Gospel Story Finder

Five years ago, I faced another health challenge. Doctors found a malignant tumor in my colon, and I had to undergo emergency surgery to remove 25 centimeters (10 in) of my transverse colon. During that time, I lost more than 15 pounds (7 kg) in two months. The chemotherapy treatments were so harsh on my body that I became extremely weak and couldn’t eat. Again, my family was told to prepare for the worst. I prayed if it was His will, I still wanted to see my youngest son go on his mission. A miracle happened by God’s great love, and I made it through. The tumor was removed entirely, and my youngest son is currently serving in the Maracaibo Venezuela Mission and is happy to share the gospel and help bring souls unto Christ.

It was my last Christmas in the Brazil Rio de Janeiro North Mission. I would soon be returning to my home elsewhere in Brazil, and I was happy about the Christmas season. My companion, Elder Barney, was an American who had been in Brazil for only a short time. He was fighting homesickness.
We had been working hard, but we still weren’t sure how to celebrate Christmas. We hoped a family would invite us to spend Christmas with them, and eventually one family did. However, I wondered about some of the other missionaries in our area. On our next trip to Vitória, my companion and I learned that Elder Jones and Elder Junot didn’t have any Christmas plans. I thought within myself, These elders are my family while I’m on my mission. We can’t leave them alone on Christmas. The four of us decided we would spend Christmas together in Vitória.
We made plans for a special dinner on Christmas Eve. Although we didn’t have much money, we knew the Lord would bless us.
On Christmas Eve I recorded my feelings in my journal: “Today is 24 December. It has rained a lot, and I see that my companion is sadder. He says he misses the symbols of Christmas he is used to seeing in his country—snow, music, trees, and decorations. I can imagine how hard his Christmas will be since he is so far away from his family, his people, and his customs. The rain continues to fall, but it is lighter now.”
I looked at my companion and sensed his homesickness. I wanted him to be happy.
On the bus trip to Vitória, we could see people hurrying to make their Christmas purchases. We went by a house illuminated with colored lights. Children played in the gardens. Tears filled my eyes, and I could not speak to my companion because I knew I would cry. He seemed to be crying silently. For Elder Junot, Elder Jones, and me, this Christmas was our last on the mission. But it was Elder Barney’s first, and I didn’t know how to console him. During the trip, I cried several times but concealed it. And my companion concealed his tears from me.
We got off the bus and went to the other missionaries’ apartment. We put our money together, and Elder Junot and Elder Jones went out to make the purchases. After they returned with the food, we set the table with a white tablecloth and napkins and placed Christmas cards on it for decoration. But even this didn’t seem to lift our spirits.
Seeing this, Elder Jones suggested we get out our hymnbooks and sing hymns to the Lord. We sang one, then one more, and then another. And we sang louder each time. I wanted the neighborhood to hear our singing and know that we were worshiping the Lord. We started to feel the Spirit of the Lord.
After the singing, Elder Jones shared a scripture about the birth of Christ. Then everyone read from the scriptures. We bore our testimonies about our Redeemer.
When Elder Barney shared his testimony, he explained, “I was missing the things that are familiar to me—the snow, the Christmas tree, the turkey, the Christmas music of my country. I forgot to be concerned about the Son of God born in a manger.” We had tears in our eyes, for the Spirit testified in our hearts that we had worshiped the Creator of the day. We thanked the Lord for all He had given us.
It was my last Christmas in the mission, but it was the first true Christmas I ever spent.

As the Book of Mormon musical toured Scotland, it came to theatres located within the boundaries of the Aberdeen Scotland Stake. Dedicated missionaries grabbed the opportunity to speak with the hundreds of people who attended.
After each performances concluded, the audience filtered out and many found themselves drawn to engage with full-time elder and sister missionaries of the Church, who were located near the exits. They and the Lord then went to work.
Following many light-hearted and positive conversations, attendees were glad to accept gospel pamphlets as well as pass-along cards. The missionaries were amazed and thankful as some attendees expressed interest in meeting with them again to learn more about the doctrines of the Lord’s Church and the love of Jesus Christ.
It was a testament to the love of Heavenly Father and the power of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
Zone leaders Elder Caleb Cuthbertson and Elder Zachary Peavler spoke fondly of the experience: “We saw a lot of true miracles at this musical. Many people who spoke with us had a change of perspective that day, and a different respect for the work we do.”
Elder Oliver Iverson said he was very grateful for the opportunity he had been given to “answer genuine questions as well as clarify our beliefs to the musical’s audience.”
It was a hugely positive experience for everybody involved, not to mention a profound reminder that “God is mindful of every people (Alma 26:37)”.

When the Rabasto family joined the Church about four years ago, they devoted their whole hearts to it. After moving to the Bahamas from the Philippines, their dad, Adolfo, was called to the branch presidency. They hold regular family home evening. Archie and Roselle, the two high schoolers in the family, both attend seminary every day. They read the scriptures daily as a family. Rinna, the oldest sister in the family, is a student at Brigham Young University.

What the family loves most about the gospel is the Christmas present they received last year. During the holiday break, the family took a trip to the temple in Orlando, Florida, to be sealed.

“I felt really excited to be in the temple,” says Archie. “I remember my sisters crying, and I felt happy and peaceful.”

From Orlando, the family said good-bye to Rinna, since she was leaving for college. They miss her, of course, but they say they feel calm about her being so far away in Utah, since they know they’ll always be a family, no matter where they go.

“Everyone in the temple kept telling us how great we looked with our white clothes and jet-black hair,” says Roselle. “We felt great, too. You could feel the air-conditioning in the temple, but I felt a warmth inside my heart. The feelings I had there were indescribable.”

It wasn’t until after my first business venture broke down and my second one burned to the ground that I wondered if I would be able to take my fiancée, Beny, to the temple. We had heard that getting there would be a trial of faith, but when we made temple marriage our goal, we had no idea how thoroughly our faith would be tested.
Beny and I met in our native Panama after serving missions. At the time, couples in Panama who wanted to start their married lives in the temple were married civilly just before traveling to the nearest temple, the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. It would be an expensive and difficult trip, but being sealed was a blessing we did not want to live without.
The day after I proposed, I lost my job. Undaunted, I decided to earn money by giving bus tours. My bus broke down the first night. Concerned but determined, I next decided to sell T-shirts. The morning I went to pick up the shirts from the manufacturer, I found that the building had burned to the ground the night before. It seemed that my hopes had gone up in smoke too.
It was only a few months before the next scheduled temple trip, yet to this point, every effort I had made to raise money had ended in abrupt failure. I left the smoldering rubble and went to find Beny.
“I have nothing,” I told her. “Maybe you shouldn’t marry me.”
“If I were marrying for money, I’d be married already,” she said. “But I’m not marrying for money. I’m marrying you because I love you.”
That was a turning point. We felt that we had passed an important test. As we pushed ahead with faith, doors began opening. I found work making furniture, though the pay wasn’t enough to meet our needs. Then a kind bishop offered to help us with our bus fare. As exciting as his offer was, it didn’t feel right. We were intent on being self-sufficient. But seeing that he truly desired to help, we asked him if he could give Beny a job instead. He did.
After earning enough money to travel to the temple, we married civilly and were at last on our way to Guatemala with 10 other Church members. But our test wasn’t over yet.
Widespread transportation strikes stopped us at the border of Costa Rica. After waiting at the border for two days, our driver decided to turn back. But Beny and I, along with two brothers and one other couple, decided not to give up. After watching our bus turn around and leave us, we walked into Costa Rica. We kept walking, sleeping in roadside shelters, until we reached the Nicaraguan border. From there we managed to take a taxi to the capital city, where we purchased a bus ticket to the Honduran border. Two days—and two more buses—later we finally arrived at the temple. We were happy, but we were dirty and tired, and we had spent far more than we had planned.
After cleaning up, Beny and I realized that we were missing our living-ordinance recommends! What made matters worse, our bishop in Panama was scheduled to leave that same day on a business trip. We were brokenhearted. Had we passed through all of our trials for nothing? We ironed Beny’s wedding dress and trusted that if the Lord had helped us get that far, He would see us through to the end.
Though we expected our bishop to be gone, we decided to call him anyway. To our surprise, he had not taken his business trip after all. He said he felt that he should stay home instead. We were thrilled! He promised to fax the needed paperwork as soon as he could get to a fax machine.
We waited and waited, all the while praying in the temple’s marriage waiting room. It was Saturday, and in two hours the temple would close until Monday. What could be taking so long? At last the fax arrived, with an apology from the bishop: the power had gone out just as he was preparing to send the fax.
Finally, after all our trials and delays, we were sealed eternally as husband and wife. Our joy—worth the working, the waiting, and the worrying—was full!
Not everyone getting married in the temple will face such challenges, but for Beny and me (and the others who went to the temple with us), these experiences were a refining process. Three of the four brethren who made it to the temple on that trip were later called as bishops. Two are currently serving as counselors in stake presidencies. We’ve all been so blessed. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
If our goal to marry in the temple had been only for worldly love, we wouldn’t have made it. But because we believed in the sealing power of the priesthood restored in our day, we didn’t give up, knowing that our temple marriage—for time and all eternity—was worth whatever sacrifice we had to make.

Pornography can jump out at you when you least expect it. Some years ago, after checking into a hotel late at night, I started unpacking my suitcase. I opened the hotel room drawers, only to find three or four pornographic magazines, the kind by just looking at the cover you knew that they were tools of the devil.

I had already changed into my pajamas and was ready for bed. Now I had a dilemma. What if I left the magazines in the drawer and were to die in the middle of the night of a heart attack? Of course, my room would be searched and there in the drawer would be these filthy magazines. But, I was not in my street clothes and didn’t want to change again. Yet, fearing the worst could possibly happen, I begrudgingly dressed again, took the magazines into the hallway, and cast them where they belonged, into the garbage. The Lord has told us to “let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.”[6]

Jane’s family struggled during their first years in the Salt Lake Valley, and though they lacked even the most basic necessities, Jane shared what little she did have with her neighbors. When Brother Lyman, a neighbor, received a call to serve a mission in California, he left his family with few provisions. His wife, Eliza Partridge Lyman, wrote, “Jane James let me have two pounds of flour, it being half of what she had.”

About six months before the end of the war, I was assigned to an outfit where incoming young people were trained on radar. We were stationed in the Harz Mountains, and I was about 17. One day we had to write a composition about Germany, and mine won. The officer had me stand in front of the whole outfit, and he said: “Congratulations for writing the best composition. I expect you to volunteer now to become an officer for the German Reich. We need people with your potential, and I expect your written application tonight.”

“I don’t have to wait until tonight,” I said. “I refuse.”
He got really furious and wanted to punish me. He said, “Tomorrow, I will ask you again, and the next day again.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I told him. I was not in tune with the spirit of national socialism. My father was a friend of the Jewish people, and we had always prayed for them in our home. I just wanted to get out of there with the others. He asked me what I wanted to do. “I want to go with the rest of the group,” I said. He told me if I didn’t want to volunteer I was ordered to stay behind and train the young people. There was no other choice.

Although I was forced to stay I felt very secure about it, like that was where I was supposed to be. All my friends were sent to Russia. Only one came back—all the others were killed.

I really don’t know how I let Sister Moffat talk me into it in the first place. Before I knew what was happening, I had agreed to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting about being reverent. All the other guys in my Primary class were pounding me on the back, saying they were glad it was me, not them.
“You really are a pal, Alan,” Will said. “You saved all the rest of us.”
Yeah, I thought, but who’s going to save me?
When I got home, I told Mom about it. “I don’t know why I said I’d do it. I can’t talk for five minutes.”
“It sounds like a great opportunity to me,” she said, smiling.
Somehow I knew she’d say that. That’s what mothers always say. “But five minutes,” I said. “That’s a long time to talk about ways to be reverent.”
Mom chuckled. “Five minutes isn’t nearly as long as it sounds to you. I’ll help you. Together I’m sure we can think of enough to take up five minutes.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. I was glad she had volunteered to help, though. It was kind of like she had picked up the other end of a heavy load that I had been trying to lift by myself.
Because this was a talk for sacrament meeting, and because Dad says that sacrament meeting is probably the most important of all our church meetings, I knew that I couldn’t put off preparing it until Saturday. So after school on Monday I asked Mom if she had time to write any of my talk.
She looked at me in surprise. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say that I would write your talk. I said that I would help you write one.”
“But you always wrote my talks before,” I said. “I thought that was what you meant when you said you’d help me.”
“You’re old enough now that I don’t have to do everything for you. Wasn’t it you who was telling me last week that a ten-year-old ought to have more privileges than his eight-year-old sister?”
“But I don’t even know how to begin,” I wailed. “You said you’d help me.”
“I will,” Mom answered. “But there’s a difference between helping you and doing it for you.”
Well, when Mom finally convinced me that she really wasn’t going to do it all, I pleaded for suggestions. She said we should start with prayer. Then, by asking questions, she helped me get a better idea of what I wanted to say. After that, she helped me decide in what order to say things.
I still had to sit down and write the talk out myself, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, because I knew what I wanted to say. When I finished, Mom helped me correct some grammar mistakes.
Once the talk was written, I started feeling kind of glad that I was going to talk in sacrament meeting. I practiced giving it every day in front of a mirror. By the time Saturday rolled around, I felt pretty confident. As long as I had my paper there to remind me what came next, I could give most of the talk by just glancing down once in a while.
Sunday morning I made one last trial run with Dad as my audience. “Alan, that is a very fine talk,” he said. “You’ll do just great in sacrament meeting. But there is one thing that you don’t want to forget.”
“What’s that?” I asked, a little disappointed to think that something wasn’t just right.
Seeing my disappointment, he said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your talk. I just want to remind you to ask Heavenly Father to help you do your best.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling much better. “I will.”
Sitting up on the stand, I felt pretty important. I glanced at the clock—two minutes until the meeting started. I felt a nervous excitement as I reached into my pocket for my talk. It wasn’t there! I felt in my other pockets. I looked on the floor. It was gone! Just then the bishop got up and announced the opening song and prayer.
What was I going to do? I caught Mom’s eye and gave her a pleading look. She just smiled at me. I began praying fervently that the paper with my talk on it would miraculously appear. I felt in my pockets again—nothing. When I put the hymnbook under my seat, I felt around the entire area for my paper—still nothing.
When the deacons were just about finished passing the sacrament, I knew that my miracle was not going to happen. I began praying that I would be able to remember my talk or that I would at least know what to say.
Suddenly, I heard my name as the bishop announced me as the first speaker. With heavy feet I walked slowly to the pulpit. I could see my mother and father smiling at me. Will was pointing at me.
I was sure that everyone could see me shaking. Very slowly I announced the topic of my talk. There was Sister Moffat. She was smiling too. I just stood there quaking for a minute. Then something miraculous did happen: I remembered the first few sentences! As I began speaking, I remembered more and more. It was almost like I was standing in front of the mirror at home, except that I felt a warm, radiating glow around me.
I was finished before I knew it. The rest of the meeting was like a pleasant afterglow. I felt wonderful. That feeling was only intensified by all the compliments I received when the meeting was over.
“Alan,” Dad said, “you were great!”
“You really were,” Mom said as she gave me a kiss on the cheek. “We’re proud of you.”
“But you know,” I confessed, “I didn’t think I was going to be able to do it, because I lost the paper with my talk on it. When I discovered it was gone, it was too late to do anything else but pray for help. So I did. Heavenly Father really came through for me.”
“It sounds like you learned more than just how to give a good talk,” said Dad, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
“Yeah, I really did.”

A few weeks ago, I flew to New York City to meet a new granddaughter. As my daughter and her husband met me at the door with their little three-day-old infant, there was an obvious radiance in that apartment. As they placed Hannah, who will be named after my mother, in my arms, she looked like a curled-up little doll with lots of dark hair. Within a few days, Hannah was stretching out her long legs and her long, thin feet, and I started to think of all of the things she will experience as she starts growing up. Perhaps she’ll have some of the same fears that I had—like being afraid to be alone in the dark at age six or seven. At age thirteen or fourteen, she may be sure, as I was, that there will never be boys as tall as she is. That concern was increased for me the following year when I became convinced that a person with feet as large as mine would surely never marry.
Those kinds of concerns are pretty normal, and the things that concern any of you would surely be concerns to me. But my greatest concern is that each one of you is growing in your spiritual understanding.
I have tremendous reverence for each one of you. My hope for you during these important years between the ages of twelve and eighteen is that you are going from being a dependent child to becoming a righteous, problem-solving woman of faith. It is a mighty work you do during these years, and when you do your work well, you will build a foundation for a responsible and righteous life.
When your leaders encourage you in the Young Women program to get involved with Personal Progress, I hope you will understand that this represents much more than goal-setting and receiving recognition, although that is very important. The greatest goal is that you would constantly choose experiences that would exercise or strengthen your faith in our Savior, Jesus Christ.
There is a chapter in the book of Alma—chapter 32—which seems to me to be written especially for young women. Alma teaches us how to exercise our faith and increase our belief in the words of our Heavenly Father. Would you go home and read this chapter and draw a circle around every time it says the word. Then read the first verse in the book of John where it says, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1; emphasis added). And then in verse 14, “And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth” (John 1:14; emphasis added).
In the book of John, the Word is referring to our Savior Jesus Christ. The prophet Alma, in teaching us about faith, helps us understand how our faith in Jesus Christ can be strengthened. Alma compares the word, or the gospel, encompassing our faith in the Savior, to a seed. In his words:
“Now, if ye give place, that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed, if ye do not cast it out by your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold, it will begin to swell within your breasts; and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves—It must needs be that this is a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.
“Now behold, would not this increase your faith? I say unto you, Yea; nevertheless it hath not grown up to a perfect knowledge” (Alma 32:28–29; emphasis added).
Personal Progress is like an experiment on the word. There are experiences with prayer, scripture study, strengthening family relationships, and service to others. Exercising our faith will increase and strengthen it. As we watch the accomplishments of great athletes, it is surprising to me that some would suppose that our spiritual growth comes without effort when our physical ability requires exercise and training.
Now listen to the wonderful promise that is given to those who exercise their faith—who will continue to nourish the word:
“But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life” (Alma 32:41; emphasis added).
Growing up spiritually requires faith, great diligence, and patience.
It takes maturity to look forward to those things that have eternal consequence.
In infancy, little Hannah responds to food when hungry. She responds to gentle voices and dry diapers. It will be some time before she realizes that her mother is reading the scriptures to her while she feeds her. It will be many, many months before she knows why heads are bowed and prayers are spoken at the dinner table. Yet her faith will begin to take root in this trusting environment. A little child can learn to respond to good feelings, but you are learning to take responsibility for your faith.
Listen to the words of three young women as each had experiences that provided a chance to exercise her faith.
[A video segment was shown in which several young women spoke of events and challenges in their own lives and the effect of those things on their faith.]
Each of these young women had a different kind of experience, but each chose to exercise and increase her faith. Sarah disregarded a feeling that what she was doing was wrong because of her eagerness to learn to drive. After a bad experience, faith gave her the motivation or the courage to evaluate her very frightening experience and make changes. Did you notice that at first she felt unworthy and unloved because she had made an unwise choice? She said she felt kind of worthless. Those feelings are normal after making a mistake, but she wisely evaluated what had happened and why it had happened that way. She reminded herself of her Heavenly Father’s love and what He would have wanted. She learned to listen to parents and acknowledge the feeling of warning. She recognized how she might use this understanding in another situation. This way every experience can become a growth experience. Our Heavenly Father wants us to overcome bad experiences and not remain stuck in our feelings of being unworthy.
The second young woman, Carly, experienced difficult family circumstances through a change in her father’s employment and a move to another state. She learned the value of family relationships and being together. Through united faith and prayers, she experienced the blessing of feeling our Heavenly Father’s love and support in bringing their family back together. Her faith was strengthened.
In the third story, Paulette had a different experience when she learned to accept an outcome that was not what she had hoped for. She knew about the great power of faith, a power that could move mountains, but when her friend’s mother died, she exercised her faith by trusting in Heavenly Father’s plan for us. Growing up spiritually requires us to see beyond our own desires and to enlarge our way of seeing things. We not only have to let go of our selfishness but sometimes let go of things we want very badly to come to understand our Heavenly Father’s point of view.
It is so important in this day that we each build an inner core of spirituality. As you exercise your faith and feel that spirituality grow, you will begin to feel more secure. You will feel more confident. Gradually we will come to more fully understand what it means to completely trust in our Heavenly Father and stand as a witness of God (see Mosiah 18:9). As we become righteous, problem-solving women of faith, we will learn to represent Him and do His work.
Three years ago I had another little granddaughter, named after me—Emily Janette. On the day of her blessing, I felt a tremendous desire for her welfare and a hope that the good things in life would come to her. In that instant, I thought of what it means when each one of us takes upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ through our baptismal covenants. I have thought of His great desire for our welfare. I feel the love He has for the young women of His church. I have also thought of His great love and appreciation to you leaders—those of you who teach doctrine, who model righteous behavior, who provide an environment of trust where others can develop faith and practice righteous living.
I have a testimony of our Savior’s love for us. He understands our challenges. He will help us. We were intended to have experiences that will help us know good from evil. Most of us make mistakes. We can’t be perfect alone. The atoning gift of Jesus Christ allows us to let go of our weaknesses and be strengthened by His perfection. I bear my testimony of His atoning gift to us in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

He walked into the seminary classroom somewhat frightened, maybe a little belligerent, certainly not at ease. He came because most of the students in his grade came to seminary, but he came alone. Few spoke to him; no one walked with him. He had almost no friends.
For one so young his life had been a most difficult one. His father had been killed in a drunken brawl. His mother was not interested in sending her children to church, and she was not really interested in sending them to school. She was on state welfare, and much of that money was used to purchase liquor for herself and her boyfriends. There were two other children in the family; all three had different fathers.
Even the most basic material goods were lacking in the home, including adequate food and clothing. The boy had only a sweater to keep him warm in the cold weather. As he walked to school, he would take the sweater off as he approached the building because it had large holes in it and he didn’t want his peers to see. He wore no socks because he had none. His hands were rough and chapped because the house had only cold water and no soap with which to wash. This boy was thin and lacked vitality. He lived in an unkempt area on the far side of town and was uncomfortable when he visited any other section of the community.
The first day of class I invited him to sit on the front row. He did so willingly but not comfortably. I tried to make friends with him, but it was very difficult. He appeared to trust no one.
After school had been in session for several weeks, I asked if he would like to give the prayer. He quickly and emphatically refused. I later learned that he had never heard a prayer until his first day in class. He had never been to church, he had never belonged to the Boy Scouts, he had never held the priesthood. As the days passed there was little change in his willingness to communicate, to smile, or to seek friends.
A month before the Christmas holidays, one young lady requested class time to present a matter of concern. The young man was absent that day, and as she stood before the group her message was simply, “We are not friendly with him, we do not speak with him, we do not walk with him, we do not associate with him. This seems to me to be very wrong. After all, he is important too.” Then she suggested they could and should be friendly to him and help him to understand how important he was—his importance to them and to himself. They all agreed to respond to her recommendations. Then she suggested that they each contribute a small amount of money toward buying him a coat for Christmas. This they also willingly accepted.
One did not have to be told they were succeeding. It was in his eyes, in his walk, and in his smile. It was obvious to everyone that there was a change in his life. He walked a little taller. He was able to look others in the eye and smile as he extended a friendly greeting.
One day there was a note on the teacher’s desk which read, “If you cannot find someone to give the prayer today, I will,” and he signed his name. Strangely enough no one would give the prayer that day, so I called on him. He did not close his eyes. He did not fold his arms. He did not bow his head or do any of the things we normally do in prayer. He simply looked up to the ceiling with his hands by his side and said, “Please, God, help us. Amen.” No one smiled. No one coughed. No one said a word. It was a wonderful prayer to him and to every member of the class.
Two or three days before the Christmas vacation, the young lady who had proposed the plan came to class with a beautifully wrapped Christmas package and again requested class time. She stood and thanked each of the students for their kindness and their willingness to respond to her earlier suggestions. Then she spoke for just a moment about the value of individuals regardless of their status in life, their home background, their scholastic abilities, or their popularity. She said that every one is very important. The young man, a bit suspicious at first, suddenly became aware that the young lady was about to involve him in a new experience.
After some moments, she took him by the arm and had him stand by her side. She told him how much they appreciated him and how valuable he was to the class. She said they all appreciated him and were pleased he was their friend. By now he had tears in his eyes, but so did the teacher and most of the class. She then laid the package in his arms, and the tears increased. After a moment or two passed, another young man in the class said, “If you will open the package, you can see what’s in it.”
Slowly, methodically, with great care and a desire not to tear the paper, he opened the package and held up a beautiful jacket. He continued to display his emotions and so did the class. After some moments, the same boy said, “If you’ll unzip it you can put it on.” He opened the zipper and slowly put his arms into each sleeve, pulling the jacket around him and displaying a happy smile through the tears. He wore the coat every day until the last week in May.
Something had happened in his life that had never happened before. Someone gave him something, and in that gift was an expression of appreciation and love that he had never known. He later related to some of us that he had only had one Christmas present in 14 years, and that had been an orange.
Needless to say, the young man’s life had changed. He became happy in his schoolwork, he participated in many activities, the other students enjoyed him, and he made many friends. If the story ended there it would be a great story, and the young lady who recognized the worth of a soul would have performed a miracle. But the miracle continued. This young man filled a mission, married in the temple, and is the father of two lovely children. One of the other children, his half sister, has also married in the temple. She and her fine husband are both active in the Church. The third child, a half brother, also filled a mission and has completed his college work. And the mother—oh yes, the mother. She reports that each night she thanks her Heavenly Father for many things, including a young lady who knew the value of her son and was willing to make her feelings known. Secondly, she thanks her Heavenly Father for the great principle of repentance and forgiveness. Third, she thanks him for her membership in the Church, for a loving Savior who helped a family change. Then she thanks him for the privilege of being the secretary in her ward Relief Society and for the love and kindness of all her sisters there.
Yes, he was someone special, and the class was special.
Perhaps the most significant lesson learned from this beautiful, shared experience was a clearer, deeper meaning of those forceful words of the Savior to the Prophet Joseph: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10).

As a freshman at Brigham Young University in 1969, Neil Andersen was a diligent student. However, his sister Sheri notes, “as driven as he was by education, he was always planning to go on a mission. His only question was if he was really prepared to serve. I was so impressed that faith was a choice to him.”
Elder Andersen also remembers putting the question to the Lord. As he recalled recently in general conference, the feeling came, “You don’t know everything, but you know enough.”1 Armed with that assurance, Neil Andersen accepted a mission call and served faithfully in France.

We are often unaware of the distractions which push us in a material direction and keep us from a Christ-centered focus. In essence we let celestial goals get sidetracked by telestial distractions. In our family we call these telestial distractions “Saturday morning cartoons.” Let me explain.

When our children were small, my wife, Mary, and I decided to follow a tradition which my father taught when I was a child. He would meet with us individually to help us set goals in various aspects of our lives and then teach us how Church, school, and extracurricular activities would help us achieve those goals. He had three rules:
We needed to have worthwhile goals.
We could change our goals at any time.
Whatever goal we chose, we had to diligently work towards it.

Having been the beneficiary of this tradition, I had the desire to engage in this practice with my children. When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like his Uncle Joe. Larry had experienced a serious operation and had acquired great respect for doctors, especially his Uncle Joe. I proceeded to tell Larry how all the worthwhile things he was doing would help prepare him to be a doctor.

Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. Changing the goal was fine, so I proceeded to explain how his various activities would help him achieve this goal. Almost as an afterthought I said, “Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What has changed your mind?” He answered, “I still like the idea of being a doctor, but I have noticed that Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I wouldn’t want to miss Saturday morning cartoons.”

Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday morning cartoon.

Illustration by Dave Bardin
The link jumped out at me from the computer screen. My little brother Ethan’s favorite author was coming to our local library in just a few weeks. Ethan would love this! Imagining his excitement, I clicked the link but then sighed. The event was on a school night—and would be in the way of homework and sleep.
My first impulse was to keep the news to myself. I had early-morning seminary the day after the event and would really need the sleep I’d lose if we went. After arguing with myself for several minutes, a prompting to tell Ethan about it won over.
I called out to Ethan, who ran quickly over to me. “Look who’s coming to the library,” I said while pointing at the computer screen.
Ethan let out a gasp and began dancing wildly around the room. “He’s coming to our library?” he asked. Without waiting for my answer, he hurried to ask Mom’s permission to go. Returning only a few moments later with a yes, he asked, “Are you coming too?”
I still hesitated at the thought of a late night and a tough morning. But the eagerness on Ethan’s face made it impossible for me to disappoint him. “OK,” I said and smiled in spite of myself.
He shouted excitedly as he pumped his fist in the air.
Over the next several weeks, Ethan constantly talked about the author event. He kept trying to think of new ways he could talk about it with his friends, and he asked over and over again how many days were left until it happened.
When the day finally came, I followed Ethan into the library. I couldn’t help but smile as he clutched one of the author’s books in his arms. There was a long line of people, and I worried we’d come too late to get a good seat. Luckily, after some shuffling we found a spot where we could watch the author speak from a video projection.
When the author finished, people flooded out of the room to get in line for the book signing. We had to wait another hour to get to the front of the line, but Ethan finally got his book signed.
Once outside, I glanced at my watch and gulped. It was late.
Ethan turned. “He’s the coolest person in the world,” he said, giving me a toothy grin, “but he’s not as awesome as you are.”
His words hit me so unexpectedly that I almost stopped walking out of pure shock. What I received in return for the sleep I gave up was far greater than any sacrifice I’d made. I’d strengthened my relationship with my brother and also gained a new perspective of myself. I walked away from that library glad to have gone and feeling like I was on top of the world.

A decision has to be reached while there is still time to reach it. I like this story about Will D. Lae, who was grossly overweight but who was fascinated by the idea of becoming a mountain climber. Determined to master the skill, he was able, through hard work and continuous practice, to develop his arm muscles so that they would support his obese body. He practiced on local slopes and then decided to try his skill on a mountain worthy of his ambitions. He picked the granite face of El Capitán. Halfway up the sheer cliff he looked up and was startled to discover that his rope was fraying and in a second or two would break. He looked down and saw that there was no ledge or bush to break his fall. He made a quick decision—he decided to use a heavier rope. (See Laurence J. Peter, Peter Prescription [New York: William Morrow and Co., 1972], pp. 164–65.) Mr. Lae’s decision was right, but his timing was wrong. He had practiced and provided for the climb, but he had overlooked his most important need.

When he was introduced to the Church, eighteen-year-old Lindo Casinillo couldn’t speak or understand much English. But since the Book of Mormon wasn’t available in Cebuano, he read it in English. “I kept reading it, even though I couldn’t understand it,” he says. “I read until I could understand it.” Now, only a few years later, he has read it seven times, from cover to cover. His English is fluent.

Finally, I learned that there are many kinds of pioneers. I am a first-generation member of the Church. My family was not happy with my decision to be baptized, which made it difficult for me to attend my meetings. Our small branch struggled because of a lack of members, especially priesthood holders. Eventually it became evident that the mission was going to close it.
As a result, I decided to move to Canada, which was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. I was an only child and loved my parents very much, as they loved me, but my testimony would have been at risk had I stayed in an area where I couldn’t attend church. I can still remember the night I left—my father running alongside the train blowing kisses to me while my mother looked on. My heart was breaking, but I knew I had to leave.
I arrived in Calgary, Alberta, on Mother’s Day in May 1967. I attended church with the members I was staying with and cried through the whole meeting. I remember writing letters home to my parents with tears streaming down my face, telling them I loved Canada but missed England and my family so much.
I struggled to adjust to my new life, suffering homesickness, loneliness, and disappointments, but I stayed true to the gospel. I attended all of my meetings and accepted callings. These were my pioneer days.
Eventually I met my husband. We were sealed in the Cardston Alberta Temple and raised three children in the Church.

This question from Sister Yee reminded me of a lesson learned from my daughter. When she was small, Paige used to hate Band-Aids. Some kids run to their moms for a Band-Aid for every little owie, but Paige never wanted one. To her, needing a Band-Aid meant that she was really hurt. As long as I didn’t offer her one, she would bravely handle all the scrapes and cuts that came her way. But the minute I insisted that she needed a Band-Aid, she would get upset and, I believe, actually feel more physical pain.

Are we like this when we have need of the spiritual Band-Aid of daily repentance? Do we avoid repentance as much as possible, thinking that surely this little thing in our lives is not big enough to require repentance? Instead, let us become like the little child who quickly runs to our Father every time we have a tiny bump or bruise. Let us come to Him each night and morning and ask for His healing balm to bind up our wounds. Making repentance a daily practice will prepare us to receive ordinances and to make and keep covenants with our Savior.

Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.

A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”

The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.

A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.

The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.

While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.
Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.
Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.
“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.
Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”
He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”
Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

Usually I didn’t like milking our mean cow Georgina, but the afternoon that Dr. Steed checked Father’s leg was one time when I wanted to be anyplace but in the house. Ever since his accident, Father had been in terrible pain. I prayed that Dr. Steed would do something to help Father, because I couldn’t bear to hear his moaning any longer.
Georgina seemed to know that I was upset—she didn’t cause me one lick of trouble. Grabbing the one-legged stool and the tin pail, I sat down to milk.
Even though I was only eleven, I had been milking cows since I was five. Today, I was milking fast and furiously, my mind a jumble of worries and fears.
Up until Father’s accident two days earlier, everything had gone well for us. Our crops were growing better this year than any time that I could remember. Not a single calf or cow had died during the winter or spring, which was probably a first. Father had even started building a new barn. We figured to have it finished before we brought in the third crop of alfalfa hay in August.
Father had been on a scaffold working on our barn when he slipped and fell 30 feet (over 9 m), landing horribly hard on his right leg.
The first time Dr. Steed looked at Father’s bulging, bloody ankle, he shook his head. “It looks mighty bad. The bone’s shattered. There’s nothing to set—it’s just a bunch of bone fragments.”
“What do we do?” Mother’s face was a mask of wrinkled worries as she clutched Father’s hand.
Father gritted his teeth and managed a faint smile that looked strange and out of place on his gray, tense face. “The good Lord will look after us, Dr. Steed,” he said weakly but confidently. “A busted leg doesn’t mean that the Lord doesn’t have His eye on us.”
I had always believed my father, especially when he talked about the Lord, but I began to wonder how He was watching over us when disaster hung over our home like a thick, heavy black cloud. Was He going to grow Father another leg?
The pain didn’t go away in Father’s leg. It got worse, lots worse! His leg from the knee to his toes swelled up something fierce. It looked as though it was going to burst. The skin turned almost black in places. Father wanted to wait longer to see if his leg would get better on its own, but Mother finally insisted that Dr. Steed take another look.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against Georgina’s warm flank as the pail started filling up with the white foamy milk. I didn’t know what we were going to do with Father laid up. I knew that I was still too young to run the farm by myself. Maybe I could do it a day or so, but when it came time to cut the hay, harvest the grain, and bring in the corn, I’d need more help than my two little brothers could give me.
The shed door squeaked open. Mother stood there, her eyes wide and her face white as her apron. She wet her lips. “Your father’s leg …” The words died in her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Charlie,” she got out, “Dr. Steed says your father’s leg has to come off from the knee down.”
“Cut off his leg?” I jumped up.
“Charlie, it’s his leg or his life,” Mother said softly, looking away. “Dr. Steed can’t save it. If he doesn’t take it off soon, your father will die. There’s no other way. Run and get Bishop Hunt. Your father wants a blessing before Dr. Steed starts cutting.”
I raced over to Bishop Hunt and gave him the bad news, but I didn’t go back to the house with him. Instead, I went down to the creek and hid in the bushes, wanting to be as far from Father’s moans and groans as I could get.
It was dark when I finally returned to the house. I crept into the house and stole silently down the hall to Mother and Father’s half-open bedroom door.
Father lay on his back, his eyes closed, his face ashen. Mother sat in the rocker next to the bed, holding his hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks. I studied the blanket covering Father and stared at the horrible empty place where his foot and lower leg should have been.
Mother saw me and smiled weakly. “Dr. Steed thinks he’ll be all right if he can rest through the night. Pray for him, Charlie. The Lord’s blessed us plenty. We need to ask for another blessing from His hand.”
I turned away. “How has the Lord blessed us?” I wondered. “Father is lying there without his leg. We still have the farm and the cows to take care of. The barn isn’t finished. And how can Father do any of those things with only one whole leg?” I fought back bitter tears of frustration and fear, wishing desperately that I were older so that I could carry the load.
I was busy from early morning till late at night, doing my very best to run the farm. Two days after Dr. Steed took off Father’s lower leg, I dragged into the house late, tired clear to the bone. I was shocked to see Father sitting in the rocker by the kitchen table with his stub leg propped up on a pillow in a chair. He looked better than he had since his accident. “Well, Charlie,” he said with a faint smile, “your mother says you’ve been doing a mighty fine job keeping things up around here. You’re a real man.”
I heaved a sigh and felt a hard lump in my throat, thankful for Father’s praise and mighty glad that he was doing better. Even so, I was overwhelmed by the huge job before me. I dropped down on a kitchen chair. Mother set a plate of hot food in front of me. I was almost too tired to lift my fork to feed myself. “I don’t know if I can do it alone,” I gulped.
“We won’t be doing it alone, Charlie,” Father said gently. “The Lord’ll be there. He always has been.”
“How can you say that?” I burst out, my mouth full of Mother’s homemade bread. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Father’s stump wrapped in white bandages.
The younger children were in bed and Mother and Father didn’t say anything while I quietly ate. As I wiped my plate clean with a chunk of bread, I heard the faint strum of a lone guitar. At first I wasn’t even sure I’d heard it until the guitar was joined by the low moan of a harmonica and then a fiddle. There was no mistake about it—there was music playing! Voices began to sing.
Mother and Father looked at each other and then at me. “Who do you suppose that could be?” Mother dried her hands on her apron.
I pushed back from the table and charged for the door. Flinging it open, I peered out into the night.
Four people were holding lanterns, three men strummed guitars, two played harmonicas, and one had a fiddle up to his chin. Crowded around them were other neighbors. All were playing or singing, “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.”1
Then I saw our front porch—loaded with flour and sugar and potatoes—and my mouth dropped open. There was a basket of apricots, fresh summer squash, green beans, and a few ears of early corn, too. There were also a couple pies, a sack of shelled walnuts, and a plate of fudge.
I felt Mother come up behind me. Touching me on the shoulder, she whispered, “I think your father would like to see this.”
It wasn’t easy getting Father to the front porch. With Mother on one side and me on the other, we helped Father out onto the porch and eased him down into a rocker.
“Well, George,” someone called from the crowd when they finished the hymn, “a few of us got together and figured you could use a little serenading. We might not make the best music in the world, but we sing with a whole lot of feeling.”
“We figured you could use a little something in the kitchen, too,” a woman called out. “If that isn’t enough, we’ll bring more.”
“And don’t fret about your barn being half done,” another voice called from the crowd. “There are enough hands around here to make short work of that little project. And when it comes time to mow your alfalfa, there’ll be a crew here.”
I glanced at Father. Big tears coursed down his face. “You folks are …” His voice quavered and the words died in his throat. “You folks are mighty kind,” he started again. “You treat me so fine that I’ll be tempted to go out and break my other leg.”
Everyone laughed, and then they began to play and sing again. They stayed for 30 minutes and serenaded us, singing our favorite songs and hymns. When they left, they all filed past Father, shook his hand and assured him that he didn’t have to worry about things.
When Mother, Father, and I were alone again on the porch, Father turned to me and said quietly, “That was the best music I’ve heard in a long, long time. It sounded like it came straight from heaven.” He took a deep breath and added, “Charlie, like I told you earlier, the good Lord is watching after us. We might stub our toes along the way, but he’s always there to lift us up and help us through.”
Swallowing back the big lump in my throat, I grabbed the sack of flour and nodded. As always, Father was right.