled the switch box to get the bugs out of it and tapped it with the wrench. Nothing. I kicked the pipe. Nothing. I mashed my finger while trying to unscrew the plug to prime it. It wouldn’t budge. Nothing worked.
I must have spent an hour down the well trying everything I could think of. I despaired. What on earth am I doing down in this hole hammering on a stupid pump when I should be in a nice, clean kitchen being a mother? Why do my children have to go through life and Cub Scout cake sales without a father? Is this fair?
Unable to fix the water problem, I gave up and went to the meeting—late. I sat on a chair in the back of the hall, and the boys took their sad little cake to the table at the front. There were cakes that looked like Cub Scout caps, cakes with trees and birds, cakes with patriotic flags. Then there was our cake. My sons had decorated it to look like Cyclops, with one giant eyeball made of purple and blue frosting in the middle. They had added lots of wiggly red lines to make the eyeball look bloodshot.
I sat there in the dark feeling sorry for myself. When I could no longer keep back the tears of frustration and self-pity, I slipped out and went into the rest room.
A Relief Society sister in the group saw me go. She followed me, and before long I had poured out the entire story. She put her arm around me, gave me a hug, and then suggested the names of a couple of reliable plumbers. Plumbers? What a novel idea! It was revolutionary to me. When the water doesn’t work on a farm, you tell your husband, and he tinkers around with the pump for a little while, and everything is OK. It had never crossed my mind to call a plumber! I realized that maybe it would be all right to make decisions that were different from how my husband would have done things. Maybe things would look up after all.
At the end of the evening, the cake sale began. My boys stood on the stage, grinning and holding the grotesque eyeball cake. A sweet little grandmother ended up paying a respectable price for it. As she went up on stage to get the cake, she said she couldn’t tell exactly what it was supposed to be, but she really liked the colors. My boys, thank goodness, just smiled and kept their mouths shut.
Those two wonderful women knew about charity. In a simple way, they each saw a need and then spontaneously went out of their way to fill it. They would probably say it was just a small thing; I doubt they even remember the incident. But it was not a small thing to me.

Usually when Floyd and Dad were riding in the car, they had a lot to talk about, but not today. They had driven over to see Floyd’s new school, and Floyd hadn’t said a word all the way back. Dad broke the silence and asked, “What’s the matter, Son? Are you worried about going to a new school?”
Almost in a whisper, Floyd answered, “Yes.” This would be his fourth school, and he was only in the sixth grade. Dad was an electrical engineer, and his work required that they move often. “It’s always the same, Dad. I hate it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like about it. You always do well in school, and you have friends and pen pals all over the country.”
Floyd didn’t want to answer. It would only embarrass him and probably cause trouble, but before he knew it, the words came tumbling out. “When I get there, I’m going to meet a bunch of Jims, some Mikes, a lot of Johns and Bobs, a couple of Garys, and a Steve or two—ordinary guys with ordinary names. I’ll be the only Floyd, and I’ll hear Floyd jokes for months. Why couldn’t I have an ordinary name?”
Dad knew what Floyd was talking about; he had heard about the jokes. “You’re right,” he said, “Floyd is no ordinary name. Do you know where your name came from?”
“From someone named Floyd who lived a long time ago when there were lots of Floyds and other weird names!” He said it before he could stop himself. Now I’m in trouble for sure, he thought. He knew better than to talk that way, but it had been bottled up inside for too long.
“You’re right again,” Dad replied evenly, “but there’s a lot more to it than you realize. Would you like to hear about a young man named Floyd who was not very ordinary?”
Surprised that he wasn’t in trouble, Floyd blurted out, “Sure!” But he wasn’t as excited as he sounded. How could anyone named Floyd be interesting? he wondered.
“Your name has belonged to some great men,” Dad began. “That’s why we gave you the name. We weren’t worried about anybody making jokes. That’s no big deal. Your mother and I hoped that having the same name as a great man might help you be a little like him. I want you to remember this story, Son,” Dad said as he pulled into the driveway of their new home. “My great-grandfather told me this story when I was about your age, and I’ll never forget it. …
“It was in the fall of the year 1857, as I remember, and a small group of Mormon pioneers were late starting across the plains. They got caught in an early snowstorm, and it slowed their travel. Many of them had become ill with colds, fevers, and pneumonia. They traveled as fast as they could, but because of the cold and sickness, they were just plain worn-out from pulling handcarts and carrying the smaller children.
“One day they came to a river that they had to cross. Everyone was so tired that the river seemed an impossible challenge. It seemed too wide, too deep, and too cold to the exhausted pioneers. One weary lady stood on the bank of the river, holding her baby as the tears silently streamed down her face. She didn’t have the strength to face one more trial that day. For a minute it looked like the journey might end right there for the small band of weary pioneers.
“Then, without saying a word, a young man waded into the cold river and made his way to the other side to see how deep it was. The icy water came up to his waist. He was certain that the handcarts were too small and too heavily loaded to carry children and those who were sick across safely. He knew what needed to be done, and he didn’t have to be asked. He knelt down with the rest of the pioneers and led a prayer, asking for strength to get everyone across safely. He was seventeen years old, and he was tall and strong, but he knew that he would need the help of the Lord to deal with the numbing cold of the river.
“The boy jumped up from the prayer and carried his sick mother across first, then his younger sister, and finally his three-year-old brother. When they were safe, he started carrying other children across. Another boy, a little younger but just as strong and nearly as tall, joined him in the cold river. The two youths carried across all the children and others who were too weak to make it through the icy water on their own. When everyone else was safely on the other side and the handcarts were across, the boys came out of the river to get dry and to warm themselves by the fire.
“Their legs and feet were blue from the cold. They got into dry clothes and wrapped up in blankets. Everyone thanked them for their help, but the boys said that they had just done what needed to be done. That night they sent everyone else to bed while they stayed by the fire to get warm. They talked about how things were going to be when they got to their new homes, but their conversation was often interrupted by muscle cramps and violent shivers. The cold water had chilled them more than they thought possible. The next morning they were still sitting there, wrapped in their blankets. When the leader of the group walked over to talk to them, he was saddened by what he found. During the night the boys had both died as they sat by the fire.
“The youths were buried right there on the edge of the river. They had lost their lives while helping others. The older boy, the one who had prayed for strength to get the others across safely, was one of your relatives. His name was Floyd. His three-year-old brother was your great-great-grandfather. When I was a little boy and Grandfather was in his nineties, he told me this story. That was when I learned that Floyd meant courage, relying on the Lord, and helping others.”
Floyd looked out the window at the old tree in the front yard, trying to keep the tears from overflowing his eyes. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Wow!”
Dad paused too. He couldn’t tell the story without getting tears in his eyes, either. Then he said, “That brave lad named Floyd is part of you. And you certainly were right—Floyd is no ordinary name! It’s a name to be proud of, and it’s a name for you to live up to.”
“I don’t know if I can be as brave as he was,” Floyd said with conviction, “but I’m going to be the best person that I can. And, Dad, I’ll tell you something else: When I go to school in the morning, I’m going to tell them that my name’s Floyd and that Floyd’s no ordinary name!”

Aaron traipsed along the hot, dusty road, pulling his wagon. The only sounds were the rattle of wheels over the lumpy ground and the clinking of coins in his pocket.
“Two dollars and 75 cents,” he thought. “Mrs. Murphy gave me much more than it costs to buy her a bag of flour and a sack of potatoes.”
Needing a rest, he sat in the shade of a wild olive tree on a stack of old fence posts in an empty field. He reached for his small canteen, emptied the last few drops of water into his mouth, and tossed the empty container back into the wagon.
A lizard crawled onto the end of one of the fence posts and stared at him. “It’s hot enough to turn even you belly up in the sun, you know that?” he told the reptile. “I guess that’s why you’re under this tree, like me.”
He pulled the coins from his pocket and eyed them. “Mrs. Murphy said this would be enough to buy what she needs,” he said, “which probably means she doesn’t expect anything back. Of course, she can hardly see enough to know a penny from a dime.”
Aaron squinted at the huge field of tall, dead weeds and twisted olive trees, their leaves almost glowing in the heat. “I’m sure Mrs. Murphy wouldn’t mind if I bought a tall glass of lemonade at the soda fountain. There will be enough money left over. Besides,” he reasoned, “I’ve earned it. It’s a half-mile between her place and town. She’s our neighbor, and I’m helping see to her needs, like Mom and Dad asked. But I have needs, too, like lemonade on a hot summer day. Since my canteen is empty, what choice do I have?”
He stood, and the lizard stiffened. “Even you lizards get thirsty. But all you have to do is find a fat, juicy spider. It doesn’t cost you a penny. But we humans have to pay for a drink when our canteens are empty. It’s just the way of things.”
Aaron stepped back onto the road but stopped short. Through the waves of heat, he saw something that looked like a bad dream—a large dog in the road, barking at him! He hurried off through the field. The dog didn’t chase him, but Aaron soon found himself up against another problem: his socks and pants were covered with foxtails.
When he reached the store, he sat on the curb and pulled the spiky weeds from his clothes. His father had once told him how foxtails are similar to bad habits: “Foxtails dig in and stick to whatever touches them, just as bad choices do. Once they become embedded, they are twice as hard to remove. It’s best to avoid them in the first place by staying on the better path.”
After Aaron cleaned off his clothes, he bought Mrs. Murphy’s food, loaded the flour and potatoes in his wagon, and headed down the street toward the soda fountain for a tall glass of cold lemonade. But his father’s words about wrong choices kept whispering to him.
Aaron stopped in front of the soda fountain and looked at the change in his hand. Then he looked again at the soda fountain. Then back at the leftover money. Then at the dirt road baked by the summer sun.
A half-hour later, Aaron pulled his wagon to a stop in front of Mrs. Murphy’s place. He was even more thirsty than before, having decided not to spend any of Mrs. Murphy’s change. He knew she would never have known the difference, nor perhaps even cared. But he would have known, and Heavenly Father would have known, too. Foxtails were enough of a problem in his socks. He didn’t like the idea of having to remove bad habits as well. That would be much more difficult. If he stayed away from making bad choices, he wouldn’t have to worry about creating bad habits.
He climbed Mrs. Murphy’s steps, carrying the sacks of flour and potatoes. Not only did he feel good as he handed her the change, but Mrs. Murphy gave him something else as well: the biggest and best glass of cold lemonade he had ever tasted.

Now, as all of you know, I am somewhat old in years. I had my 96th birthday last June. I have learned from many sources that there is considerable speculation concerning my health. I wish to put the record straight. If I last a few months longer, I will have served to an older age than any previous President. I do not say this to be boastful but rather grateful. Last January I underwent major surgery. It was a miserable experience, particularly for one who had never previously been a patient in a hospital. Following this was the question as to whether I should undergo further treatment. I chose to do so. My doctors have called the results miraculous. I know that the favorable results come from your many prayers in my behalf. I am deeply grateful to you.

We went on a boat. A money machine there was stuck. A woman said, “Why did the machine give me one euro (about 88¢) when I was supposed to get 20 marks (about $2.96)?” A man told her to look for the code on the left, but the woman couldn’t find it.
I looked for it and found it. The woman didn’t tell me thank you. I thought, “What a silly woman!” But then I thought about what I was thinking and was sorry. I prayed and said, “Heavenly Father, I am sorry for what I was thinking, so I am apologizing. I am very, very sorry about it.”

A friend recently asked me for a Book of Mormon. When it came time for me to give it to him, I was afraid that it wasn’t a good time for it. As I prepared to give the Book of Mormon to him, a scripture kept coming to my mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ” (Rom 1:16). I know that “I’m Not Ashamed” (Jan. 1999) is what gave me the strength to follow through. If it wasn’t for this article, I may not have had the courage to introduce the Book of Mormon to him.
Sarah DaviesDouglasville, Georgia

Opposition sometimes led to physical violence. The most prominent such incident in Ohio took place during the night of March 24, 1832, while Joseph Smith and his family were living at the home of John Johnson in Hiram, Ohio. That night a gang of more than two dozen men pulled the Prophet and Sidney Rigdon from their beds, choked them into submission, and dragged them into nearby fields. They scratched the Prophet fiercely with their fingernails, tried to force acid into his mouth, then smeared his naked body with tar and feathers. Elder Rigdon was left delirious from the force of his head bumping against the ground. When the Prophet left a week later on a second visit to Missouri, his antagonists pursued him. He sought protection on a river steamer and completed his trip in safety. Thereafter, he almost continuously required guards to protect him from threats of mobbings and assassination.

Dad’s dependable ranch hand, Dick, had already disappeared with the snowplow behind the thick curtain of moving snow when Ellie Ford went outside. The low hay sled was loaded with timothy hay, and two teams were hitched to it.

“Come on, Sis!” Ellie’s ten-year-old brother, Wes, called. “I’ll help you up!”

Wes scrambled to the top of the hay and reached down a hand to Ellie. He laughed as she struggled up the ladder of the rack. Wes’s round, freckled face between the earflaps of his red woolen cap beamed cheerfully.

How can he be so cheerful? Ellie wondered. It’s Christmas Day, and we’re stuck here on the ranch playing nursemaids to a bunch of silly cattle instead of being at Grandmother’s.

Wes moved the teams expertly out of the barnyard and down the lane between the sapling maple trees.

It was the Ford family’s first year at ranching, and Ellie thought again of the changes that had been made in their lives. In the city they had been surrounded by friends and relatives. But here in the sandhills, their nearest neighbor lived ten miles away.

The snowstorm had begun two days ago when they were dismissed from school for Christmas vacation. The wind-driven pellets had made a pinging sound against the school bus as it chugged along toward the crossroads where Ellie and Wes were the last to get off. By the time they had reached home, the corn snow had turned into huge fluffy flakes.

Ellie had known that something was wrong when her father came in from the living room that night at suppertime looking anxiously at first one member of his family and then another. Finally he announced to them after the blessing was said, “There’s a blizzard predicted for the sandhills, and I’ve decided I’d better stay here on the ranch.”

The announcement was greeted with gasps and exclamations.

“But that doesn’t mean that the rest of you can’t go!” he hurried to say. “It’s just that Dick will need help so the trails can be kept open to the feed shelters. Those cattle mean a lot to our future.”

“I’ll stay too!” Wes cried, not hesitating an instant.

“You’ll need someone to stay and cook for you,” Mother told them. “But Ellie can still go down to Grandmother’s tomorrow on the train from Cody. She’s been planning on it since Thanksgiving.”

Ellie knew that they had all been planning on it. She knew, too, that no matter how badly she wanted to go, she just couldn’t. “Maybe I can help somehow,” she finally managed to say, fighting the hard lump in her throat.

“That’s what I hoped for!” Father had exclaimed approvingly. “A solid front! And I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

But Ellie didn’t see how he could make up for a spoiled Christmas.

Now as the feed shelter loomed in front of them through the falling snow, Ellie asked, “Wes, do you think we’ll be snowed in?”

Wes grinned and guided the teams under the shelter before he answered, “I hope so!”

“Why, Wes Ford! Do you mean you’d rather be here than at Grandmother’s?”

“I would rather be at Grandmother’s, Ellie,” Wes replied, “but Christmas can be Christmas wherever you are.”

Though he was just a year older than Ellie, Wes sounded quite grownup. His words made Ellie feel a quick shame for her complaining thoughts. They had just picked up their pitchforks when Wes suddenly frowned. “Sis, some of the cattle are missing!” he declared.

“Could they be at the other shelters?” Ellie asked.

“Maybe. But maybe they’re not. Do you remember what Dick and Dad said about the river fence?” Wes asked thoughtfully.

Ellie shook her head.

“They said that it was strong enough for ordinary weather, but if those cattle got lost in a blinding snowstorm, they could go right through it and end up in White River!”

“We’re not going over to the river to see if they’re there!” Ellie protested.

“I’m going,” Wes told her. “Dick can’t leave that snowplow, and Dad’s on the other wagon with the concentrate.”

“Well, I’ll go with you then,” Ellie recanted.

When the hay had been pitched off into the feeders, they started out on foot. Ellie’s feet soon grew numb from the bitter cold, and her legs began to protest against the constant effort to push onward up another hill. There was no horizon, only the dull white sky and the white earth and the eternal falling of the snow.

There were no trees to use as guideposts, only the rise and fall of the blanketed hills. “Just a little farther, Sis,” Wes encouraged her, beating his arms against his body.

Now and then, Wes looked anxiously at the sky, and Ellie was sure that despite his cheerfulness, he realized the danger of being lost. But the thought of the cattle in danger kept him going.

They had reached the top of another rise, and Ellie was telling herself that she just could not go up another hill when Wes shouted with relief, “There’s the river!”

He rushed down the hill, and Ellie tried to hurry after him. “There they are! And look, Sis, they’re hugging that fence!”

There were more than twenty head reluctant to leave the protection of the trees. Ellie remembered apprehensively that they were range cattle and that they were used to men on horseback. She held back her fright as she helped Wes start them moving.

When they finally reached the shelter again, Ellie flung herself down on the hay sled and decided that she had never been so tired and cold in her life. Only after the cattle were safe and munching hay did Wes suggest they drink the hot chocolate their mother had put in a thermos bottle.

“Let’s hurry home, Wes,” Ellie said. “It’s nearly two o’clock.”

But Wes was looking down the hill toward the road. “Sis,” he said, “there’s a car down there. Looks like it’s in trouble.”

When they had finished their chocolate, the car was still there. “I’m going down and see if I can give them a hand,” Wes declared.

“Oh, Wes,” moaned Ellie. “We’ve already ruined our Christmas. The snowplow will come along soon …”

Wes didn’t answer, but Ellie saw the determined look in his blue eyes as he started away. Feeling sorry for herself, she reluctantly waded after him. The figures in the road had been trying to dig out their car when Wes and Ellie reached the fence.

“Hi, there!” the man shouted, looking up and waving his arm.

“Why, it’s Dr. Davis, Wes! And his nurse Mary!” Ellie exclaimed in surprise.

Wes and Ellie climbed over the fence.

“Hello, Wes. Hello, Ellie,” Mary said. “I thought we’d never see civilization again. Dr. Davis’s car doesn’t like snow.”

“Well,” Wes offered, “I’m not a mechanic, but I have a sled and teams up there at the shelter—”

Mary didn’t let him finish. She grabbed Ellie’s arm and they started for the fence.

Dr. Davis chuckled as he locked the car. “We’ve been over at the Anderson ranch since last night. They have a new six-pound girl. And we were trying to get home for Christmas dinner.”

Ellie heard Dr. Davis as she helped Mary over the fence. Her eyes caught sight of the gold bars on the turned-up collar of Mary’s heavy navy blue cape.

Suddenly Ellie thought of all the other people in the world who, like Dr. Davis and Mary, could not always be just where they wanted to be at Christmastime. But that didn’t mean that Christmas was lost! It couldn’t be, as long as people carry the spirit of Christmas in their hearts.

And Ellie understood now what that spirit was. Wes had taught her today, here in the snow-covered sandhills, much about loving and unselfish concern for others.

I’m going to give Mary the knitted bed cape I made for Grandmother! Ellie decided as the teams and hay sled headed for the ranch house a few minutes later. I’m sure Grandmother will understand!

Some years ago, when the Missionary Executive Committee was comprised of Spencer W. Kimball, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson, Brother and Sister Hinckley hosted a dinner for the committee members and our wives. We had just finished a lovely dinner in the beautiful home—which Brother Hinckley constructed and on which he did most of the actual work—when suddenly there was a knock at the door. President Hinckley opened the door and noted his home teacher standing there. The home teacher said, “I don’t have with me my companion, but I felt I should come tonight. I didn’t know you would be entertaining company.”
President Hinckley graciously invited the home teacher to come in and sit down and instruct three Apostles and their wives concerning our duty as members. With a bit of trepidation, the home teacher did his best. President Hinckley thanked him for coming, after which the home teacher made a prompt retreat.

Ava wiggled in her seat. She heard her Primary teacher talking. But Ava could not pay attention. All she could think about was the box under Sister Obi’s chair.
It was wrapped in shiny blue paper. It had a gold bow on top. What could it be? Ava leaned her head way down. She stared at the box. She wished she could see through the shiny paper. She could hardly wait to find out what was inside.
Finally Sister Obi pulled out the box. She set it on her lap.
“Inside this box is one of Heavenly Father’s greatest creations,” Sister Obi said. “Look inside. Then pass it on without saying anything.” She passed the box to Noah.
Noah slowly lifted the lid. He stared inside the box. He smiled. Then he passed the box to June.
Ava watched everyone take a turn. One by one, each of her friends opened the box. They looked inside. They smiled.
What could be so important to Heavenly Father? And how could something so special fit in such a little box?
Finally it was Ava’s turn. She lifted the shiny lid and looked inside. It was a mirror! Ava looked at the mirror in the box. She saw her own face looking back.
Ava saw her eyes get big. Was she one of Heavenly Father’s greatest creations? Did Heavenly Father love her that much?
Ava smiled. She felt warm and happy inside. It was like a big hug. A big hug from Heavenly Father. He did love her! She was one of His greatest creations.

One night his son was lying in the upper bunk bed as they read aloud alternate paragraphs from the last chapters of Second Nephi. President Romney heard his son’s voice break and thought he had a cold. As they finished, his son said, “Daddy, do you ever cry when you read the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes, son,” he answered, “sometimes the Spirit of the Lord so witnesses to my soul that the Book of Mormon is true that I do cry.”
“Well,” he said, “that is what happened to me tonight.”

The Young Women of the Salt Lake Winder West Stake chose a rather unusual project. They became involved in making scrapbooks for patients at a medical center. The scrapbooks were filled with colorful pictures that could represent pleasant memories for older patients. Jill Richins of the Winder West Fourth Ward said that the scrapbooks became precious possessions of the patients. “We made the scrapbooks to help them fill the hours when they have nothing to occupy themselves.” The director of the medical center also worked with the girls to teach them to help orient the patients to their daily surroundings.

The “little handful of members” includes pioneers like Vichit Ith, a convert who was instrumental in helping the Church gain official recognition in Cambodia.
“The Church provides Cambodians with a way to seek spirituality, which for many Cambodians has been nearly absent for the past 20 years,” says Brother Ith: “The teachings of the Church help me more than anything else. I am more focused on my family life, and I am striving to keep the commandments.”
Though Cambodian refugees have been joining the Church around the world since the 1970s—in fact, several cities throughout the world have Cambodian-speaking units—the gospel did not officially enter their homeland until January 1993. Larry R. White, who was serving as Thailand Bangkok Mission president, heard a favorable report about religious progress in Cambodia. Elder John K. Carmack of the Seventy (then a member of the Asia Area Presidency), Brother Ith (who was then living in Thailand), and President White entered Cambodia to ask government representatives about the possibility of establishing humanitarian projects. They received a positive reception.
The time seemed right for their visit. Cambodia’s political and social situation has been extremely volatile—even brutal at times—since the nation became independent from France in 1953. Nevertheless, a United Nations-sponsored peace treaty was signed in 1991. Elections held soon after the first visit of Church representatives in 1993 went smoothly, allowing Cambodia to make much progress toward democracy and rebuilding. At that time, Brother Ith received an appointment as a special adviser to the new prime minister. (Today he is employed as president of Cambodia’s national airline and as secretary-general of the Cambodian Investment Board.) His influence was invaluable in helping Church leaders present their case.
Elder Carmack and President White soon returned to Cambodia to submit the Church’s formal application for legal recognition and to arrange for couple missionaries to assist the Cambodian people by teaching English, distributing clothing donated by Church members, participating in technical university projects, and sharing the gospel.
Legal recognition was granted to the Church in March 1994, and before the month ended, Donald C. and Scharlene Dobson of Logan, Utah, were transferred from their missionary labors in Madras, India, to Phnom Penh as Cambodia’s first missionaries. The first Church meeting was held at a hotel on 27 March 1994, with six members and nine investigators in attendance. On 9 May 1994, Sister Pahl Mao became the first member baptized in Cambodia.
Other humanitarian-service couples soon arrived, and four young proselyting elders were transferred to Cambodia from Cambodian-speaking missions in the United States of America.
Now, three years later, the Church in Cambodia has more than 400 members in four Phnom Penh branches—three Cambodian and one Vietnamese. The branches are under local leadership, with support provided when needed by couple missionaries. Four couples from the United States are advisers to the Royal University of Agriculture—two teaching English and two assisting in the university’s agricultural business operations. They, with 15 proselyting missionaries, serve in the Cambodia Phnom Penh Mission, which was created this year. In addition, the first native-born Cambodian missionary has been called. Elder Leang Chhay Suy now serves in the Idaho Pocatello Mission in the United States.
Prior to the creation of the new mission, Cambodia was part of the Thailand Bangkok Mission. Mission president Troy Lee Corriveau, who completed his assignment in Thailand in July, says that in the months following President Hinckley’s visit to Cambodia, there was a marked increase in converts. “We had approximately 40 converts a month for the next couple of months. Although many were single, we also had whole families baptized. It was a joy to see the happy faces of fathers and mothers coming to church with their children.
“The Saints here are excited about the gospel and the blessings it brings into their lives, especially the promise of eternal blessings in the temple. It’s a financial challenge for the Saints to get to the Manila Philippines Temple, but we hope to see the first Cambodian members making the trip this year.”
In the early days of the Church in Cambodia, one of the first converts was 18-year-old Vietnam native Phuong Hong Hanh. She first attended church in July 1994 because she was interested in learning English but she was soon converted to the gospel. “I knew it was right,” she said.
Another early convert, An Chea Maline, a Cambodian who joined the Church in May 1995 and served as a branch Primary president before emigrating to Australia, recalls that for a long time she knew nothing about God. “But now I know this Church is true,” she says. “It is a bright sun for me.”
Seng Suon, a convert of nearly a year, was a university student when missionaries met him. “I prayed to know if the Book of Mormon and the Church were true and if Joseph Smith was a prophet,” he says. “The answer came around midnight. I awoke, and everything seemed bright. I had the feeling that it all was true.”
When Theany Reath, a young adult in Cambodia, was investigating the Church two years ago, she worried that her family would be offended when she stopped praying to their deceased ancestors. To her relief, her parents have been tolerant of her new beliefs and behaviors. “I feel the love of my parents a great deal,” she says. “They respect my new practices, such as fasting, and they no longer expect me to drink tea with them.” Today she serves as a branch Young Women president.
Oum Borin, Cambodia’s first native branch president, along with his wife, Samay, joined the Church more than two years ago. “One night, my wife had a dream of two stars that fell into the house,” he recalls. “Then two missionaries came to our house, and we felt the stars symbolized the elders. I know this Church is the true Church of Christ.”
Ha Phuoc Thach and his wife, Nguyen Thi Hong, are Vietnamese converts of nearly three years. In 1990 all three of their teenage children were lost at sea in a boat filled with Vietnamese refugees. Despite—or perhaps because of—this tragedy, the couple embraced the gospel when they heard it. Speaking about their baptism, Ha Phuoc Thach says: “Our lives changed. It was a spiritual change.” His wife adds, “I want everyone to pray, because God does answer prayers.” He serves as a counselor in the branch presidency of the Vietnamese-speaking branch. His wife is the Relief Society president. When asked why with all they have suffered they are always smiling, the couple respond, “Because now we are happy.”
Their sentiments doubtless will be echoed in the years ahead by numerous other Asians as they embrace the gospel. In the dedicatory prayer, President Hinckley asked the Lord’s blessing upon “this land and this people that there may be peace, that there may be prosperity, that there may be harmony, and that Thy work may succeed.”

Heidi carefully pulled open the little door marked December twelfth on the Weihnachten calendar and looked at the tiny painting of beautifully wrapped presents.
Only fourteen more days until Weihnachten, she thought. I wish time would hurry. She looked down at the doors on the Weihnachten calendar marked December twenty-fifth and wished hard.
“Heidi!” Frau Schroeder called, “Come. There is work to be done for the advents kranz ceremony tonight.”
Heidi smiled. Not everyone made such a ritual of the lighting of the advents kranz candles as her mama and vati did. Almost everyone in Germany had an advents kranz and lighted the candles, one each week until all four were lighted by Weihnachten, but not everyone had a ceremony.
“Heidi!” Frau Schroeder called again.
“Ja, Mama.” Heidi answered, “I’m coming.”
Hurriedly she put on her apron and began to help with the baking.
“Mama,” she asked, “am I old enough to light one of the candles yet?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Every year Wolfgang or Gunther or Helga has lighted the last two candles, and never me, I don’t like being the youngest! Please, Mama, could I this year?”
“It is very special to light the advents kranz candles in this house. It is an honor you must earn,” Mama said.
“I know, but what must I do?”
“When you find that out, you will be old enough.”
What a strange answer, Heidi thought. But there was no more time for questions. There was much work to be done.
That night the entire family, including Oma and Opa Schroeder and Oma Schmidt, gathered in the living room. The beautiful pine bough kranz hung from the ceiling by four red satin ribbons that came together in a bow at the top. Between each ribbon stood a tall thin white candle.
Opa Schroeder lighted the first candle last week after he read the Bible story of Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem. Carefully he relighted the candle, and then Vati began this week’s ceremony.
Heidi listened as he told of how the baby Jesus was born in a stable. She knew the story by heart, but whenever Vati told it, the story seemed new and even more beautiful. Vati loved the story, and everyone who heard him could feel that love.
When he finished, Vati lighted the second candle and then they all ate cookies and little cakes and sang Weihnachten songs until it was time to go to bed.
All during the next week Heidi thought about what Mama had said. She wondered how she could earn the honor of lighting one of the last two candles. But there was not much time to wonder, for there was more baking and much work to be done for the holidays.
Next Sunday was the day that everyone had to participate in the advents kranz ceremony by doing something on the program. Heidi was going to sing her favorite Weihnachten carol, “Silent Night.” She practiced all week and memorized the words, thinking hard about the meaning so she could interpret the right feeling.
With so much to do, the time went fast and Sunday night was there before Heidi had time to think about who would be chosen to light the third candle. And besides, she was scared. Because she was the youngest, she would be first on the program.
Heidi was nervous as she waited for Opa to relight his candle and then for Vati to relight his. Vati started the program and called on Heidi.
Her knees seemed to shake and her hands were wet with perspiration, but she stood up straight next to Mama, who played the piano, and began to sing. “Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright …” Suddenly the fear left her as she forgot about her audience. She remembered only the story of Jesus’ birth, and from her heart she sang her feelings.
The song ended and Heidi felt warm and wonderful inside. But suddenly she noticed a deep silence in the room. What did I do wrong? she wondered.
“That was beautiful!” Vati whispered. “I’ve heard that carol sung many times. But you, Heidi, did more than sing it. You felt and loved it. Thank you.”
There was a pause. Vati looked at Opa and Opa nodded. Then Vati spoke again. “I don’t think we need to go further to find the one who should light the third candle. I think it is agreed that this year Heidi has the true spirit of Weihnachten.”
Vati lifted Heidi up and carefully she lighted the candle. But it wasn’t as she thought it would be. Singing the song had been the important thing, not lighting the candle. She sat back down in her seat and listened to the others present their parts on the program. Occasionally her eyes peeked at the candles on the advents kranz.
The true spirit of Weihnachten, she thought, is not Sankt Nikolaus, or the Weihnachten calendar, or putting my shoes out for treats, or presents, or even the advents kranz, but a baby in a stable on a silent holy night.

I had an interesting experience a few years ago while attending general conference. I went to purchase some merchandise at ZCMI and to cash a check. Being from out of state, I was sent to the cashier. She asked for some identification. I reached into my wallet and took out some credit cards. Inadvertently, my temple recommend came out. The cashier said, “I’ll accept that.” I said, “You’ll accept what?” She said, “Your temple recommend. It’s current, isn’t it?” I said, “Yes, it’s current.” She said, “That will do.”
Well, I pondered that all the way home. I thought, Wouldn’t it be a great idea if we had a Mormon credit card? A card-carrying Mormon could be depended on to keep his word, to be honest with his employers, and to pay his bills as agreed. Then our professionals, tradesmen, and business people would perform without compromising their ethics for profit, each putting his signature on his work with pride; all of us striving for excellence in every way. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be a “peculiar” people known for our honesty and the quality of our services? The Mormon standard of integrity should be the highest standard in all the world, for we are the covenant people of God. The Lord makes no special concessions for culture, race, or nationality; He expects all His Saints to live according to gospel standards.