Gospel Story Finder

When I think about everything that led me to that moment, I’m amazed. I felt the Savior’s love and direction when I felt prompted to get my patriarchal blessing, and I continue to feel it. There were certainly moments in between getting my patriarchal blessing and now when I wondered to myself, “What am I even doing?” I struggled to trust the timing of the Lord and to feel like I was good enough for whatever lay ahead.
During one of those times, a friend gave me this advice:
“When you’re not feeling good enough, there are really only two options.
“Option one: You tell yourself you can do it. You say, I’m going to be great, and it’s going to go well. But in that moment, you’re not letting Christ in. You’re convincing yourself that you can do it alone. But you’re never going to be able to do it alone.
“Hence option two: It is Christ who helps you through all things. It is Christ whose strength helps you live and stand and do. Especially in our brokenness. Because it’s in the brokenness that we turn to Christ and He in turn lifts you and carries you.”
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,” said Paul to the Philippians (Philippians 4:13). This verse reminds me of what my friend taught me that day and helps me keep in mind my dependence on Christ and His Atonement.

After I joined the Church in Germany, I had cried a little for the glass of wine I would miss at parties and also for my dearly loved cup of coffee. But it really didn’t matter, I told myself, because I was not addicted. But four weeks after I banned alcohol and coffee from my life, I woke up with excruciating pains in my legs. I ignored them and went to work. But within two hours, my whole body ached and each movement hurt more and more. I was taken to the doctor. He gave me some pills, ordered 14 days of rest, and said with a laugh, “Drink a nice strong cup of coffee when you get home. That can’t hurt you.”
I suddenly realized that my pains were withdrawal symptoms. My body was reacting to the loss of caffeine. How easy it would have been to follow my doctor’s advice. How difficult it seemed in my weakened condition to listen to the Lord. Fortunately, the Lord strengthened me, and I did not give in to temptation. With His help, I overcame this condition—and continued to obey the Word of Wisdom.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”

Shortly after the end of World War II, Elder Benson was assigned to preside over the European Mission. From the headquarters in London he traveled throughout Europe, reopening missions and alleviating the suffering in war-torn countries. He was particularly moved to see the conditions under which members had remained faithful during six years of war.
Addressing a congregation in Scandinavia, Elder Benson said, “Tears have been shed today; it is not a sign of weakness, but of the power of the Holy Ghost. Here is a place where the Savior could come. I love you all because you love the work of the Lord.”
“For each of us there that day,” a member later said, “the war was finally over.”

When twins James and Jeremy Ruesch were eight months old, their mother, Lisa, hurt her arm and was not able to care for the two energetic babies during the day while her husband was at work. When babysitters volunteered to help out until she healed, James and Jeremy were split up between two tenders. They screamed the entire time they were apart. Once back together, the babies were quiet and content. After that, Lisa never tried to separate her boys. For 19 years they have rarely been apart, and even then for no more than a day.

Jane’s mother was a wonderful gardener. She could grow beautiful flowers even in a patch of rocky soil. “No matter how tired I get, working in the garden or just looking at a meadow of Maine wildflowers always perks me up,” she had once told Jane.
After Mama got sick, Jane picked flowers for her each day, filling her bedroom with forget-me-nots, daisies, lady’s slippers, and wildflowers of all the colors of the rainbow.
But then autumn came, and there were no more flowers.
“The frost killed the last flowers,” Jane whispered one day as she brought a handful of bright orange and red maple leaves to cheer her mother.
Mama took her hand. “When spring comes, Jane, remember to look at the flowers for me.”
Jane thought that the long Maine winter would never end. The house seemed so cold without Mama. Little Rose and Isaac had been sent away to Aunt Ellen’s. Father was grave and silent.
One day her father said, “Aunt Ellen has found a cousin of your mother’s who can come and keep house for us this spring. If she does, then Rose and Isaac can come home.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Cousin Kate.”
Cousin Kate didn’t look much older than a girl. She was plump and wore her dark red hair in braids piled on top of her head. Rose and Isaac came home. They missed Mama, and so did Jane. But Cousin Kate cuddled Rose and Isaac and made them laugh. Even Papa smiled a little at her funny ways. But Jane still could not laugh.
Finally the beauty of spring touched the world. Mama’s daffodils came up; then the forsythia bushes burst out in bright yellow. There were new leaf buds on the trees. One night Jane caught the sweet scent of lilacs from the bush under her window.
But Jane only wanted to scream and yell at the flowers. How could they be here when Mama was gone?
One morning Kate said, “Jane, we must set about spring cleaning.”
Kate and Jane began a whirlwind of turning over mattresses and shaking out rugs. After the whole house had been cleaned, Kate said, “We haven’t touched your mother’s dresses. Come and help me go through them.”
Reluctantly Jane followed Cousin Kate into her parents’ room. Mama’s dresses still hung in the closet.
“We’ll put some of these dresses aside for you, Jane. Then you’ll have something of hers to wear when you’re grown.”
Kate began to sort through Mama’s dresses. Jane sat on the floor, holding a familiar red wool dress her mother had worn often to church. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and turned toward the window so that Kate wouldn’t see them.
Outside, Papa was just visible near the barn, and Rose and Isaac were playing near the garden. Kate had worked hard in the garden, and it was blooming with the promise of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.
Jane looked down at the dress in her hands. She didn’t want to give it—or any of them—away. They would help her remember Mama during the long, cold winters when there were no flowers. Suddenly she had an idea. “Remember to look at the flowers,” Mama had said. Jane turned to her cousin and said softly, “Kate, could I have one of my mother’s dresses now, before I’m grown?”
Kate stopped and looked at Jane. “These dresses bring her back, do they?”
Jane nodded. “I want to make something to remember her by. I could make a quilt, but I’m not very good at quilting.”
“Did your mama teach you how to make rugs? She made some beautiful ones herself, with applique and embroidery.”
“Oh yes! Mama did teach me! I remember she said that if you knew how to make a rug, you could make any house into a home.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Kate, nodding her head. “The red dress you have there would be perfect. Here’s a black wool one too.” She smiled at Jane.
She understands how I feel, thought Jane.
The rug would be made from wool, so it would last. Jane began to plan its design—it must have lots of flowers!
Jane worked on the rug each summer evening. It was big—over a meter wide and almost two meters long—perfect for in front of a fireplace or in the kitchen.
She filled the center of the rug with pictures of everything around her that summer; trees, their old cow, birds sitting on their nests in the apple orchard, her father riding his horse to town. She even put in their house, with its two large windows downstairs, four windows upstairs, and two big chimneys. She embroidered a beautiful starflower, and a dozen lovely hearts. In the very center she copied her mother’s favorite vase filled with a bright bouquet.
“You don’t have any more room in the center,” Kate laughed one evening. “Now what will you do for the borders?”
“Vines and more flowers,” Jane said.
“That’s quite a project for an eleven-year-old,” her father observed. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like it in the whole of Maine.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“Well, in Wiscasset, anyway. It’s sure to win a prize at the Harvest Fair.”
“Jane has put a lot of love and memories into the rug, and it shows,” Cousin Kate agreed.
Jane cut out over one hundred flowers to applique around the border. She used her mother’s brightest clothes. She embroidered curving leaves, vines, and flowers trailing up and down the sides of the rug. Each night when she went to bed, she had to shake her hand because her fingers were so tired and sore from holding the needle. But each morning she looked around even more eagerly, wanting to capture the beauty her mother had taught her to see.
Finally it was done. Cousin Kate helped her press it with a warm iron the night before the Harvest Fair.
They took the wagon to the center of Wiscasset to the big churchyard. Quilts and rugs and samplers of all kinds were already displayed.
Jan hesitated.
“Come,” said Cousin Kate, taking her arm. “Let’s enter it.”
“What have we here?” Mrs. Kingsbury asked.
“A rug made by Jane Gove, age eleven,” said Kate proudly, while Jane stood shyly to one side.
In the morning sunlight the bright cloth and the colored threads shone and sparkled on the black wool.
“Why, it’s almost like being in a garden! You’re Mary Gove’s oldest, aren’t you? Your mother would be proud!” Mrs. Kingsbury exclaimed.
As they walked around the churchyard, looking at jams and jellies and animals and pumpkins, it was almost like being a family again. Cousin Kate couldn’t ever take Mama’s place, but Jane was glad that she had come to live with them. It was good to see Isaac and Rose laughing again. And Papa seemed to walk with a lighter step. But was haven’t forgotten Mama. She is still in our hearts, thought Jane.
After supper, the winners were announced. After seeing the display of needlework, Jane didn’t really think her rug would win. But suddenly she heard her name!
“For the 1845 Wiscasset Harvest Fair, first prize for needlework, the winner is Miss Jane Gove. This young lady is only eleven years old, but she has created one of the most extraordinary pieces of needlework our judges have ever seen!”
Although Jane grew up and made other rugs for her own family, she always kept this special rug. It stayed in her family for a long time, and finally someone decided that it should be seen by other people as well. It is now recognized as a masterpiece of American folk art and is displayed in the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, California.
As long as she lived, Jane kept the joyful memory of her mother in her heart. And she never forgot to smile each spring when the flowers came back to the gardens and meadows.

When I was a junior in high school my parents invited my very best friend, Joe, to live with us. Joe’s parents moved away when he was about to graduate. He did not want to leave, so my parents welcomed him into our home so that he could finish high school.
Joe came from a different background than I did. His family had their struggles, and the principles of the gospel were not emphasized as much as they were in our home.
Joe and I shared a room together in the basement of my parents’ house. Every night before I went to bed I would make it a point to read my scriptures. Joe, on the other hand, had not developed a habit of reading his scriptures every day. There were nights when it was late and we were tired. Joe would often complain and tell me to turn the light off and go to bed, but I persisted, knowing that the Lord would bless me if I read my scriptures as He had commanded. Eventually, Joe moved into the room next to mine, but he always knew when my light was still on.
Joe had told me that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on a mission, but once he was 19, he surprised us all by announcing that he was going to serve. He turned in his mission papers and received a call to the Toronto Canada East Mission.
The Sunday came for him to give a talk in sacrament meeting. He said a few things that were a surprise to us all, particularly me. Joe said that one of the biggest influences in his decision to serve a full-time mission was the example that I had set for him in reading my scriptures every night. He said that although I might have not realized the impact it was making, he had thought about it a lot. My scripture reading had impressed him to turn his life around and serve a mission. He said that if it weren’t for me and my family, he probably wouldn’t be going. As I listened to him, I felt the power of the Holy Ghost flow through my body. I had no idea of the impact I had made on Joe’s life.
Joe was the first in his family to serve a mission. Later, his younger brother also served. Joe’s family has been greatly blessed ever since through active service in the Church. Great blessings come to those who keep the commandments of the Lord. We may never know how they will come, but they will come.

A conversation some years ago with a friend was influential in my commitment to attend Relief Society. I had just stopped teaching school and was enjoying staying home. My friend asked, “If you don’t go back to work, won’t you be wasting all those years of education?”
My answers were not very convincing to her. “I know you,” she insisted. “You don’t like to cook or sew. You never even enjoyed tending children as a teenager the way the rest of us did. You are a good student and like to perform. You like to be out with people. You’ll be bored in a few years at home.”
“Well,” I replied with perhaps a little feeling of smugness, “I have Relief Society.”
“You can’t tell me that a meeting once a week will supply all your needs outside your home,” she protested.
Since then, I have discovered we both were right during that discussion. Being content at home has been more difficult for me than I anticipated. But belonging to an organization that encourages sisterhood and a desire to serve, encourages womanhood, develops talents, stimulates learning, and increases spirituality does make me happy. In fact, it keeps me singing.

One of the most exciting experiences of my life was the first time I shared my testimony with a friend. Jan (pronounced like yawn) was an exchange student from Germany. Jan wasn’t a religious person and told me that he didn’t believe in God or any supreme being. He said he believed that after this life, there was nothing; death was the end.
I, of course, had a much different view of life. During our many conversations about religion, Jan was receptive and interested in my ideas. But Jan was adamant. He didn’t believe in God. His convictions were just as firm as mine.
I gave him a Book of Mormon with my testimony written inside. He started to read 1 Nephi, but after two weeks he said he lost interest.
My excitement turned to disappointment and concern that I had done something wrong. I talked to my seminary teacher about it. He told me that I was taking the first step in the process of bringing Jan home, and sometimes the person who introduces someone to the gospel isn’t the person who sees them accept it. He assured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong; Jan just wasn’t ready yet.
This experience taught me a lot. I am beginning to understand why bringing even one soul to Christ (see D&C 18:15) is so important. Heavenly Father loves all His children and He wants us to return to Him.
What I had initially thought of as a failure actually turned out to be one of the greatest blessings of my life. Sharing the gospel with Jan made me realize how much the gospel is worth to me. Knowledge of the gospel plan is something I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Sometimes I wonder if I could have said or done something that would have brought Jan into the Church. I pray for him, that someone can touch his heart in a way that will help him know that the gospel is true. But no matter what Jan does, he has touched my heart in a way that I will always remember.

As the memory slowly faded from her mind, Kari returned to the reality of the swing and the broad oak tree that spread overhead. For some reason she thought of the first time she had sat there. Her brother Thomas had hung the swing for her before he left on his mission. Thomas called her his “shadow,” and they shared many secrets as they were growing up. He left her one last secret the day they said good-bye.
He was dressed up in his new brown suit, ready to leave for the MTC. He leaned over her as she sat on the swing. The smell of his cologne mixed pleasantly with the aroma of the freshly cut hay that lined the fence across the lane.
“Kari,” Thomas said, looking intently at her, “There is nothing like swinging to put life into perspective.”
He spoke with the new authority his voice seemed to hold since the mission call.
“Tom, there you go again, talking way over my head. My ‘Dear Abby’ is going on his mission and leaving me with only a swing to talk to.”
Thomas held his tears of good-bye back as he stopped the swing and took Kari’s hands in his. Kari was surprised that his hands had grown as large as Father’s. He pulled her off the swing and gave her a hug. Kari could feel the newness of the brown suit.
“Just remember, little Sis—the higher you swing, the farther you see. Things look different when you can get above them.”

I did not serve a regular mission until we were called to preside in New England. When I was of missionary age, when I was your age, young men could not be called to the mission field. It was World War II, and I spent four years in the military. But I did do missionary work; we did share the gospel. It was my privilege to baptize one of the first two Japanese to join the Church after the mission had been closed twenty-two years earlier. Brother Elliot Richards baptized Tatsui Sato. I baptized his wife, Chio. And the work in Japan was reopened. We baptized them in a swimming pool amid the rubble of a university that had been destroyed by bombs.
Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokohama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.

At school, Tre and Joe are in the same class, because Tre has dyslexia and has had trouble reading. So Joe has become Tre’s unofficial tutor. They often do their homework together.
“Tre has always learned from experience,” Sister Pennington explains. “Joe learns from books. Even though they’re in the same class, they’re not jealous of each other or embarrassed to be seen together. They really help each other.”
“It’s a little strange being a sophomore instead of a senior,” Tre admits. “But it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is to work and to learn.”

My beloved brothers and sisters of the great Church of Jesus Christ, I would like you to know how humble I am at this great opportunity. I kind of like Ed Gardner’s story. His wife is hard of hearing and she wore a hearing aid; as they sat one evening in the living room, and she was knitting and looking down, he looked out over his newspaper and, speaking about his wife, he said, “You know, I am just kind of proud of you.” And she looked up and said, “You know, I am getting tired of you, too.”

Some years ago, when I was serving as a bishop in a ward in Arizona, we had an unusual group of teenagers. Most of them had the courage to do what was right. They stayed close to each other and helped each other when things got tough. Most of them went to a high school close by. In numbers, they were really only a handful of the total student body. They met a girl at the school who was not a member of the Church. Her circumstances were unusual, for she was deaf. She also had a defective heart. The only way she could know what you were saying was to watch your lips and read them. She sat in the front of each class so she could see the teachers speak. She was a good student, but when you can’t hear and can’t be active, it’s hard for you to be a part of what is going on. You’re sort of a spectator rather than a participant. She was a spectator watching from the sidelines.
The young people from the ward were friendly to her and invited her into their circle. She responded to their kindness. One step led to another, and with her parents’ permission she was finally invited to receive the missionary lessons in one of the homes. She was taught by two nineteen-year-old elders not much older than she. She liked what she heard; she believed what she heard; she felt good inside. The day was set for her baptism. We were all invited to go. Dressed in white, she and one of the missionaries entered the water, and she was baptized as he said, calling her by name, “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” (D&C 20:73.)
The next step was for her to be confirmed. Some of us stood in the circle as priesthood hands were placed on her head. I was aware that she couldn’t see the lips of the one confirming her. And she wouldn’t be able to hear the blessing he might give. I listened carefully because I wanted to invite her into my office later, where she could see me talk, and tell her what had been said.
A nineteen-year-old elder was the voice as she was confirmed a member of the Church. He then continued with a blessing. As he spoke, he began to make her promises that I thought were unusual. In fact, I became a little uneasy at his words. He continued the blessing, and I began to feel a calm spirit of peace as he spoke. Later, I sat in front of her and said, “I want to tell you of the blessing the elder gave you. It was tremendous.”
She paused, and with moistened eyes said, “Bishop, I heard the blessing.”
She had been healed. She could now hear, and her heart was beating normally. She could now participate more fully in the gospel and in the blessings of life.
There are many lessons to learn from this story. The one I would like you Aaronic Priesthood bearers to remember is this: Here was a nineteen-year-old missionary, an elder holding the holy Melchizedek Priesthood. He had prepared himself for a mission. He had made himself worthy to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord to perform a miracle. So, as he stood with his hands on her head, he felt an impression—a heavenly message, if you please—telling him there was a special blessing for this young woman and he had been chosen to deliver it.
He listened. He obeyed. And through the authority and power of the priesthood, a young life was made whole.

On a map, the town of Bluewater, New Mexico, is just a small dot near the northeastern corner of the state. But to me it is a very important town, because it is there that I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
The countryside around Bluewater is beautiful, but beautiful in a harsh way. It is a dry region, and much of the level valley is covered with sandy red soil which the constant wind piles around fence posts and other objects. A deep gully runs across the valley.Only during the rainy season does it hold any water, and then it is a raging torrent colored red by the soil. Near the head of the gully where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hope my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gasoline pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Railway Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church meetinghouse and a red brick four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gasoline tanks in their cars at the garage and get their mail at the post office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials and dances.
During the depression of the 1930’s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t grow it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she could not make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every thing they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smouldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the foremost-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
The next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood horrified. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains of the cigar with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes, Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma prepared supper, I worked on my school lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. The she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out, too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No famous opera singer ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sound of the milk filling the pail. We all walked into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma sliced a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he covered his embarrassment by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to receive goods from the store for pay.
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about three meters deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled to many places in the world and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

Christiana smiled as she counted the last of the coins. She carefully placed them in the small wooden box and closed the lid. “It is getting so heavy!” she thought as she slid the box into its hiding place under her bed. “Surely I am the richest girl in all of Denmark!” she exclaimed aloud.
Christiana Pedersen had been tending her father’s sheep for as long as she could remember, watching over them and keeping them safe from harm. She loved the green hills near her home in Oudrup in northern Denmark. She enjoyed spending her days in the open air with the gentle sheep.
Each time her father took the sheep to market or sheared their wool, he gave Christiana part of the money earned. Christiana always put her money into a special box, never spending any of it. Her father would put her on his knee and tease, “Whatever will you do with all that money? You are getting so much!”
“I will save it all,” Christiana would reply. “I don’t know why, but someday I will need it!” Her father would chuckle and shake his head. His daughter was so unlike all the other children her age who spent their coins as soon as they got them. He was proud of Christiana. What a good girl she was!
Christiana was about 20 years old when some men wearing dark suits and coats came to her little village. She heard them on the street corners, talking to passersby about the mysterious book they held in their hands. One day when Christiana and her mother were shopping in the village, they stopped to listen to the men. Christiana learned that they were missionaries from faraway America. They had come to share the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with the people of Denmark. The book was the Book of Mormon, the story of an ancient people who lived in the Americas. Part of the book recounted a visit of Jesus Christ to those people after His Resurrection.
Christiana’s family attended a church in her village, and she already knew about Jesus Christ from her study of the Bible. She had a warm feeling as she listened to the missionaries speak about the Savior. Her mother bought one of the books from the men and accepted a few tracts [pamphlets] that explained the beliefs taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Christiana’s father was angry when he heard that his wife and daughter had listened to the missionaries. He forbade them from joining “that American church.”
Her mother had a little wooden chest next to the bake oven where she placed the precious missionary tracts and the Book of Mormon. Christiana continued to read and study them. She was drawn to the sacred words and felt a growing testimony of their truthfulness, but she honored her father and did not meet with the missionaries nor join the Church.
At the age of 21, Christiana decided that she must follow the promptings of the Spirit and be baptized. Her father was furious! “I warn you, Christiana,” he shouted, “if you try to cross the ocean with those Mormons, you will surely be lost at sea. I will not help you with this foolishness.”
Christiana was not frightened by her father’s words; she had a strong testimony that the truth had been restored to the earth. Although she had to leave her home and family to join the Saints in Zion, she was baptized on October 25, 1856.
As Christiana counted the coins in her little treasure box, she knew why she had felt so strongly about saving all the money she had earned tending her father’s sheep. She had just enough to take her to join the Saints who were traveling west to the Great Salt Lake Valley. She was so grateful to her Heavenly Father. He had helped her to know that this money must be saved to help her obtain a treasure greater than all the money in the world—a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and a place with His Saints.
Christiana Pedersen left the Bol Farm in Oudrup, Denmark, in the winter of 1856, traveling to Copenhagen. She boarded the ship L. N. Hvidt to England on April 18, 1857. In Liverpool, England, she boarded the Westmoreland with 504 other Church converts on April 25, 1857. The ship arrived in Philadelphia on May 31, 1857, after a five-week voyage. She then traveled by train to Iowa City, arriving on July 9. She left three days later with the Seventh Handcart Company, beginning her long walk to Utah. She later married Christian Frederick Nelson Twede and was the mother of eight children. Her mother, Anna Marie, joined her daughter in America in 1878 after Christiana’s father’s death.

For you to feel that urgency, I first share the story of Noelle Pikus-Pace, one of those Latter-day Saint athletes. In Noelle’s event, the skeleton, athletes build momentum as they sprint and then plunge headfirst on a small sled. With their faces inches above the ground, they race down a winding, icy track at speeds that top 90 miles (145 km) an hour.
Remarkably, years of preparation would be considered either a success or a disappointment based on what happened in the space of four intense 60-second runs.
Noelle’s previous 2006 Olympic dreams were dashed when a terrible accident left her with a broken leg. In the 2010 Olympics her dreams fell short again when just over one-tenth of a second kept her from the medal stand.2
Can you imagine the anxiety she felt as she waited to begin her first run in the 2014 Olympics? Years of preparation would culminate in only a sliver of time. Four minutes total. She spent years preparing for those four minutes and would spend a lifetime afterward reflecting on them.
Noelle’s final runs were virtually flawless! We will never forget her leap into the stands to embrace her family after crossing the finish line, exclaiming, “We did it!” Years of preparation had paid off. We saw her Young Women medallion around her neck as the silver medal was placed there beside it.3
It may seem unfair that Noelle’s entire Olympic dreams hinged on what she did during just four brief minutes. But she knew it, and that is why she prepared so diligently. She sensed the magnitude, the urgency of her four minutes, and what they would mean for the rest of her life.

For Sam, high school isn’t just about sports. She likes going to school and learning. She confesses she actually likes chemistry, something she won’t say out loud in the halls. And she loves starting her day in seminary. When her friends ask her what time she gets up and they hear her say, “Oh, 4:30 or 5:00,” they’re surprised. But for Sam, early-morning seminary is the best. “There are about eight different high schools in the Fenton Ward, so my Church friends are all spread out. When we get together, it’s fun. We joke and laugh and have a good time. By the time I get to school, I’m wide awake.
“I’m actually trying to bring my school friends and Church friends together,” she says. “At first they were hesitant about meeting, but now my school friends tell me that they like my friends. They like the wholesomeness about us. They just like the things we talk about.”
During one game, Sam looked up into the stands and saw her parents sitting by her Young Women leader with two of her best friends from school and one of her friends from the ward. They were laughing, and Sam remembers being amazed and pleased. “The next day at school, that’s all my friends could talk about—how nice this girl was and how she didn’t use inappropriate language and didn’t talk about vulgar things. I’m glad my Church friends can leave an impression like that. They’ll remember that.”

My beloved wife, Jeanene, loved doing family history research. When our children were young, she would trade babysitting time with friends so she could have a few hours every few weeks to work on researching our family lines. After our youngest child left home, she recorded in her personal journal: “I have just made a decision and I want to stand up and shout about it. Mike’s old bedroom has become my genealogy workroom. It is well equipped to organize the records and work in. My life will now focus on vital family research and temple name submissions. I am so excited and anxious to get going.”

Another journal entry reads: “The … miracle for me occurred in the Family History office of Mel Olsen, who presented me with a printout of all my known ancestral pedigrees taken from the update of the Ancestral File computerized records sent into the genealogical society. They came mostly from the records of the four-generation program the Church called for many years ago. I had been overwhelmed with the thought of the huge task ahead of me to gather all my ancestors’ research records from family organizations to get them all in the computer for the first computerized distribution of the Ancestral File. And there they all were, beautiful, organized, and laser printed and sitting there on the desk before me. I was so thrilled and so overwhelmed I just sat there stunned and then began to cry, I was so happy. … For one who has doggedly, painstakingly researched for thirty years, the computerization of all these records is truly exciting. And when I think of the hundreds of thousands of people who are now or soon will be computerizing huge blocks of censuses and private research disks, … I am so excited. It is truly the Lord’s work and He is directing it.”

Rose bounced on her toes as she peeked out the window. Their friends would be here any minute!
Every year at Christmastime, Rose and her family acted out the Nativity. They always invited people to come over and join them. This time they had invited their neighbors and the missionaries! Rose was excited because their neighbors had a baby to be baby Jesus.
Everything was almost ready. Mom was taking the treats out of the oven. Rose’s little brothers had picked up all their toys. Ellen was getting the costumes. And Rose had even taped a big, yellow star to the wall for decoration.
“Rose,” Mom called from the kitchen. “Can you help Ellen get the costumes ready?”
“OK, Mom!” Rose turned to help her sister, who was carrying an armful of blankets.
“We have blankets, towels, and dress-up clothes from the closet,” Ellen said. “We can even use this basket as a pretend manger.” She handed Rose a big basket. Rose put a soft blanket inside it for the baby.
“Perfect,” said Rose.
Rose’s little brother Jack pulled a gray blanket over his head and made a funny face. “Can I be the donkey?”
Rose laughed. “No, silly! You wanted to be a Wise Man, remember?”
“Oh yeah!” said Jack. He grabbed the toy crown and put it on his head.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“They’re here!” Rose said. “I’ll get it.”
Soon the house was full of happy people. Rose helped everyone get their costumes on. The sister missionaries were the shepherds. Her brothers and sister were the Wise Men. The cute baby was baby Jesus, and his parents were Mary and Joseph.
Rose put on a soft, white hat. She was a sheep.
Finally everyone was dressed and ready to go. Elder and Sister Yancey, a missionary couple from their ward, opened the New Testament to the Nativity story. They read the verses out loud. Everyone acted out their part.
At the end of the story, everyone sang “Silent Night.” Rose felt warm and happy. She knew she was feeling the Holy Ghost. It felt like Jesus was close to her heart.
After the song, Mom played the video “Samuel and the Star.”* Ellen said a prayer. Then they brought out the treats. Everyone had fun visiting.
“So, what was your favorite part?” Sister Yancey asked.
“I liked singing the song,” Ellen said. “And playing with baby Jesus.” Ellen bounced the baby on her lap. She had been playing with him ever since the song ended.
“I liked bringing Jesus gifts,” Jack said. He was still wearing the pretend crown.
“What about you, Rose?”
Rose spread her arms out wide. “I liked everything!” she said in a loud voice. “But most of all, I liked having everyone here to celebrate Jesus. Because that’s what Christmas is all about.”