Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago, I had the desire to learn how to plant taro, which is our Polynesian potato. To help me in this endeavor, I went to see a very good friend—an elder in the ward—who knew a lot about agriculture, and who, over the years, had accumulated all the necessary expertise to produce beautiful taro in his fa’a’apu (field). I asked him if he could come to my house to teach me the basic techniques for planting beautiful taro. He accepted my invitation. He was excited to share his knowledge.
We talked for 30 minutes, and I took as many notes as possible of all the necessary steps to plant taro. I followed my notes to reproduce the advice my friend had given me. Every day, I would enjoy watering my taro after work. I could see the foliage of the taro plants growing day after day; it was radiant. I could envision myself eating my taro.
The long-awaited moment came to harvest the taro; seven months had gone by. I couldn’t wait to see the size of my taro tubers in the ground. I took my shovel to remove the soil around the plant to extract the taro. To my surprise, I found no taro under the plant. The taro had not grown. It was a total failure! I could see that the foliage of the plant had reached maturity—at least one meter, and it was green, which is a sign that the plant is doing well.
What happened to my taro which did not grow like my friend’s taro? I had followed every advice he had given me.
I would like to share with you some of the lessons I learned from this experience and especially how these lessons have helped my wife and I raise our children to stay on the covenant path, and to produce fruits worthy of the Lord.
The first lesson I learned was that taro needed much more water to grow. I don’t think I watered my taro plants enough. The “corme” (bulb) which is the base of the plant’s stem should not be completely submerged; or if so, only temporarily. However, the soil must constantly remain moist for the roots to grow and bear fruit.
The second lesson was that in addition to living in a humid environment, taro needed to be fertilized regularly because the taro plant needs plenty of nitrogen; and that’s something I hadn’t done, unfortunately. I must have overlooked this important information when I talked to my friend.

Doris was one of the names on our list of inactive members. It had been so long since she’d been to church that no one could remember who she was. As ward Primary president, I’d repeatedly sent invitations to her four children to come to Primary, but it all seemed to just be wasted postage.
Her location was part of the problem. She lived 72 kilometers away from our small ward in upstate New York—the only member of the Church in her community. In fact, she was so isolated geographically that it had been years since she’d had a visit from the home teachers or Relief Society visiting teachers.
But we continued to invite her children to Primary, to send a card on their birthdays, and to carry a prayer in our hearts that they somehow might be reached.
Then Doris was assigned a new visiting teacher. This sister was unable to travel the 145 kilometer round trip that was required to visit Doris, but she thought she could at least write Doris a note each month and send her the ward newspaper.
And finally the notes and cards began to work: Doris wrote back to her new visiting teacher! “I’m so grateful to know that you still consider me a member of the Church,” she wrote. “I haven’t been able to attend for over five years, but I’m still very proud to be a Mormon.” Thus the correspondence began. Every month the visiting teacher would send Doris a note and the ward newspaper; nearly every month Doris would respond.
Then, one cold and wintry day, there were two new faces in Relief Society: Doris and her neighbor. Doris couldn’t drive, so she’d talked her nonmember neighbor into taking her to Relief Society, a 145 kilometer round trip.
It seemed like we’d always known her. She shared her testimony with us; she expressed great faith in the love of our Savior and in the truthfulness of the Church. After the meeting I made an appointment to finally visit with her in her home. With the permission of the bishop, I hoped to be able to organize a home Primary, with Doris as the teacher.
It was a snowy New England day when my counselor and I climbed into my chilly small car and drove through unfamiliar countryside. The roads were difficult in spots, and we both inwardly wished we had chosen a nicer day for the trip. But Doris had waited long enough. We were going to keep our appointment.
We were well repaid. As we sat in Doris’s cozy home, she told her story to us. The missionaries had knocked on her door five years before. She had rejoiced in the gospel message from the start, and even though her husband had not been interested, he had allowed her to be baptized.
Then came the hard part: she lived 72 kilometers from the church. There were no other members nearby and she could not drive. Her husband had no desire to take her. She lived too far away for home teachers or visiting teachers to come visit her. She had a testimony of her new church; she felt it was an unmatched blessing in her life. But she felt she had no way to develop that testimony.
It wasn’t long, though, before an understanding bishop recognized her need. Her twins had just turned three—Junior Sunday School age—so the bishop brought her a Course Three Sunday School manual. If circumstances were such that she couldn’t make the long trip to church, she could have church in her own home. She could teach her children the good news of the gospel that she herself had learned.
And she did teach them. Every Sunday morning for five years she gathered her four children together and taught them out of that same Course Three manual—five times they went completely through that same course of study.
Imagine how thrilled she was when a visiting teacher showed her that the ward still cared about her! Imagine her joy when she received the new lesson material I had taken with me, along with Targeteer banners and CTR rings!
Doris’s situation has changed now. A branch of the church has been established nearer her home, and other members of the church now live in her village. She can take her children to attend the true church every Sunday of the year now.
Because of the new branch, the records of Doris and her family have been transferred out of our ward. We seldom see her anymore, but as I look through the list of inactive children in our ward, I wonder how many Dorises are waiting for someone to bring them into activity. I wonder how many brothers and sisters and children will be touched and moved to action by our efforts. Like Doris, many won’t require much to strengthen them in the fold. After all, how much does a postage stamp cost?

Jimmy stared out the icy window, trying to see through the dim evening light. “Please let someone come soon,” he whispered.
“Your sister’s shivering, Jimmy.” Mama’s voice sounded weaker than before. “Will you help her?”
He loosened the blanket from his bare feet. “Here. You can use mine for a while,” he said, tucking it around his sister’s shoulders. He returned to the window and again pressed his face against the glass. Suddenly, he saw a tall man standing at the end of the alley.
“Jimmy! Wait! Where are you going?” Mama called.
Her only answer was the door closing behind him.
Elder Palmer shoved his hand in his overcoat pocket. One silver dollar. That was all he had, but just touching it gave him hope that he would soon find a warm room for the night.
“Please, mister.”
Elder Palmer turned to see a small boy hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep his bare feet out of the snow.
“Could you give me ten cents to buy some bread for my sick mother and my little sister?”
“Yes! Of course, dear boy,” he said, handing him his silver dollar.
“Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll bring you back your change.”
“No, you keep it. You need it more than I do. What is your name? Where do you live?”
“Jimmy Rose, and I live there.” He pointed to a door a short distance down the alley, then darted toward it.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Dr. Gray whirled around. He hadn’t heard the man enter his office. “Yes?”
“I saw your fire through the window. May I warm myself for a few minutes?”
“By all means. Come in.”
The man put down his traveling bag and sat next to the fire.
“Have you just arrived in town?” Dr. Gray asked.
“Yes. I’m from Utah. I’m a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“You are a Mormon?” the doctor asked. “Where are you staying? I’d like to talk to you about your religion.”
“I’m traveling as Christ’s Apostles did, without purse or scrip, having faith that the Lord will provide.”
Dr. Gray studied his guest. “If you have that much faith in the Lord,” he said, “then I will be His helper tonight. Please come to my home and have supper with my wife and me.
The next morning someone knocked on Jimmy’s front door. He opened it.
“Hello, young man.”
Jimmy grabbed Elder Palmer’s arm. “Mama,” he said, dragging him to her bedside, “this is the good man who gave me the dollar.”
Mrs. Rose carefully lifted her head. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what we would have done without you. My husband died some time back, and I’ve been too sick to work. Our food and coal ran out yesterday.”
“But we have more now,” Jimmy said, pointing to a bucket of coal. “I bought it last night.”
“It looks like you’ve done a fine job of taking care of your family,” Elder Palmer said.
Jimmy stood a little taller. “I’m trying to, sir.”
Elder Palmer turned back to Jimmy’s mother. “There is something more I can do for you. I am an elder in the true Church of Jesus Christ. That means that I have the authority to act in God’s name and give you a blessing of health, if you desire it and have the faith to be healed.”
Mrs. Rose thought for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Yes, I’d like a blessing.”
A while later there was another knock on the door. The new visitor held up his medical bag and said, “Elder Palmer told me about your mother, and I’ve come to help.”
“I am already well, doctor,” Mrs. Rose said.
Jimmy started to close the door, but the doctor stopped him. “My wife ordered groceries and coal for your family, and they have just arrived. Will you help the deliveryman, Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir!” Jimmy ran outside. When he returned, the doctor was putting away his stethoscope.
“You have been quite sick,” he said to Mrs. Rose, “but you now seem all right. If you’re careful, you should be able to do your usual work.”
“It’s time for me to continue with mine too,” Elder Palmer said.
“I’d like to hear more about your church,” Mrs. Rose said. “Will you please come back and visit us?”
Jimmy grabbed his hand. “Yes, will you?”
“My wife asked that you return to our home too,” Dr. Gray added.
Elder Palmer smiled, “I’d be honored.”
Jimmy led the missionary to the door, but as he put his hand on the latch, he paused. How could he thank this man who had brought so much goodness to his family?
“What is it, Jimmy?” Elder Palmer asked.
Jimmy swallowed hard. “I—I’m glad I saw you through the window!” he said.

In the spring of 1975 my family and I were living among beautiful green farmland in the Rheinland-Pfalz area of West Germany. Driving home from church one rainy Sunday, we stopped to have a look at an automobile that had rolled onto its side in the wet roadbed at the edge of a forest. Inside the forest it was already dark because of the thick canopy created by the trees and the oncoming night.
After looking at the wrecked vehicle, we returned to our car and discovered it was stuck in the mud. I couldn’t back up, but I could drive forward—into the forest. We had previously driven through the forest and found that many forest roads were interconnected and would eventually lead back out, so I decided to move forward into the blackness.
I quickly realized that I had made the wrong decision. The narrow, wet road was filled with deep ruts of mud and kept leading farther and farther into the dark forest. I tried to keep up speed, fearing that if we stopped, we would become mired. I saw a high spot just ahead that looked firm enough to sustain the weight of the car. My plan was to get the car out of the mud to give myself time to think. The car lunged up and out of the mud.
I turned off the car and climbed out. With the headlights off, I couldn’t see a thing. I turned the headlights back on, grabbed our flashlight, and after looking the car over, decided that my best bet was to back into the forest and then make a mad dash out the way we came.
I backed as far into the forest as possible, revved the engine a little, lunged back onto the road, and sank deep into the mud. Now we were really in trouble. Outside the car it was total darkness and silence. Inside the car my wife and I sat with three terrified children.
I asked my wife for any ideas. After a moment she said, “Maybe we should pray.” The children calmed down almost immediately. I offered a humble but desperate prayer for help. As I prayed, a thought came clearly into my mind: “Put on the tire chains.”
Standing in 10 inches (25 cm) of mud in her Sunday dress, my sweet wife held the flashlight while I cleaned the rear tires with my bare hands and put the chains on. With faith and confidence, we prayed again and started the engine. Slowly we drove through the mud and eventually back onto the pavement.
In the excitement of being freed from the mud and the darkness, I almost forgot who had helped us out of the forest. Our five-year-old daughter reminded me when she said, “Daddy, Heavenly Father really does answer prayers, doesn’t He?”

A year later, I reflected on the previous Christmas and thought about what I could do to have a better Christmas in the mission field. I realized that my feelings of sadness the year before came from focusing on myself instead of on the Savior. I also realized that Christmas is a time to remember the Savior’s birth and that I should be happy to serve Him as His representative.
In talking with my companion, we decided to buy lollipops to give to members, investigators, children, and anyone else we came across on Christmas Day. We also practiced Christmas hymns to sing. Joy flooded my heart on Christmas Day as we met with people, sang hymns, and gave away lollipops.

Eliza was scared and bit her lip to keep from crying as she watched her mother gather some clothes into a bundle.
“Pa won’t like it,” she said, “leaving me alone in the cabin.”
“It can’t be helped. Besides, twelve is plenty old enough to stay by yourself.” Ma was worried, so her voice was sharp. “Pa and Josh will be back from the trading post by nightfall. Tell them Cousin Tom came for me. Minnie needs help, what with John breaking his leg and the sick twins and all.”
“But, Ma,” Eliza said softly, no louder than a whisper, her voice betraying her concern—“Indians.” Just the word sent tingles up and down her spine.
“Eliza, there’s nothing for you to worry about. We haven’t seen an Indian in three months. Pa says there’s been a truce.”
Anxiously Eliza looked around the room, hoping to find some reason for Ma to stay home. Her eyes glanced at the table in the middle of their one room.
“The pie!” she exclaimed. “What about the pie to surprise Pa and Josh?”
“We’ll have to make it another day.”
Eliza was distressed that her mother could brush aside something as important as the pie. It was supposed to be a very special pie, the first to be baked in the new oven Pa had built in the wall next to the fireplace. Ma had just finished putting the flour, spices, and apples on the table when Cousin Tom arrived to fetch her.
Eliza followed them outside and watched her mother hand her bundle to Cousin Tom.
“Keep busy, Eliza,” Ma instructed. “Mend Joshua’s shirt. Put the flour and the pie tin away.” She gave Eliza’s pigtail an affectionate tug as she hugged her. Then she and Cousin Tom were gone, and Eliza was alone in the forest clearing.
Eliza turned and went back into the cabin. Everything was neat and clean. That morning her mother had said, “No pie until chores are done.” So Eliza had swept and made Ma and Pa’s bed and then her own and Joshua’s up in the loft. She had dusted the four ladder-back chairs, the welsh dresser, the night table, and even the books on the shelf beside the fireplace. Ma claimed that, next to Pa and Josh and her, the books were her most priceless possessions.
What will I do if the Indians decide to break the peace and raid today? Eliza wondered. Her heart started pounding. Where are Pa andJosh? They should be back by now.
Leaving the pie makings on the table helped her pretend that her mother was only out picking more apples. They had brought two fruit trees all the way from Grandpa’s farm in Massachusetts.
Now the silence in the cabin seemed to echo in Eliza’s ears. She got out the mending but just couldn’t make her fingers behave. She wondered if Ma ever felt this way when Pa wasn’t around.
Whenever Eliza thought about the pie, her lower lip began to quiver. Frustrated, she thought, Why did Uncle John have to break his leg? She had wanted so much to hear her father’s exclamation when he saw the pie. She wished she knew how to mix the dough.
“Why don’t I try?” Eliza said out loud to the empty cabin. She stood at the table and tried to remember what her mother had told her about pie making. She was glad she had asked so many questions.
Keeping busy, wondering if her pie would taste good, and remembering her grandma rolling dough for pies back in New England, made Eliza forget her fears. Pa will have his pie, she decided. And before long it was in the oven. While it baked, Eliza mended Joshua’s shirt. She even hummed to herself.
How foolish I was, she thought, to be afraid to stay by myself! Soon the pie—brown and with its juices bubbling through the cuts in the crust—was cooling on the window ledge. Every few minutes Eliza put the mending down and went to the window to inhale its fragrance. Somehow the scent of spices and baked apples and piecrust pushed some of the loneliness out of the cabin.
Just before Eliza turned to sit down in a chair facing the window, she sensed something. She had not really heard a noise, yet, like a trapped animal, she sensed danger. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned. There, with the window frame making his head look like a painting, was a face she would never forget. The brown skin had vividly colored bands radiating from the sides of the Indian’s nose, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Brown, almost black, eyes watched Eliza with a stony expression.
The girl stared, motionless. A second Indian appeared in the doorway, and a third, carrying a tomahawk, peered through the window on the other side of the door.
The Indian at the window raised his hands to take the pie.
“No!” Eliza cried. Without thinking, she ran to the window and grabbed the pie. “No!” she repeated.
The Indian grunted. Eliza whirled to face the Indian who had left the doorway and entered the room. He had stopped momentarily to watch her but was now approaching the shelf beside the fireplace. Ma’s books! Eliza knew she must not let him harm Ma’s precious possessions.
Anger flooded through her. He had no right to enter the cabin and carry off her parents’ belongings. She must stop him. But how?
Quickly she ran to the welsh dresser. Holding the pie in one trembling hand, with the other she gathered four pewter plates and spoons and a knife. The Indian watched, apparently intrigued at her action. Walking past him slowly, she nodded her head toward the door and, with pounding heart, headed in that direction. The curious Indian followed.
Once outside, Eliza sat down on the ground in front of the cabin. The Indians squatted around her, their dark eyes alert. Carefully she cut the pie, first in half and then one of the halves into three big pieces and one little one. She put each piece onto a plate and then handed a serving to each Indian. Then she gave them all spoons. Deliberately, slowly, she took a bite from the small piece. Silently she prayed it would be good.
The Indians watched intently. Each one picked up a spoon and, turning it around in his hand, examined it carefully before he, too, started eating. Soon their pieces were gone. The younger one handed his plate back to her, rubbed his stomach with one hand, and pointed to the remaining pie. Eliza wanted to cry. She had hoped she could save some for her father, but she was afraid to not give second helpings to the Indians. Quickly those pieces disappeared into their mouths. Each in turn picked up his plate and licked it clean. Smiling at each other and then at Eliza, they stood and then silently faded into the forest.
Eliza was alone once more, but she didn’t move. While the deep purple shadows of the trees crept unnoticed across the clearing, her thoughts centered on the Indians.
She had been terrified until she grabbed the pie from the window ledge. Is this true of most fears, she wondered, that worrying makes them seem more dangerous and that action sends them flying? She looked at the forest. Instead of concentrating on the hidden dangers, she would remember the deer seeking shade from the hot sun, the food provided for the squirrels, and the beauty of the trees against the sky.
She stood up, tall and straight. What am I doing, sitting here daydreaming, she thought, when there’s still time to make another pie. She picked up the dirty dishes and, with a light step, headed for the cabin.

I spent a year in Murray, Utah, as an exchange student and was baptized on October 22, 1976. When I received the New Era recently as a Christmas present from Sister Smith, I couldn’t believe it because I didn’t ever think I would read it in Japan. I took seminary at Murray High and enjoyed many articles from the New Era. Thank you, Sister Smith. This will be one of the most wonderful Christmas presents I’ve ever known.
Toy IshikawaFukui, Japan

I remember my father stretched out by the fireplace, reading the scriptures and other good books, and I would stretch out by his side. I remember the cards he would keep in his shirt pocket with quotes of the scriptures and Shakespeare and new words that he would memorize and learn. I remember the gospel questions and discussions at the dinner table. I remember the many times my father took me to visit the elderly—how we would stop by to pick up ice cream for one or a chicken dinner for another or his final handshake with some money enclosed. I remember the good feeling and the desire to be like him.

Trials and adversity are an essential part of our mortal journey. It is the process that refines and strengthens us. If you will allow me, I’d like to share a personal experience of a trial that was a defining moment for our family. May 2001 started off as a promising month. Our second daughter, Mehana, was born on May 2nd, and I had just been offered a new job on May 3rd. As my wife was released from the maternity ward, she complained of some tingling in her ear. We didn’t think anything of it and proceeded for home. As the day progressed, the tingling started in her fingertips and toes and got a little stronger. By the next morning, it had progressed through her hands and up her feet. We went to the Emergency Room to seek some answers. After a battery of tests, nothing was found and we were about to be sent home. Luckily, a neurologist heard about our case and came down to the ER to investigate. Within minutes, Moana was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre syndrome, a rare disorder that causes the body’s immune system to attack the nerves. Within two days, she lost her ability to control her muscles which affected her capacity to walk, swallow, and breathe. She was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) and put on life support. Her situation continued to worsen and she eventually became paralyzed from the neck down. In a matter of days, we went from feeling on top of the world, to having our world turned upside down.

Although my wife was the one in the hospital affected by the disorder, the weight of the trial was felt by many. I felt like I was being pushed to the edge. I had a two-year old and a newborn at home, I was supposed to start a new job, and my eternal companion was lying lifeless in the ICU full of tubes, and my mind was full of unanswered questions. I remember coming home early one morning after staying at hospital all night. My parents, sister and brother-in-law were at my house taking care of my children, so my mom suggested I go to her house to get some uninterrupted rest. As soon as I entered their home, I felt as if the weight of everything that was happening hit me all at once and I literally fell to the floor and poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. I was exhausted, scared, and overwhelmed. I don’t remember what I said other than, “Heavenly Father, please help me.”

When I awoke the next morning, I felt different. The worries and concerns were still there, but I felt a reassurance that Heavenly Father was in control, that this adversity was part of a divine plan, and things would be okay. Without realizing it, I started to notice all the blessings Heavenly Father had given us. We had two beautiful, precious children at home. Our families and friends came out in droves to offer food, money, service, and their love and support. Moana’s co-workers donated sick leave, some of whom she had never met. Her students at school wrote get well cards and we had them plastered all over her hospital room. I remembered the ward held a special fast on our behalf the day she was admitted to the hospital. One of the bishopric counselors called and asked what he could do to help. I asked him to fast and pray for us. By that afternoon, our ward had gathered at the chapel, and as a ward family knelt in prayer and started a fast. My dad was asked to offer the prayer. Though I wasn’t there, I can bear testimony that I felt their genuine love and concern for our family. I was strengthened because of it.

My new job allowed me to delay my start date a full month until things started to settle down. Though Moana was still paralyzed, she was no longer on morphine and other painkillers, so she was awake. She couldn’t move her hands and feet, but she could blink her eyes and move her head. The nurses gave us a chart with letters listed in rows and we would spell words. A head shake to the right meant “no,” a blink meant “yes.” We got to be pretty good at communicating and could actually have conversations. It became a challenge to see how fast I could guess what she was trying to say. As the nerves started to heal, and feeling and sensation slowly returned, her favorite phrase became, “I’m itchy.” She started to regain her motor skills, and movement slowly returned in her arms and legs. Soon she was sitting up and learning to breathe without the breathing machine. Within four-and-a-half weeks she was out of ICU and on to rehab. Within another two weeks she was home. She needed a wheel chair for a while, but with hard work, patience, the love and support of others, and the tender mercies of the Lord, she quickly progressed to a walker, then a cane, and eventually a full recovery. I cannot adequately express all the blessings we received from so many people. But I know without a doubt my Heavenly Father knew exactly what was happening, and knew exactly what we needed.

Beth skipped to her room to pick up her toys. A new family from church was coming over for dinner, and they had a girl her age. Mama said her name was Cara. Beth couldn’t wait to meet her!
When the doorbell rang, Beth ran to the front door. “Hi! I’m Beth.”
“We’re the Palmers, and this is our daughter, Cara,” said the dad.
Right away, Beth could tell there was something different about Cara. Cara didn’t look right at Beth when she talked. When everyone walked to the table to eat, Cara’s dad held her arm. And before they started eating, Cara’s mom told her where each food was on her plate. Could Cara not see?
“I’m blind,” Cara said. “So Mom helps me know what I’m about to eat.”
Beth remembered a story from the Bible about a blind man that Jesus healed. But she had never met someone who was blind before.
After dinner, Mama said, “Beth, why don’t you and Cara play in your room?”
Beth looked at Mom with wide eyes. She wasn’t sure what to do.
Cara smiled and held out her hand. “Lead the way!” she said.
Seeing Cara smile made Beth feel better. She took Cara’s hand and led her down the hall to her room. Then Beth let go of Cara’s hand to get some toys for them to play with.
Cara stood in the doorway. “If you tell me where there’s a bed or a chair, I can sit down,” she said.
“Oh!” Beth turned around. “Sorry about that!”
“It’s OK,” Cara said. “Where should I go?”
Beth tried to think of a way to explain where the chair was.
“Is it to my right or to my left?” Cara asked.
“To your right,” Beth said, starting to understand. “Take two steps.”
Cara took two steps to her right. She put her hand out, felt the chair, and sat down perfectly. “Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s play!”
“How can you play with toys if you don’t know what they look like?” Beth asked shyly.
“I feel them,” Cara said. “Here—hand me something, but don’t tell me what it is.”
Beth handed Cara a toy and watched as she felt it all over. Cara grinned. “It’s a sock monkey.”
Beth laughed. “That’s right! Mama and I made it together.”
“Someday I’m going to learn to sew too,” Cara said.
“Really?”
“Yeah! I’ll be able to feel all the stitches. Maybe I can learn to make a sock monkey like yours.” Cara hugged the sock monkey close.
“You can keep that one, if you want,” Beth said.
“But you and your mom made it together,” said Cara. “Don’t you want to keep it?”That made Beth giggle because there was a whole
pile of sock monkeys on her bed! “I have plenty!” She began to plop them on Cara’s lap one at a time. “We made this one, and this one, and this one, and all of these.” Cara and Beth laughed.
“So really, you can pick one to take home!” Beth said.
“Thanks!” As Beth watched Cara feel each monkey and pick one to keep, she realized she had made a new friend.
“I’m glad I met you tonight,” Beth said.
“Me too,” said Cara. “Someday, I’ll make a sock monkey to give to you!”

When Spencer Cornwall was only four years old, he learned to play music on a pump organ. He couldn’t reach the pedals, so his brother pumped them for him. Spencer was so eager to learn that he would have a lesson in the morning, practice in the afternoon, and then go running back the next morning for another lesson.
When Brother Cornwall was older and had become an accomplished musician, he became music supervisor of the Salt Lake Elementary School District. He also directed the Tabernacle Choir for twenty-three years. He thought making music was a wonderful reason for people to get together. He said, “My greatest pleasure was in teaching children to learn to sing and to discover the joy of making their own music.” Music was his life, and he was still composing when he was ninety-five years old.
When The Children Sing was being compiled, there was a need for songs with specific Mormon themes. The compilers contacted Rose Thomas Graham, a poet, for possible texts. “The Golden Plates” was selected from a collection of her poems. Later Brother Cornwall was asked to write music for her words.
Clara McMaster was the eleventh child in her family, and she learned to love music at an early age. She sang and accompanied others on the piano as she grew up in Brigham City, Utah. For twenty-two years she was a member of the Tabernacle Choir. Today she and her husband sing together for numerous church occasions. “Music is a rich gift of God, and it is in the world to make the lives of His children happier and better,” Sister McMaster says.
While serving on the Primary General Board, Sister McMaster was asked to write a song for the first reverence program. She worked hard and prayed that she would be prompted to write what would be best for the children. One day as she was looking out the window and pondering her assignment, an idea came to her. She went to the piano and quickly wrote it down. The new song was “Reverently, Quietly.” “I felt very humble, she said. “If you prepare and do all that you can do, then Heavenly Father will help you.”
Sister McMaster has written other Primary favorites such as “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” and “Teach Me to Walk in the Light of His Love.”

But just as the Lord blessed Joseph Smith in ways that enabled him to complete his work, the Lord blesses His translators. For instance, the translator of the Latvian scriptures was a lawyer who had studied law in Russia, where he had been converted to the restored gospel. Back in Latvia, he was setting up his business. He was also serving as a branch president. He couldn’t have been busier, but the Church needed him and his facility with English.
He asked for time to pray about the request because accepting it would, as he told the Church representative, “take food out of the mouth of my children.” After praying, he decided to accept but asked the Lord to bless him with the means to do what is a difficult, spiritually demanding, time-consuming work.
He began going to his law office one hour earlier every day and using that hour to translate the Book of Mormon. He finished well under the five years the process usually takes. In fact, this was one of the fastest translations since Joseph translated the Book of Mormon in roughly 60 days.

John’s shoes needed repairing. He had worn them out running up and down on Steensbakken (Steens Hill), where he lived with his mother, Anna Widtsoe, and his two-year-old brother, Osborne. After the death of their father when Osborne was only two months old, the family had moved from Froya, the outermost island off the coast of Norway, to the mainland. They lived in a small apartment in Trondheim, the town known as the Cathedral City. The two little boys and their mother often looked out over the beautiful old capital city to the harbor and the fjord that zigzagged out toward the ocean.
When John showed Mother how his shoes had worn, she asked a neighbor to recommend someone who could repair them. He knew just the right person, he said, and soon a boy came to their door. He was a shoemaker’s son who picked up and delivered shoes for his father. A few days later the boy brought back John’s shoes neatly mended. A strange little pamphlet was tucked into the toe of each shoe.
John’s father had been a schoolmaster. Before he died he had taught his young son to read, but there were so many unfamiliar words in the pamphlet that the boy could not understand what was written.
The next day his mother wrapped another pair of shoes that needed repairing into a parcel, tucked them under her arm, and set out on the half-hour walk to the shoemaker’s shop. She seemed more quiet than usual when she returned, and during the next few days she was thoughtful and restless.
When the shoemaker’s son delivered the second pair of shoes, new pamphlets were tucked into the toe of each one. John knew that his mother spent many hours carefully studying them. The next Sunday she arranged for someone to be with the boys while she went to a meeting at the shoemaker’s sturdy log house.
It was not until some years later that she told John what the shoemaker had said when she went to his shop that first time to ask him why he had put a pamphlet into each of John’s shoes.
“You may be surprised,” he had answered, “to hear me say that I can give you something of far more value than soles for your child’s shoes.”
The pamphlets were Mormon missionary tracts. Because of them John, his mother, and his brother became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. None of their relatives or friends approved; all became unfriendly toward Anna and the boys.

My family joined the Church when I was seven years old, and it was because of my reading and valuing the Liahona that I met my husband.
When I receive the monthly issue of the magazine, I take it with me everywhere so I can read it. One day I was calmly reading it on the bus to work when a young man stopped at my side and asked, “Are you a member of the Church?” I didn’t quite trust him, so I answered yes, then asked him what stake he belonged to. (I assumed if he wasn’t a member he wouldn’t know what a stake was.) He told me the name of his stake, and we talked until we got off the bus.
Some time after this, a regional choir was organized to prepare for the visit of the prophet. That was when this young man and I started to see each other more frequently. Later we were married and went to the Guatemala City temple to be sealed. We’ve been married for almost three years. The gospel has given me the opportunity to have a very special husband, who is faithful in the Church. I am very happy to have the gospel in my life.Rebeca Sierra de Zelaya, Fraternidad Ward, Tegucigalpa Honduras Stake

How could we have had a precious baby offered to us and not have taken him? After so many months of prayers, pleading, and hoping—how?
Yet a beautiful baby boy had come into the world, and we had decided he was not for us.
As we fought to restrain our emotions, we reflected on the experience that began with a strange telephone call in the middle of a January night one month earlier.
It had been a quiet night in the house, but all our nights were quiet. There was no cooing baby in a crib, no colorful baby toys, no diaper container hanging from the bedroom doorknob. Those happy things were found where children were.
The telephone rang late into that memorable evening. James, my husband, answered and was greeted by a vaguely familiar voice, an acquaintance.
“I understand from a mutual friend that you and your wife are interested in adopting a baby,” she queried.
“Yes,” James said, “we are very anxious to adopt a baby.” I sat up, surprised. The conversation continued, and I listened intently to his replies, wishing I could hear the voice on the other end of the line.
When James hung up the receiver, his hand was shaking, his voice nervous and tense. “That was someone I know through a friend at work,” he began. “She says she has a distant unmarried relative who is going to have a baby soon. The girl is young. She’s unemployed and unable to care for the baby when it’s born. Her family can’t help her. She wants to do what’s best for the baby and thinks she should place the child for adoption.”
That night we relived all the hope and excitement we had felt so many times before when we thought we might get a baby.
But weeks went by without word, and our anxious optimism faded. We talked in the evenings about this unborn child coming to our home. We knew the phone call had brought false hope, but we persisted with prayers and fasting.
“There are agencies that handle adoption placement,” James said. “Surely a social worker from an agency will contact her, or she will go to them. That would probably be best for the expectant mother anyway. Agencies with skilled social workers can help to find the best possible home for adopted children.”
He wasn’t saying anything we both didn’t already know. We had been working with a social worker through an adoption agency for months, and we knew that they provided a very necessary service to couples seeking children, and especially to unmarried young girls thinking about placing their babies for adoption.
The waiting took us into the snows and cold of February, and another quiet night. The ringing of the phone at 2:00 A.M. made my heart pound wildly. Startled, I got up and groped in the darkness for the receiver.
“Is James there?” asked a weary female voice.
“Yes, he’s here. He’s asleep, but I’ll wake him.” Whoever this is must need him now, or she wouldn’t call at this hour.
“Hello,” James mumbled, as he answered the phone, then listened. He was answering questions. “Yes, all right. We didn’t think she was still … Yes, I’ll call you back tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the bed, sleep gone from his eyes. “She’s having the baby. Right now. She’s in labor and will soon deliver. And she’s expecting us to take the baby!”
We both sat silent. Stunned. Someone from somewhere had just called and said we have a baby for you. Right now! James broke the silence. “She didn’t go to an agency, and she didn’t contact a social worker. She told this relative to call us again and tell us that the baby is about to be born and she wants to have it adopted.”
Suddenly, all of the concerns we had both entertained about private adoption, but had never discussed, came flooding into a wee-morning-hour conference. We concluded that in the morning we must talk with our social worker and seek her counsel, backed by thirty years of adoption expertise. We knelt in prayer for the unknown mother in labor, for her peace of mind about the decision she was going to make. We asked our Heavenly Father to bless a baby who was about to be born. We asked him to bless us that we would be guided in our decision concerning the child.
That morning, we sat in council with a very wise, loving woman who had given years in the service of mothers and children. She listened intently to our story of the unexpected phone calls and responded thoughtfully. “I can’t, nor will I even try to make a decision for you,” she said. “I must leave that to your discretion and can only offer you my insight and understanding. I know how anxious you are to have a child, and I also know that agencies often require seemingly unbearable waiting periods for anxious couples. You have a ‘baby in the hand,’ so it seems, and I can promise you nothing. But I must tell you that I would have serious concerns about the fact that James is known by a relative of the baby’s mother.” She paused and thought before she spoke. “Years of experience have taught me that adoptive children generally do better when the identity of the natural parents remains totally anonymous.
“Adoption agencies, as you know, do extensive studies with both child and potential parents to determine which child is best suited for which family,” she continued. “This situation would not allow you that advantage, nor would you know any of the medical history of the child.”
Thoughts, professional views, fears and wisdom were covered in a two-hour exchange.
On the drive home, we were both silent. There was an undeniable tension in the air.
At home, we knelt in prayer, and I knew the answer before James told me what he was feeling. It was not the answer we had begged to receive. This child was not to come to our home. But why? A miracle, it seemed, and we were about to turn it away.
“I know this baby is not meant to come to our home, to be ours,” James said. “I don’t receive that confirmation, that peace of mind that comes with positive answers to prayer. But this mother is expecting me to find a home for the baby. The baby needs a home, a good home, and it needs one today.”
James and I talked at length about what would be best for the child. We made some telephone calls to friends and professionals who could offer the best advice. That evening, James telephoned the woman who had contacted us. He briefly told her why we could not take the child, and he gave her the name of a very experienced social worker who would work closely with the mother. She hung up and made the contact. Two days later, the baby boy, was placed in a special home where he would be loved and well cared for. We knew that somewhere the child was safe, comfortable, and in the arms of parents who desperately wanted a child. Yet we sat on the edge of the bed after receiving the news, wondering, lamenting. But even as we questioned, we knew we had been told by a loving Heavenly Father, with insight and understanding far exceeding our human limitations, that the child was not for us.
The cold winds of March found us home on quiet nights and at work during the day. About 8:00 A.M. on a Monday morning, James awoke singing. I asked him what it was that made Monday so wonderful, when it only meant going back to work after a great weekend. “I don’t know,” he laughed. “I just feel like it’s going to be a good day.”
I left for work at the usual time, and was exceptionally busy when the phone rang at 9:10. “Hello, Mary Ann, this is Carol.” Our social worker! I would have known her voice anywhere.
“Do you think they might let you off work long enough to come and pick up your baby boy?”
Everyone down the hall heard the jubilant exclamation. No one had to ask what the call was about. “A baby boy! That’s fantastic! When? Where? I’ll call James right now. We’re on our way.”
“Don’t hang up yet,” she said. “I need to give you some details and tell you something more about the baby.” I was so excited I could hardly listen, but as her conversation continued, I found it well worth the extra few minutes on the phone.
I contacted James. “Carol just called. You’re a dad! She has a baby boy for us. He’s there right now, waiting for us to pick him up and bring him home.” I was so nervous that I could hardly voice the next sentence.
“Carol told me about the baby just like I’m telling you. You see, that isn’t all, dear. There’s more. This little boy of ours has a brother.”
“What do you mean, a brother?” he asked.
“Twins,” I laughed. “You are the proud father of identical twin boys.”
A frantic drive to the agency, an apprehensive walk up the stairs to the agency’s second floor, and there, lying together in a wooden cradle with room to spare, weighing five pounds each, our beautiful baby boys!
Our twins had been born one day after the baby we had had a chance to adopt was born. On the day we had talked with our social worker, seeking her guidance, our babies were lying in the hospital’s intensive care nursery, weighing four pounds each. It was strict agency policy that prospective adoptive parents never be told about a baby until the infant was released from the hospital and made ready for placement. Carol and the other agency social workers had met and selected us as parents for the twins shortly before they were born, but we couldn’t be told until they were delivered, had gained weight, and could leave the hospital. Our boys were in the hospital, growing and waiting to meet us for seventeen days before we received the agency’s call on that glorious Monday morning.
Carter James and Jefferson Thomas were sealed to us in the temple after a six-month waiting period required by state law. The joy they have brought into our home is beyond my ability to describe. Both James and I feel so intensely that these handsome little straight-haired blonds were intended for us.
Often I look longingly, lovingly, at them and realize that had we not listened to the counsel of our Heavenly Father, they wouldn’t be in our home, and we might have forfeited one of the greatest blessings we have ever received.

Joseph Smith gave enthusiastic support to a “Young Gentlemen’s and Young Ladies Relief Society of Nauvoo,” which developed under Heber C. Kimball’s guiding hand. It began simply as a small and casual discussion gathering. But week by week more youth came and bigger and bigger meeting places were arranged. Once when the group met in the large room above the Prophet’s store, he came to speak to them. He praised Elder Kimball for helping organize this “good and glorious work,” complimented the youth on their good conduct, “and taught them how to behave in all places, explained to them their duties, and advised them to organize themselves into a society for the relief of the poor.” Specifically, he asked them to fund and then build a house for a brother who was lame. In response, the youth drew up a constitution, elected officers, called monthly meetings, and opened their membership to anyone under age thirty in Nauvoo, LDS or not, including young men and “the tender, lovely, and beautiful females of our city.”

The night of the dinner, the aroma of fresh-roasted turkey, steaming hot dressing, homemade rolls, and spicy pumpkin pie filled the hall of the stake center. But this time it was the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels, instead of the Relief Society, who were found in the hot kitchen energetically filling plate after plate. And it was the deacons, teachers, and priests who were serving the meal, filling water glasses and clearing empty dishes. It was all a way of saying a big thank you to the senior citizens in the Taylorsville Stake—an appreciation dinner planned, prepared, and presented almost entirely by the Mutual-age youth in the stake.
The idea had originated in a stake youth committee meeting several months before. “We wanted to do a service project, something that would be a challenge and at the same time rewarding,” explained Kelly Jorgensen, stake youth chairman and member of the priests quorum in the Taylorsville Fifth Ward. “Our teachers quorum had given a dinner for the senior citizens in our own ward once, and we wondered if we could do the same thing on a stake basis. Someone mentioned that a lot of older people don’t have any children who come home for the holidays, so we decided to make it a Thanksgiving dinner in appreciation for all they have done for us.”
Two young people from each of the five wards were appointed to the planning committee. They were assisted by Sister Emma Morris, the stake Young Women president. Together they planned the evening and then worked diligently, sacrificing Saturday mornings and weeknights to see that all the details were completed before the night of the dinner. Committees were assigned to arrange for decorations, invitations, centerpieces, transportation, and food. With the exception of roasting the turkeys, the young people prepared most of the meal. One Laurel class adviser held a special pie-making workshop to help her girls in preparing their share of the evening’s desserts.
To help with the invitations, ward clerks provided lists with the names of all the persons over the age of 65. After delivering the invitations, hours and hours were spent calling to determine just how many would be able to come to dinner. A take-out service was planned for those who were not able to leave their homes.
Stake President Melvin M. Hall expressed appreciation for the work of the Mutual by saying, “We think this is a really nice thing our young people have conjured up! Too often we get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of what we do that we forget to look over our shoulders to see who needs us. Too often we forget about our senior citizens.”
The night of the dinner was one of those late autumn, early winter evenings when the air is chilly and the setting sun reveals snow clouds over the mountains. As the guests arrived, usually accompanied by a young member of the priesthood and an adult leader, many buttoned up coats and sweaters and pulled cloaks a little snugger as they walked from the parking lot into the cultural hall.
Inside, the last details were being completed: the water poured, the microphone plugged in, the turkey sampled. The basketball nets in the hall had been decked with balloons and plastic streamers earlier that afternoon, and the turkey centerpieces made from pineapples were sitting on the tables. The entering guests were greeted with friendly smiles and warm handshakes. Those who had volunteered to help were kept busy throughout the dinner as they enthusiastically saw that everyone was served and made to feel welcome.
Midway through the dinner, however, after serving plates and plates of hot food, one hungry young deacon scrunched in the corner against the wall. When asked who he was hiding from, he sheepishly replied, “The food! We can’t eat until everyone is served!”
An added treat at the dinner (following the pumpkin pie) was a musical program. Before introducing the performers, Kelly told the older people, “We’d like to thank you and your generation for all the things you’ve done for us, for building this strong community we live in, and for raising good families.”
The first number on the program was performed by a trio of three young women who sang, “Who Are You?” an original composition by Michelle Nicoulaz and Marty Tyree. They were followed by six young men and women dressed in bluejeans and straw hats, who sang, “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” accompanying themselves on the piano and guitars. A modern dance number, which was choreographed by Michelle, was next, and the Harrison Family trio (piano, clarinet, and flute) completed the program with a medley of patriotic songs.
As the older people chatted with friends before leaving, it was easy to see the gratitude they felt at being remembered. Sister Sue Huggard, an 80-year-old member of the 21st Ward, exclaimed, “That was lovely to honor us old folks—I mean us young folks!” Sister LaVern Jones North of the First Ward added, “It couldn’t have been better. I wish we had a way to thank them.”
But the youth felt they had received all the thanks they needed. As Kelly expressed it, “It’s really great when you can see they are enjoying themselves, laughing with their friends, having a good time! That’s the best thanks of all.”

I was discussing options for my Eagle project when I heard about the tsunami that had caused widespread devastation on the island of Samoa. I also learned that a sister in our ward, Savili Martin, would be traveling to Samoa with her family to visit relatives during the Christmas holidays. While I realized that the main concern of the people of Samoa was to rebuild and make the best of what they had, I also knew that all children love to receive gifts, and I felt inspired to organize a service project to provide Christmas presents to the children whose lives had been affected by the disaster. Although the gifts wouldn’t be extravagant, I felt that this project would be a blessing to the children and would help ease the burdens of their parents.
I worked with the Scouts in my ward to start a Christmas stocking gift drive. So many people were eager to help with this project. The Scouts and Young Women in my ward helped pass out flyers and collect donated gifts. We received donated material to make the stockings. My family and another family in the ward made the stockings, and the girls at the Primary activity days in our ward stuffed them. We gave all the gifts too big to put into stockings to the school district’s Project Help for Christmas.
We completed the project in time for the James and Savili Martin family to take the boxes of stockings with them to Samoa, where they gave the stockings to the Primary children.
When Sister Martin and her family returned to Arizona, she brought back a video of the children receiving their Christmas presents. I felt so warm inside when I saw how grateful every child was for his or her gift. One young boy in particular was wrapping his little arms around his Christmas stocking, making sure everybody knew it was his. Their appreciation and excitement more than compensated for all the hard work put into this project. The Spirit was strong after we watched the video, and I felt that the Lord blessed us in our efforts to help and serve His children.

During World War II, as a teenager I was privileged to serve as president of the teachers quorum. I was asked to learn and then apply the counsel from the Doctrine and Covenants, section 107, verse 86: “The duty of the president over the office of the teachers is to preside over … the teachers, and to sit in council with them, teaching them the duties of their office, as given in the covenants.” I tried my best to live up to this defined duty.
In that quorum was a young man, Fritz Hoerold. He was short in stature but tall on courage. Soon after Fritz turned 17, he enlisted in the United States Navy and was off to training. He then found himself on a large battleship in a number of those bloody engagements in the Pacific. His ship was severely damaged, and many sailors were killed or wounded.
Fritz returned home on leave following such an engagement and came back to our teachers quorum. The quorum adviser invited him to speak to us. My, he looked resplendent in his Navy blues with appropriate war ribbons attached. I remember that I asked Fritz to tell us any thoughts he had for our benefit. After all, we were about the same age. With a wry smile, he responded, “Don’t volunteer for anything!”
I didn’t see Fritz again from that time when we were 17 until, a few years ago, I read a magazine article concerning those same battles at sea. I wondered if Fritz Hoerold were even still alive and, if so, if he lived somewhere in Salt Lake City. Through a telephone call I found him and sent the magazine to him. He and his wife expressed to me their thanks. Having learned that Fritz had not as yet been ordained an elder and hence had never been to the temple, I wrote a letter encouraging him to qualify for the blessings of the temple. On two occasions we happened to see one another at restaurants. His dear wife, Joyce, always urged me, “Keep working with this man of mine.” His daughters voiced their approval of their mother’s urging. I kept up my encouragement.
Just a few weeks ago, I saw in the newspaper obituary columns that Joyce, Fritz’s wife, had passed away. How I wished that I had been more successful with my private project to get Fritz to the temple. I noted the time and place of Sister Hoerold’s funeral service, rescheduled other appointments, and went to the service. Immediately upon seeing me, Fritz made a beeline to my side. We both shed a few tears. He asked me to be the final speaker.
When I arose to speak, I looked at Fritz and his family and said, “Fritz, I am here today as the president of the teachers quorum of which you and I were once members.” I proffered how he and his family could become a “forever family” through temple ordinances—ordinances at which I pledged to officiate when that time came.
I concluded my remarks, choking back the tears of emotion, by saying to Fritz in the hearing and view of his family and all in attendance, “Fritz, my dear friend and fellow sailor, you have courage, you have determination. You put your life on the line for your country in a time of peril. Now, Fritz, you must heed the call of the bos’n’s whistle: ‘All aboard—anchors aweigh’—for your journey to exaltation. Joyce is there waiting for you. I know your dear children and grandchildren are praying for you. Fritz, as your teachers quorum president of long ago, I will strive with all my heart and soul to make certain you don’t miss the ship that will carry you and your loved ones to celestial glory.”
I gave to him a Navy salute. Fritz stood and returned the salute.

Running my hand over the tight, even stitches of Anna’s crocheted blankets still brings back those unhurried afternoons of my youth spent in her sparsely furnished apartment. Over 20 years have passed, but whenever I wrap one of Anna’s afghans around me, I am once again enveloped in the warmth of her friendship.
My relationship with Anna began when I was a Mia Maid. My father, a member of the bishopric, went out of his way every Sunday to greet the widows in our ward by shaking their hands as they came into the chapel. He exhibited a special love for the elderly and taught me, through his example, to notice and nurture them.
One day my father introduced me to Anna, a widow in her 70s. At the prompting of my parents, I began to sit with her at church. At first, I felt awkward and unsure. What could we possibly talk about? What could we possibly have in common? Making friends with an elderly woman was new to me, but I felt that reaching out to Anna was what the Savior wanted me to do.
With time I became more comfortable approaching Anna at church. She would always listen attentively as I told her about my school and family activities. Seeing her face light up when I spoke to her made me realize how much she appreciated having someone care about her. In return, I looked forward to the grandmotherly affection she never failed to shower upon me. At times I slipped my hand into her wrinkled palm and she would squeeze it tenderly. Eventually I began to visit her weekly, bringing cookies or other things I thought she might enjoy.
One afternoon I asked Anna about the multi-colored afghans draped over the back of her couch. With her ailing knees, crocheting was one of the few activities she could engage in during her hours of solitude. Her gnarled, arthritic hands were always busy making cheerful blankets for family, friends, or ward members. When I asked Anna if she would be willing to teach me her unique pattern, she was surprised that I would even show interest in her hobby. Week after week my mother would drop me off at Anna’s apartment where the two of us would sit together, talking and crocheting.
Over the span of many years our friendship developed. What began as a Personal Progress goal evolved into a remarkable friendship. My nonjudgmental friend always offered me a warm heart and a listening ear. Our weekly visits gave Anna something to look forward to and broke up the monotony of her isolation and solitude. But visiting Anna did something for me, too. For one hour each week, the world didn’t revolve around me. Anna gave me the opportunity to focus on someone else’s needs, and she helped me to see that no matter what our age or circumstances, we are all children of our Heavenly Father.
This concept of fellowshipping and serving one another is expressed in Colossians 2:2, where it describes how “[our] hearts might be comforted, being knit together in love, and unto all riches of the full assurance of understanding.” I learned about those riches during the years of adolescence because Anna loved, accepted, and understood me. Our hearts were “knit together in love” through a process that only the Spirit could orchestrate. Although Anna’s blankets were lovingly crocheted so long ago, they continue to remind me of the gentle and humble woman who made them and the lessons she taught me.