Gospel Story Finder

Brother Newry’s specialty is carpentry. Twenty years ago, he was offered a government scholarship to attend a technical college anywhere in the United States. He remembers: “I looked through all the catalogs. Then I prayed and chose Utah Technical College. The government officials asked me why I chose Utah. They told me the Mormons didn’t like blacks. But I was set on attending college in Utah.”
At Utah Technical College (now Utah Valley State College), he met some Church members who became his friends. He also discovered that his roommate was a less-active member. Brother Newry wanted to attend a Latter-day Saint Church meeting, so he insisted that his roommate get up and take him to church. Of course, he was introduced to the missionaries.
“I told the missionaries,” says Brother Newry, “that I had some questions I wanted them to answer before we discussed their religion. I wanted to know: Where did I come from? Why are there no prophets? Where am I going? Where did Christ go after his death?” The full-time missionaries broke into big smiles. When they answered his questions, Brother Newry said, “Now I know your church is true.”

Another student had been serving on an internship only a few weeks when his boss called me one evening and reported that the young man’s technical skills were poor. I explained that he was a sophomore and had only been in our program a short time and had little experience. He told me that he had sent this young man out to assist a crew of carpenters building homes and that the first day he had cut the saw horses in half and flubbed up most of what he worked on. He said when they send him for tools or lumber, he typically brought back the wrong things. I then apologized and asked him if he planned to fire him. He said, “Not on your life. If the kid does nothing but just show up on the job, his positive influence on my crews is worth keeping him around. The foul language has nearly stopped on every job site he is on. I just called to thank you.”

The need for happiness is a paramount need—lasting happiness, not fleeting happiness. True happiness comes from knowing one’s purpose in life and in fulfilling it. When I served as a mission president in Scotland, two of our fine sisters taught a man in his 80s, and he was baptized. In a testimony meeting soon afterwards, he stood and gave thanks that he now had purpose in life. “I was waiting to die when the sisters knocked on my door,” he said tearfully. Before long, he was called as counselor in the ward Sunday School presidency, and later as Sunday School president. He had great joy and happiness in his church service and made many new friends. A year or so passed and he visited Salt Lake City, made more friends, and gained more experiences, including going to the temple for the first time. When he did step from this life a few months after his return to Scotland, what a full and purposeful life he had had—and all within two years.

When I was about four years old, I fell out of my bed. My father heard me crying and came into my room to check on me. As he helped me get back into my bed, he asked, with all of the compassion of a loving father, why I had fallen out of bed.
He always loved to tell me how I had looked up at him and said, with the eye roll of a rational four-year-old, “Obviously I wasn’t in far enough!”
As a result, that statement became the question that my father would ask me every time I encountered a struggle, trial, or difficult problem. To this day I continue to ask myself, “Am I in far enough?”

I remember when I was young and leaving home for service in the U.S. Navy. My grandmother cautioned me that the Spirit of the Lord would not go with me into places where evil was. That fact was verified for me many times as my duties required that I be in places where evil ruled in the hearts of men. We, that is, our spirits recoil from evil, at least we recoil until we become so used to its presence that we lose our ability to be shocked by it, and in fact, become insensitive to its presence.

Goodness can be sensed just as evil, but because it is not shocking or traumatic, it is easier for us not to notice it. Yet goodness is powerful, more powerful than evil. Goodness is holy. It feels so good to be honest. And do we not all know the sweet relief which comes from being forgiven? Forgiveness is godly. Repentance is a major principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ, for it cleanses us and puts our spirits in tune with that which is good once again. Inevitably goodness witnesses of Jesus Christ, and our testimonies of eternal truths are strengthened.

For example, the witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon came to me as a young man because I developed the desire to be protected from evil by a shield of goodness. It was during World War II. I was a young sailor assigned to the Anacostia Naval Airbase in Washington, D.C.

One of my jobs was to help make training films identifying shapes and outlines of enemy ships and airplanes. These films were made in a large, barnlike structure containing a big flat stage and filled with models and outlines and forms and other devices.

Most of the time we were very busy, but there came a time toward the end of the war when we went for weeks without an assignment. Eventually, all the other personnel on this job were assigned to other tasks, but for some reason, I was left alone in the building, I guess to guard the equipment.

At first, I enjoyed my freedom. It was great to have nothing to do. All the electricity in the building was turned off with the exception of one outlet into which was plugged a small lamp, which sat on the corner of a table. There was a hard wooden chair where I could sit if I cared to. All the rest of the great building was in darkness. So for a few days I opened the door to the outside light and sat in the doorway on the old chair and thoroughly enjoyed myself. But before long I became immensely bored.

I had been raised in the Church by careful parents who had taught me the gospel, but I had never read the Book of Mormon completely through for myself. One day as I sat idle, I decided that this was an opportune time for me to read it. So that afternoon I brought my small serviceman’s Book of Mormon from my room and, desiring privacy, went inside the building and turned on the little light by the table and began to read. I remember how I was struck by those first words, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. …” (1 Ne. 1:1.)

As the days went by, I read every word. My soul, programmed as it was to goodness and truth, began to respond to the testimonies of the prophets. I had never had such an experience! I read slowly, prayerfully, savoring every word, wishing that it would never end. I had feelings in my heart that I had never been conscious of before. And when at last I read the admonition of Moroni at the end of the book, I felt a great desire in my heart to test his words, to ask for spiritual verification even greater than what I was then feeling. I remember shutting the doors of that vast building and locking myself in, then kneeling in the darkness on the cold cement floor, my forehead resting against the hard wooden seat of the old chair, and telling the Lord that I believed the words of Moroni, and asking him to strengthen my belief into knowledge.

I shall never forget what happened; I have felt it many times since. I became aware that I was surrounded by a power beyond myself, which came over me and through me. It was all around me, calm, clear, and indescribably powerful. It seemed white and delicious to me, like the fruit of the Tree of Life which Nephi told of. (See 1 Ne. 8:15.) It filled me completely and did not leave me for days after. It was not shocking or disturbing in any way, as is the power of evil, but was sweet and assuring to my soul. I knew that the book was true.

Bimwili & the Zimwi In this African folktale, Bimwili finds a wonderful seashell, which she puts on a big rock. When she goes to get it to take home, the Zimwi kidnaps her, hides her in his drum, makes her sing, and tells the villagers that it is the drum that is singing. The Zimwi can change shapes, but he is not all-powerful, and, with the help of her family, Bimwili escapes and shares the wonderful seashell with her village.Verna Aardema6–8 years

“One cow in our team was very intelligent. In fact, she was so smart that she used to hide in the willows to keep from being yoked up but when father found her and yoked her she was a good worker and a good milker. She got very lame at one time and could scarcely travel. My parents were very worried, since they had already lost one. They were afraid they could not travel as fast as the rest of the company, and so Mother said she would make a poultice and put it on as soon as the cow laid down for the night. She made a very large one that covered all of the lame hip. Well, the next morning, when father went out to get the cows up he called out, ‘Why, Mother, you have poulticed the wrong hip.’ Mother said, ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all right. It has gone clear through.’ And sure enough she (the cow) limped very little that day, and was soon as well as ever. I know there was a great deal of faith mixed up with that poultice.”

Tracy sat very still. She was almost five, but it was very hard to sit quietly. Today was supposed to have been a special day. Tracy and her mother had planned to go to the zoo! They had been all ready to go when the phone rang. Mother had answered and had listened for a long time before she finally said good-bye. She was crying when she turned to Tracy and said, “Honey, I need to talk to you.”
Now Tracy and Mother were visiting Sister Abbot, and Sister Abbot was crying. Tracy’s mother said, “Sister Abbot, I know how hard it must be for you. I’ll be happy to listen if you want to talk, or to help in any other way that I can.”
Sister Abbot put her arm around her three-year-old son, Jimmy, and cried harder. She hardly seemed to have heard Tracy’s mother.
Tracy watched, feeling uncomfortable. She knew that her mother was a visiting teacher and that Sister Abbot was one of the women whom she visited each month. Earlier Mother had told Tracy that Jimmy’s brother, Alan, had died that morning. Tracy knew about dying. Her cousin, Marnie, had been hit by a car last year, and she had died two weeks later. Tracy had cried and cried. Mother had told her that this life was only part of Heavenly Father’s wonderful plan. Tracy remembered that she had wanted to be with Marnie again right then, but her mother had explained that we all have to wait until the right time.
As Tracy thought about this, Sister Abbot said, “Why would God want to punish me so? First my husband, now my son.” She began to cry even harder.
Then Tracy spoke. At first no one heard her, so she spoke a little louder. “He loves me,” she said.
“What?” Sister Abbot asked, between sobs.
“He loves me,” Tracy repeated, looking at Sister Abbot.
“Who loves you, child?” Sister Abbot said, looking confused.
“Heavenly Father,” Tracy replied.
Sister Abbot looked puzzled, so Tracy tried to explain. “My cousin Marnie died last year, and Mommy told me that death isn’t forever. Heavenly Father loves me, so He let Jesus die so that we could all live again and be with Him.”
Sister Abbot still looked puzzled, so Tracy tried again. “He must love me very much to let His Son die so that we can all be together.”
Tracy looked at her mother. Her mother smiled at her with tears in her eyes. Sister Abbot had stopped crying and seemed more calm. She hugged Tracy and her mother before they went home.
The next Sunday, in testimony meeting, Sister Abbot went up to the pulpit and told everybody how grateful she was for a visit from a little girl who knew that her Heavenly Father loved her.

One of the most challenging things I’ve ever overcome was my “I don’t care” attitude. If I wasn’t passionate about what I was doing, I was cold and impatient with people.
This all changed one school break when I was asked to care for my 76-year-old grandfather. “Dadi,” as we called him, had suffered a stroke, which left him half-paralyzed. When my family asked me to care for him for two months, I couldn’t even imagine how!
I had to wake up early to prepare his breakfast, his bath, and his medicine. I helped him walk around for his daily exercise. Since he had difficulty moving, I was by his side at all times, including during his bath and his toilet. As an 18-year-old girl, this was the hardest part.
Aside from all this, he was difficult to be with. He is not a member of the Church and has different principles than I do. He was a man full of regrets—always shouting, never smiling, and constantly saying, “I’m dying!” Because of this attitude, it was hard for us to share a good bond.
At first, I did all I could to avoid my tasks, but that didn’t work. So I decided to change my attitude and give my best effort.
After a week of this new attitude, serving Dadi became a joy to me. My patience grew, and I came to understand his affliction. As I served him, I stopped thinking of being with him as a burden but rather as an opportunity to create good times with him.
Dadi changed too. This frowning old man became a smiling, gentle grandpa. He even came to like listening to Especially for Youth songs!
One night I heard him making some noise, so I looked into his room to find out what he was doing. He was praying for the first time. I’m inspired every day by this change.
Now I’m back at college, but I still go twice a month to visit Dadi with my family. We eat with him and sing for him. His health has worsened, so now the most powerful help that I can give is prayers on his behalf.
I’m grateful for the opportunity to watch over Dadi because it helped me see what I’m capable of giving. Love is a very powerful thing—it softened both my heart and Dadi’s. I have learned the meaning of sacrifice and compassion. Truly, charity enlightens every heart!

When Richard Boyd took his first scuba diving class, he didn’t realize that one day it would greatly influence both his vocation and his Church calling. Becoming a certified diver enhanced Richard’s job at Disney World in Orlando, Florida, where he was already working as a welder and mechanic helping to maintain some of the rides. With his new skills, his previous maintenance work on land was replaced by more interesting and challenging underwater work on the 20,000-Leagues-Under-the Sea ride.
Of course, when he* became Explorer adviser in the Orlando First Ward, the young men were interested in diving and so together they earned the tuition and attended scuba classes. Seventeen young men (including Bishop George Parkhurst) finished the certification course. To celebrate their success they went diving off Singer Island near Palm Beach, Florida. They made two dives on Friday and two on Saturday, each about 35 minutes apiece in water 60 to 80 feet deep.
The beautiful underwater world that each person on the trip got to see seemed like another universe. Once the young men slid into the water, they merged into a world of brightly colored coral, sponges, sea anemones, sea fans, and hosts of small tropical fish. They also got to meet many marine creatures including the small, harmless nurse sharks, the more dangerous moray eels, and barracuda, grouper, snapper, and other larger fish.
Brian Solomon, 17, found it hard to believe even after he had seen it. “The part of the trip that sticks out in my mind is how beautiful ocean life is. No matter how many pictures you see, it doesn’t compare with what you can see in person. Observing some of the sea life close up was something I’ll never forget. Imagine swimming along and then looking down and spotting a four foot barracuda making eyes at you!”
Dale Strange said, “As we descended to the bottom we began to see the coral and the animal life. Time seemed to fly so fast in that world that an hour could seem like just a few minutes. It was all new and unreal to me even though I have always been interested in the ocean.”
Besides giving the boys something to learn and master together, the classes also gave them greater appreciation for their leaders. Brian Solomon summed up the feelings of the group: “The classes and the trip were great, but our experiences with our leaders were even greater. Each one of them did his part and more. I wish everyone could meet them and feel their spirit.”

DEREK REDMOND: When I think of the doctrine of the acceptable sacrifice, I recall Derek Redmond’s 400-meter race in the 1992 Olympics.

About a third the way into the race, Redmund pulled a hamstring. He grabbed the back of his leg and fell to his knees, grimacing in pain. The crowd was stunned. What happens next brought them to their feet. Derek Redmund got up and began to hop on one leg toward the finish. Then a man from the crowd pushed through the guards to join him. It was Derek’s father. He put his arm around his weeping son and they crossed the finish line together.

Derek Redmund did not win his heat, but in a deeper sense, he did win because he laid his all on the altar of Olympic glory. And though Olympic judges may not award gold medals for effort, surely the God of Heaven does, for He looks not “on the outward appearance, but . . . on the heart (1 Sam. 16:7). We can see an image of our Father in Heaven in Derek’s father. Our Father wants us to do our best. He cheers us on. But ultimately it doesn’t matter if we win the race. We have won in his eyes if we have tried our best. And if we stumble and fall, Our Father is there to help us hobble to the finish line and to celebrates our performance with crowns of glory that will never fade.

But we must lay our all on the altar, as Derek Redmund did.

Before my family first began investigating the Church, I had barely turned 12 and was thoroughly enjoying life as a sixth grader. I didn’t have any major problems or concerns. My family was in transition. My father was struggling to keep his small private school operating, and my two younger sisters were busy being kids. My mother was just adjusting to her new job as the manager of a dental office.
I’d grown up in the Congregational church, attending every Sunday. I’d never even stopped to think that there were other doctrines, other beliefs. One day in early spring my mother came home from work and we all sat down to dinner. Over dinner the conversation turned to the fact that the two dentists Mom worked for were Mormons. Nothing negative was said, but Mom and Dad explained that Mormonism was just another religion, like Congregationalism but with other beliefs. The subject of the Church wasn’t mentioned again for several weeks.
Over a period of several weeks, my parents became close friends with one of the two dentists that Mother worked with. Because of their close association with the Petersen family, my parents found that their family had something that we didn’t, something that we wanted. After careful thought, we concluded that that something was the Church.
The next Sunday, and for two months of Sundays after, we took on a tough schedule. We continued to attend our meetings at the Congregational church, which ended at 12:15 P.M. Immediately following, we raced across town to the LDS chapel, where we attended meetings from 1:00 P.M. to 4:00 P.M.
I remember the first LDS sacrament meeting I ever attended. It was a fast Sunday, and testimonies were borne. I remember sitting and listening to people say that they knew that the Church was true. Even at the age of 12, I could feel the Spirit manifest that we needed to find out more about the Church.
Two weeks later the stake missionaries, Sister Hoer and Sister Gibson, came to our home. They taught us about the plan of salvation and the First Vision. They came four times, and after the fourth discussion offered us the challenge of baptism. We told them that we would pray about it and call them with an answer.
That night I prayed my first real prayer. Upon my knees, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to help me know if the Church was really true. The missionaries had explained to us how Heavenly Father answers prayers, so when the answer came I recognized it. Heavenly Father wanted me to be baptized.
My mother and sisters had similar experiences. My father, however, needed an extra boost, and that boost came, but not for several weeks.
Following a tradition at his school, my father took his students on a trip that year. Funds were low so my father drew a circle around the state of Colorado. He asked his students where they wanted to go within that circle. Salt Lake City was selected.
While on that trip, my father and a few of his students toured Temple Square. It was in the north visitors’ center that the much needed answer came.
The tour group had come through the visitors’ center to the last area, a film depicting Joseph Smith and the First Vision. The guide, an elderly man, turned off the lights and pushed the button. The curtains opened but nothing happened. He tried again and achieved the same results. Discouraged he turned the lights back on and said, “If you don’t mind, I would like to bear my testimony.” He did, and it was just what my father needed to make up his mind. My father asked if anything technical had ever gone wrong before. Nothing had, and it continued to run flawlessly after. I believe it was a miracle.
From his hotel room, my father called to tell us of his decision. We immediately called the missionaries and set the date for our baptism.
We gathered in the chapel, all clothed in white. One by one we went into the font and were baptized by Brother Petersen. I remember coming out of the water feeling pure, clean, renewed.
We gathered again in the chapel and our family sang “The Love of God,” and Sister Runnels sang “Where Love Is.” Never before has music so touched my heart.
We were confirmed by Brother Brown, and this began our life in the Church.
Now, five years later, I look back upon that special time in our lives. I can’t help but wonder what life would be like without the Church. I am sure it couldn’t compare to the joy we’ve found.

But years later, I was deceived again and ended up in another abusive relationship. When I broke away, I found out I was pregnant again. I didn’t want to place the baby. I was older than before, and I felt like I could be a good mom. I met with my bishop and a social worker. I started following the same process that I had before in praying about adoption, but nothing ever seemed to click. It always felt difficult.
I still went to church. Sometimes ward members would say they were surprised to see me there pregnant, which hurt a little. But I still went every week. I wanted people to see that what I had done reflected a choice I had made but that it didn’t define who I was. I worked with my bishop to move forward.
As my due date grew closer, I started to panic. With my first baby, I’d had a plan, but this one was so different. I didn’t feel like I was receiving a strong answer regarding any option for my baby. I let the couple whom I had placed my first baby with know that I was pregnant but unsure of whether I would place, and that if I did place, I would want them to raise this baby as well.
After I had the baby, I still felt unsure. Then my doctor came in to check on us and said, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to have children again, so love this little one.” While that may not be the answer for everyone, I felt the Spirit confirm that this was the right choice for me. After panicking for nine months, I felt peace. I let the couple know that I had decided to parent my daughter.
I wanted to be the best mom I could be, and I knew that the only way to do that was staying close to family and the Lord’s Church. I knew that what I had learned in the gospel of Jesus Christ would help her like it had helped me.

Many years ago I walked at dawn through the narrow cobblestone streets of Cusco, Peru, high in the Andes Mountains. I saw a man from a local indigenous group walking down one of the streets. He was not a big man physically, but he carried an immense load of firewood in a huge burlap sack on his back. The sack seemed to be as big as he was. The load must have weighed as much as he did. He steadied it with a rope that looped under the bottom of the sack and circled up around his forehead. He gripped the rope tightly on both sides of his head. He kept a rag on his forehead underneath the rope to keep it from cutting into his skin. He leaned forward under his burden and walked with deliberate, difficult steps.
The man was carrying the firewood to the marketplace, where it would be sold. In an average day he might make just two or three round-trips across the town to deliver similarly awkward, heavy loads.
The memory of him bent forward, struggling down the street has become increasingly meaningful for me with the passage of years. How long could he continue to carry such burdens?
I remember that man in Peru, hunched over and struggling to carry that enormous sack of firewood on his back. For me, he is an image of us all as we struggle with the burdens of life. I know that as we keep the commandments of God and our covenants, He helps us with our burdens. He strengthens us. When we repent, He forgives us and blesses us with peace of conscience and joy.22 May we then submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Last night our home teachers came for a visit. They shook hands with all my family, even me.
After everyone sat down, Brother Sorensen blew up a red balloon and handed it to me.
He counted, “One, two, three,” and said, “let go!” The air rushed out of the balloon, and it flipped and flopped all over the room.
I laughed when it landed on my brother’s head.
“Some of us are like the red balloon,” Brother Sorensen said. “We get excited about something and just flip and flop around, not knowing where we will end up.”
Then he handed one end of a piece of string to my sister. He pulled the string tight and threaded his end through a straw.
Next he told Brother Brown to blow up his blue balloon. Then Brother Sorensen carefully put a piece of tape over the straw and fastened it to the balloon.
Brother Brown let go of the blue balloon. Swoosh! It went straight down the string to my sister’s hand.
“When we prepare and know where we want to go, we can be like the blue balloon and go straight to our goal,” Brother Sorensen said. Then he asked, “Do you have any goals?”
My brother said, “I want to go on a mission.” My sister said, “I want to earn my Gospel in Action award.” And I said, “I want to be baptized when I’m eight years old.” We all said that we would rather be like the blue balloon and prepare for our goals now.

Once I went to a family reunion in another state. It was a lot of fun. When Sunday came, I was nervous to go to a different ward. The only people I knew at church were my family. I wanted to stay home, but I knew going to church was important.
When we got to Primary, my nervous feeling went away a little. I started to feel comfortable with the other kids. They shared their scriptures with me, they talked to me, and they helped me answer questions. We became friends.
I was glad I went to church and thankful that everyone was so nice to me. I hope I get to go to that ward and see my friends sometime again.

A former teacher of mine weighed well over 300 pounds the first time he went skiing. New to the sport and unfamiliar with the resort, he asked for directions, and a cruel stranger sent him to a black diamond run.

Exiting the lift for the first time, he experienced a short-lived slide of sheer terror, which ended when he crashed violently, embedding himself into the deep snow at the base of a mogul. From there it was uphill both ways, and he was tangled in his skis and stuck—by his own description—like a beached whale in the snow.

He found that by gyrating his entire body, he could plow forward a few inches at a time. As difficult and tiring as this painstaking process was, much more frustrating were the scores of experienced skiers speeding by him with no concern for his plight. Finally, a female skier swooshed to a perfect stop next to him—and the several-foot-long trail in the snow that represented his efforts over the last forty-five minutes.

“Do you need any help?” she asked brightly. To him it was so painfully obvious that he did that his temper got the best of him and he looked up at her and curtly replied, “No, lady, this is what I came here to do.” Insulted, or puzzled perhaps, she skied away, leaving him to another hour of belly flopping before he was finally free to hike down the mountain carrying his rented skis.

On days when I feel stuck—when progress is slow or nonexistent; when my life’s tasks seem difficult, repetitive, or fruitless; or when any help sought seems unforthcoming or insufficient for my needs—it has helped me to remember that wonderful line, “This is what I came here to do,” and to recognize that life’s work and life’s struggles, even the most difficult and mundane aspects for our existence, are truly, at least in part, what we came here to do.

Elder Stout and I decided to have a prayer before going out again that Christmas Eve. We had arrived home from our last appointment, and I wasn’t exactly eager to step into the freezing-cold Italian air again. But my companion thought we still had time for the Christmas project we had been planning.
“Please guide us to those with no special place to go for Christmas,” we asked. “Please help us to cheer those who are experiencing sadness and loneliness during the holiday.”
I grudgingly rebuttoned the buttons I had so eagerly unbuttoned minutes before as Elder stout gathered up the Christmas gifts left over from what we had given our investigators—five Christmas candles decorated with paper holly and aluminum-foil bases. We had made them ourselves during the weeks before while practicing “Venite Fedeli” ( “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful”) to sing to those we found wandering around with no place to go on Christmas Eve.
We walked into the cold, deserted streets of Bolzano, and I apprehensively looked for someone to cheer up. I had been in Italy for only twenty days or so and, although I was enthusiastic about missionary work, I still found it hard to approach strangers and talk to them in a language I barely knew about things they didn’t seem interested in.
A man started walking in our direction, avoiding looking at us. We managed to stop and talk with him, lit and gave him one of our decorated candles, and sang to him.
As we sang, the faraway look in his eyes faded away. Not only a smile, but genuine warmth came to his face. I felt good. The man walked away with new vitality, and my attitude about our plans for the evening changed. It was going to be a good evening after all.
Then, walking toward the center of the city, we met a gray-haired old man. He was wearing a thick jacket and limping along with the help of a crutch under his left arm. Elder Stout recognized him as someone he had talked to before my arrival in Italy. We presented him a candle and sang our carol.
He was thrilled. “Won’t you come with me?” he asked in Italian marked by a strong German accent. “I’m on my way to church.” We agreed and proceeded into town slowly, keeping in step with his pace. As we walked, Elder Stout and the man continued talking.
As they conversed, I studied our companion and realized that, in spite of the incredibly low temperature, the hand supporting his body on the crutch was gloveless. “Please take this glove for your left hand,” I somehow forced out.
“No, no,” he replied. “Many years ago I spent the winter in Russia as a soldier with less than I’m wearing now. This is nothing compared to then.”
We neared the church and noticed a large group of people waiting outside. Our friend yelled out, “Hey, these Americans want to sing for you and give you a present!” This wasn’t exactly what we had planned to do, but we sang anyway and gave out one of the three remaining candles. Our friend stood off to the side and smiled.
The night was getting colder and colder, so when we finished, Elder Stout and I asked him to take a glove from one of us to protect his bare hand. Once again he explained that he had undergone winter in Russia many years ago and had suffered much worse.
Then a car stopped near the church, and a well-dressed woman and her young son stepped out. The boy was yelling, upset at the necessity of going to church on the night before his favorite day of the year. While the mother attempted to calm him down, our friend motioned us to them. As we followed his labored steps, he called out, “Hey, these American boys want to sing for you and give you a present!”
We knelt down eye-to-eye with the boy and made our presentation. As the boy, wide-eyed and silent, listened intently to our well-rehearsed carol, I could see our friend smiling and enjoying every minute. When we stood up to wish the mother a merry Christmas, we saw that she had been crying as we sang. She smiled at us, and, before we could say anything, our friend wished them a merry Christmas in a way that only Santa Claus could rival.
We echoed his wishes and turned back to tell our friend that we still had one more candle and planned to continue on until we found someone to give it to.
He looked at the ground and then turned back to us: “Well, it’s too crowded here anyway. Maybe I’ll go on with you to a smaller church.”
Happy to hear that we would still enjoy his refreshing company, we left to find another church. Our limping friend guided us through the quiet streets only to find the other chapel closed. As it got colder and colder, I kept remembering the hand of our friend, trying to sense what it would be like for my bare hand to remain frozen in one position, holding on to a crutch. We both offered our gloves, and again he refused.
As we walked away from the church, we saw two teenage girls walking dejectedly down the street. Within seconds, our friend was yelling, “Hey, these American boys want to sing for you and give you a present!” Remembering that we only had one candle left, not two, I became uneasy. But we lit the candle and gave it to one of them.
“What about the other girl?” our friend asked. After Elder Stout explained that we had just given away the last candle, our friend cried “Wait!” and started fumbling through his pockets. He finally found the candle we had given him and handed it to the other girl. Elder Stout and I sang our carol while our friend stood by smiling. The girls began smiling, too.
When they walked away, Elder Stout said, “Well, that’s the last of our candles. I guess it’s time to go home.” Our friend replied that he would accompany us as far as the other church. When we arrived, we wished one another a merry Christmas and went our separate ways.
Back in our apartment, Elder Stout and I knelt in prayer. We thanked the Lord for making it possible to touch a few hearts and shine a little light on saddened countenances. We also thanked him for the lesson that angels don’t always wear white flowing robes but come in all different sizes, colors, and nationalities. Some walk with crutches.

And then there are vacations. Whether it’s camping, cross-country trips, building an addition to the house, or just working around the house together, vacation time is usually family time. Bishop Lloyd D. Wilson of the Pacifica Ward in California is a dedicated camper and fisherman—but he also found a unique way to spend a vacation. “A few years ago I took my oldest son, who was a senior in high school, my second son, and a friend of theirs, and we bicycled from Ely, Nevada, to Colorado. We took it a day at a time—when we got tired, we quit. But there were some days when we made more than 225 kilometers. We had planned it together, and it meant a lot to all of us.”

“Every time I start reading the scriptures, I fall asleep!” one missionary told his mission president. “It’s like the scriptures are a sleeping pill!”
His president responded, “Do you ever take notes when you read?”
“No,” said the missionary.
“It’s easy to fall asleep or let your mind drift when you are only reading,” the president said, “but it is impossible when you add writing!”
The advice this mission president gave his struggling missionary made a big difference. So if you’re looking for a new way to strengthen your scripture study, give it a try. As you write about what you’re reading, you’ll likely find yourself more engaged and learning better, too.