Gospel Story Finder

My wife and I have just celebrated a remarkable thirtieth anniversary. Thirty years ago, young missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door in Nottingham, England.
How did their message appeal to two active members of another church? We, and generations before us, had held membership in the established church of the land. Furthermore, we were very happy with our way of life. Two precious children had graced our home, and a new job in a large industrial company was giving challenge and enjoyment.
What more could we hope for? What could add to our happiness? As the missionaries taught us and prayed with us, we began to realize that there were gaps in our life, that we had unfulfilled needs. For a few minutes may I share with you ten ways in which our lives became even more purposeful and happy as these needs were fulfilled. I am sure you will be able to identify some of these needs in your life, in your home, in your family.
First, we realized that our communication with God was not often enough or strong enough. True, we had always said our individual prayers, but when, because of the missionaries, we also started to pray together regularly as husband and wife and with our children, we experienced a tremendous feeling of closeness, not only with each other but with the Almighty God.
The missionaries had taught us that he is a personal being, that he is literally our Father, and prayers began to flow from the heart and were no longer repetitious. We came to know him as a loving Father, just and kind, reliable and true. What great need there is in the world today to commune with the Infinite, to talk and walk with God, to know that he speaks to us today and that we are in reality his children.
Second, we came to know Jesus Christ, not just as a historical figure, but as the living Son of God. In high school and the years that followed I had made a special study of the New Testament. However, the Savior’s life and mortal ministry had no great impact on my life until the missionaries testified, as did Job of old, that our Redeemer lives (see Job 19:25).
I came to know him as my personal Savior, who gave his life for me and for each of us. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). Everyone needs a friend and everyone has a friend beyond compare—Jesus Christ and him crucified and resurrected for us.
Third, as a young married couple, we were seeking security in an insecure world. We had grown from youth through teenage years during World War II. I had been a member of the Home Guard at sixteen, trained to defend my country, and at seventeen had volunteered for the Royal Air Force. Now, more than five years after the war had finished, there was still rubble in the streets and rationing in the shops.
We grasped at the secure message that the missionaries gave us, that God speaks today as he did anciently, through prophets. Yes, he is mindful of us, he does love us, he has restored his church and the fulness of his gospel as he promised. Oh, how the world needs a prophet to lead us and guide us in these troubled times. I testify that we have such a prophet. He sits behind me as I speak in this tabernacle. He presides over The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the Lord’s church and kingdom here on earth.
Fourth, we began attending the Church at the missionaries’ invitation—and what a friendly reception! We soon learned what true sociality is, and sincere brotherhood and sisterhood which bind together people of all nations and tongues. “Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). What a wonderful feeling of belonging, of being needed and appreciated, beyond anything we had previously experienced.
Soon we were singing in choirs; visiting other Church members in their homes, just as they visited us; and giving service to others in some of the many service projects the Church provides. We were able to choose from a wide range of activities—drama, dancing, sport—to supplement the spiritual progress that came rapidly by worshiping and learning with other Latter-day Saints. Everyone needs to experience the warmth of friendship and happy social activity on a continuing basis.
Fifth, my family and family life became even more meaningful and precious to me as we commenced having wonderful family home evenings together. We learned that all over the world, members of the Church spend at least one evening a week together in a balanced evening of spiritual instruction, fun, and talent sharing. We love our children, and we were glad to learn from the missionaries that although baptism is essential for the remission of sins, infant baptism is not necessary since “all children who die before … accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom” (D&C 137:10). We have known a number of parents who have been distressed at the death of a small child because of the un-Christian doctrine of infant baptism.
Again, we also became concerned about our wider family: our grandparents, our great-grandparents, and all of our ancestors. This is also a universal need, as Alex Haley expressed, “a hunger, marrow-deep, to know our heritage” (“What Roots Means to Me,” Reader’s Digest, May 1977, p. 73). Everyone has some family, sometimes near, sometimes far, sometimes living in mortality, sometimes passed on and awaiting the Resurrection. The strength that comes from family in all its aspects is a vital need, one that can be fulfilled by the principles and programs learned from the missionaries.
Sixth, everyone appreciates good health, and there is a basic need to have our spirit housed in a well-functioning body if at all possible. Personally, I had suffered internal discomfort for some years, but the health code, or Word of Wisdom, taught by the missionaries helped me to overcome this. I can testify that the exclusion of the habit-forming stimulants of alcohol, tobacco, tea, and coffee has been a great blessing in my life and the lives of my wife and my children. I am glad the Lord gave this revelation through Joseph Smith, the Prophet, almost 150 years ago, bringing increased health and vitality to millions of people.
Seventh, as provider for our young family, I was not only concerned about physical and spiritual well-being, but indeed with personal progress generally. I soon found that in the Lord’s Church all kinds of resources are provided to fulfill this need. Before long I was involved in educational activities and leadership training and cultural pursuits of various kinds. Progress within my company organization was a natural outgrowth of progression in the Church. This was not surprising, for early in our discussions with the missionaries we had learned of God’s plan of eternal progression for his children. Does not everyone deep down have this yearning, this need to progress and improve, to develop and refine?
Eighth, I think along with these needs there is also a spirit of adventure in most of us in varying degrees, a need to discover, a need to explore. For many this need is met by reading adventure stories or traveling to new places. For myself, I had always been fascinated by the study of Middle Eastern archaeology, particularly of the great Egyptian civilization.
The message of my missionary friends even fulfilled this need, for they told us of an ancient record on gold plates, inscribed by people from the Middle East in the pre-Christian era. Imagine my excitement to learn that these ancient people with their prophets and culture had left the Old World and traveled to the New, to become a mighty people on what is now the American continent. Their records were hidden and preserved and a little over 150 years ago were discovered, not by archaeologists, but by a teenage youth. The faith and worthiness of this young man, Joseph Smith, enabled him not only to find the gold plates, but later to translate the hieroglyphic record by the power of God.
What a thrill it was to see some of the reformed Egyptian characters as copied by the hand of Joseph Smith. I knew by the feeling I had that they were true characters. Then, to hold this book of scripture, this Book of Mormon, in my hands and read it eagerly, sincerely, prayerfully, was a powerful spiritual experience. The need I had for the adventure of discovery was fulfilled through the Book of Mormon. This was not merely discovery of ancient peoples, but a complete discovery of the divinity of Jesus Christ. I testify that the Book of Mormon is a witness, a modern-day witness, of the Savior of the world, who visited this continent after his resurrection.
Ninth, as one who had lived less than perfectly, and yet had no serious matters to disturb my conscience, I felt the need to make some changes in my life. I was overjoyed to learn the pure teaching of Jesus Christ concerning faith, repentance, baptism by immersion for the remission of sins, and the laying on of hands to receive the Holy Ghost. What joy to start afresh with a clean sheet, having turned away from unsound doctrines, vain traditions, and perverted ordinances.
Again, this would seem to be a universal need, all men having been born into this earth life innocent and pure, and having been tainted by the things of the world. The marvelous thing is that Jesus gave his life for everyone. His resurrection was for everyone, “for as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Tenth, and finally, since being baptized into this wonderful restored Church of Jesus Christ, I have felt an inner peace, “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philip. 4:7). I have heard many people say their greatest need and desire is to obtain peace of mind. How does this come? It comes by knowing the truth, for “the truth shall make you free” (John 8:32). I testify that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church of Jesus Christ, and teaches true principles and true ordinances.
How grateful I am that my ten most fervent needs have been fulfilled through listening to the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then, by study and prayer and obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel, I have found happiness not only here but for eternities to come.
May all within the sound of my voice, and all God’s children everywhere, have the same fulfillment, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Recently a stake president shared with me a tender story. Both the Relief Society and the priesthood had been working with a family in their stake but had failed to make progress with the parents. Primary leaders found the answer. Permission was given by the parents for their young daughter to attend Primary. Their one condition was that she had to want to go badly enough to get there on her own. Rides to church could not be provided. Because she had to go through a rough part of town, the ward council saw to it that someone would drive along beside her as she rode an old bicycle to church.

Through summer heat, through rain and even snow, she persisted in going to church. At Christmastime, a family in the ward gave this faithful little girl a new 10-speed bicycle. This so touched the parents that they too began attending church. This young girl was baptized. What made the baptism even more special was that it was performed by the newest priest in the ward, her recently activated father.

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.

When I was in junior high, I had a couple of good friends who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: Suzy and Dene. Travel back in your mind to your junior high experiences. I don’t know about you, but my wonderful group of friends sometimes had ill feelings toward each other for seemingly minor slights that seemed huge at the time. During one of these times, I observed Suzy and Dene acting as the peacemakers in our group. They worked together in healing a rift between two good friends, even quoting Christ’s words in Matthew 18:22 to forgive “seventy times seven.” I remembered that experience. Fast forward to ten years later, when I was receiving the missionary discussions. This memory of Suzy and Dene flooded into my mind. Their actions as thirteen-year-old girls influenced my decision to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And they had no idea of their powerful influence in my life until many years later when I could thank them.

Years ago, when it was the practice to hold baccalaureate services at graduation time, President Harold B. Lee related a story to a group of college graduates that has always stayed with me.
He told of a woman who was widowed early in life and left with several children to support and care for. Money was scarce. The children had to work hard to supplement the meager amounts that the mother was able to earn doing laundry and cleaning houses.
But as the children took top academic honors and went on to notable achievements in the community and business world, the family attracted the attention of the local newspaper. A reporter was sent to the home to interview this remarkable mother who, by now, was somewhat stooped and gray.
Several questions were asked by the reporter in an attempt to learn the secret of her success. She had accomplished so much with so little.
The reporter asked his final question: “With such a wonderful family of children, which one did you love the most?” With a tear softly moistening her eye she replied:
“I loved most the one who was sick until she was better.
“I loved most the one who was away until he returned.
“I loved most the one who was failing until he succeeded.
“I loved most the one who was sad until she was happy.”

In March 2008 two of my former students, Mike and Taylor, invited my family to go spelunking in Spanish Moss Cave. We were all excited to accept the invitation, though we were not experienced rock climbers. Mike started us out early on the appointed morning to do a little training at an indoor gym, after which we hiked five miles into Rock Canyon and up to the cave entrance.

Upon arrival, Mike and Taylor took a few minutes to unlock the metal gate and arrange the ropes we would use to rappel into the cave. Taylor entered first, and then it was my turn.

The initial descent is into a corkscrew-shaped crack in the rocks that twists downward for fifteen to twenty feet before it finally opens into the domed roof of the cave. Once through the crack, we each rappelled approximately fifty feet down to a sloped floor that continued into the belly of the cave.

We spent a couple of hours exploring, marveling at the oddly shaped formations along the way. As we picked our way through the loosely marked trail, our only light source, beyond the occasional flash from my husband’s camera, was the light produced by our headlamps. I could see only a small circular area directly in front of me that quickly faded into blackness. Limited by the darkness and the unfamiliar terrain, the progress was slow.

At the bottom of the cave, just before we turned around, Taylor took a picture of my family—my daughter Shamae, Spencer, and my son Riley. I like recalling this part of the journey because I remember feeling charged with the exhilaration of a great adventure with my family. It captures the pinnacle of my experience. I felt triumphant, like I had accomplished something different, something unique and special. But I would not carry that same feeling with me out of the cave.

The return trip was harder than the descent, largely due to the lack of light. I look back at the photos we took and wonder why I was trying to scramble over rocks when there seemed to be a clear path just a few feet to the side. I can see those pathways now with the benefit of flash photography, but at the time I was not able to see the route with any clarity.

We clambered back up to the domed room, but the real challenge remained: we still had to negotiate the rope that hung from the ceiling and disappeared into the winding rock exit above. And this time we would be climbing up with the assistance of ascenders instead of dropping effortlessly down.

Mike ascended first and secured himself above with a second rope, ready to assist us. When it was my turn to exit, Taylor stabilized the bottom of the rope and Mike positioned himself in the corkscrew to coach me through the process. I had only learned to use the ascenders that morning, and although it had seemed simple in the climbing gym, I struggled to get my arms and legs to work together now.

I managed to inch about halfway up the rope before I had to stop, slumping down in the climbing harness to rest my legs. But fear would not let me rest my arms. I clung tightly to the ascenders, refusing to let go and unable to relax. I spent several minutes dangling twenty-five feet above the ground, mustering the necessary strength to keep climbing.

I gathered myself and continued up the remaining visible length of rope until the top ascender would move no further. I had reached the rock above and needed to let go of the ascenders. This was the only way I could find handholds and ­continue climbing.

Again, fear took hold of me, and I had neither the strength nor the fortitude to let go. Every muscle in my body shook, and I began to contemplate what living in a cave might be like. In this panic-stricken state, I heard Mike talking above me. He was telling me to relax and to stay calm, giving me instructions on where to reach.

I pointed my headlamp upward to shed light on my path, but I could not see any suitable holds, so I told Mike, “I cannot do this.”

I looked up again hoping to see him, but because of the curvature of the rock I could only hear his voice. He tried different instructions, but there was no way I was letting go of those ascenders. I didn’t trust the rock, I didn’t trust myself, and I didn’t trust my ability to leave the perceived safety of the gear to which I clung. I remember hearing some movement above me and then ­nothing. Then Mike told me to take his hand.

This time when I looked up, I could see Mike’s forearm, with his hand open wide. I laughed out loud. “You are just going to pull me up one-handed?” I asked.

“Sure!” he said confidently. We argued the relative merits of this idea for a time, me telling Mike that it was impossible for him to just yank me up there with no leverage while harnessed to a rope and cramped in a crevice and Mike insisting that he could do it. Given that I am telling you this story from the Marriott Center and not from inside Spanish Moss Cave, you can guess who won that argument.

Looking up again, I was seized with the realization that I really didn’t want to stay in the cave forever. I wanted to go home. This awareness gave me the courage to trust Mike and reach for his hand. One moment I was dangling from the dome and the next I was wedged into the crevice, still clinging to one ascender with my free hand. I could finally relax my arms.

Then Mike’s steady and confident voice guided me farther up the twisting exit: “Move one hand up. Reach your foot farther to the left. Switch hands in that hold. Use your legs. Stretch a little farther.”

Mike kept me moving in the right direction until we encountered one last challenge: I was too short to reach the next hold and too timid to make a swing for it. Mike suggested that he try to pass me in the crevice, get beneath me, and then boost me up to the hold. I was not sure the maneuver would work, but by this point I was humbled enough to listen to his advice. Mike managed to find a way around me and secure himself against the wall just below me. When he told me to use his back as a step stool to reach the next hold, I had visions of me standing on his back, his hands slipping against the rock under my weight, and his body falling through the hole in the cave ceiling. We again argued over the merits of his crazy idea—I am a stubborn one—but I finally gave in and stepped on Mike, who held firm so that I could reach the hold I needed. From there it was a relatively easy climb to the open air, and I soon found myself alone with my thoughts while Mike returned to assist the others.

Sitting on top of that hill looking out over the valley, I couldn’t suppress a nagging feeling of defeat that contrasted starkly with my proud moment at the bottom of the cave. I replayed everything that had just happened. Did Mike really pull me up from the top of a fifty-foot drop? Did I really step on him? Was I really that needy? Yes, yes, and yes.

I conclude with two recent experiences. First, this summer I attended a religious liberty summit in Rome where President Dallin H. Oaks gave the keynote address. The summit was filled with inspiring speakers. But when President Oaks rose to speak, I experienced something distinctly different—that beautiful witness of the Spirit that reaffirmed, “Sheri, this is a prophet.” What a priceless truth that is!

Second, I recently accompanied my boss to a meeting with the First Presidency where we sought counsel about a complex issue affecting one of the Church’s media companies. What then unfolded was remarkable to behold. As these three presiding high priests counseled with each other, it was clear that they each initially saw this issue differently. But as they deliberated, the Spirit flooded the room until they were of one mind and one heart. Their counsel to us was inspiring. As we walked out of the room, I thought to myself, “We just witnessed the First Presidency receive revelation together.”

I can only imagine how many thousands of times that exact scene has played out over the decades—where prophets, seers, and revelators have counseled together, relying on a rare combination of wisdom and revelation, magnified by the keys they hold. We are the most blessed of all people to be led by prophets. There are no other leaders like them in all the world.

I know that President Russell M. Nelson is the Lord’s senior Apostle and that fourteen other prophets, seers, and revelators also walk the earth. I don’t just believe this. I know it. I am an eyewitness to it.

I know that following them makes us smarter because seers see things we cannot see. Prophets help us see around corners.

You can know this too. I plead with you to gain your own witness of prophets of God and then follow them for the rest of your life. It will be the smartest thing you ever do. Because prophets will be the last safe voices on earth. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Not many things intimidate Kristine. When her stake planned a pioneer trek, she signed up even though everyone was worried about her and whether she could make it. “But I was fine,” says Kristine.
When Kristine was born, one of her legs was shorter than the other. The femur was simply not there. So Kristine wears a special prosthetic leg. She wears it so well, in fact, that she says, “A lot of people don’t notice or at most ask me if I’m limping. They don’t really know.”
As the stake youth set out on a three-day trek, Kristine was making friends with her trek family and doing her part setting up and packing their handcart. After walking 10 miles the first day, Kristine, along with many others, developed some blisters. But she refused to ride to catch up and kept walking, just like the pioneers.
When it came time for the women in the family to pull the handcart up the steepest part of the trail, Kristine was right there in front. “I thought about the women who had to pull their sick husbands and children up places worse than this,” says Kristine. “I did not know how they could do that.”
But many others were wondering the same thing about Kristine. She had such a good excuse not to go or not to participate, but that isn’t how Kristine is. There are very few things that stop her, and her attitude will carry her far in everything she tries.

One year after Mohamed Turay had joined the Church in Caldwell, Liberia, the 1989 war broke out. As rebels moved closer to Caldwell, he saw people in his community leaving. He had a dream in which a bomb fell near his home. Finally, after seeing an article in the newspaper describing how people were being beheaded, Mohamed knew he and his family were in danger and he resolved to flee Caldwell. Mohamed believed the dream was a warning from God. “It was a blessing for my family,” said Mohamed. “A serious blessing.”
“Come,” he told Abie, his wife. “Today, we’ll not sleep here.” Mohamed took Abie and their children to the border where they would be safe. But he had to return to Caldwell to make final arrangements for their departure. Just hours before rebels took the city, Mohamed managed to escape and join his family.

Before each game at BYU the captains of the two teams meet at the center circle with the referees and go through a meaningless ritual where nothing of real significance is said. But on the day we played Notre Dame, a referee friend of mine said something during that meeting that really hit home with me. He said, “Men, we referees are going to work hard tonight. We’re going to make some mistakes, but you work hard too.”
I remembered his words, and the game began. During the last few minutes, I went up for a rebound, and a bigger Notre Dame player knocked me to the floor. As I lay there, I looked up, and the referee pointed down and indicated that the foul was on me. Surprised at his decision, I got up off the floor. I smiled at the referee and said, “You know, you were right in what you said before the game.” He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “You said you were going to make some mistakes tonight, and you just made a big one.” We looked at each other, and we both had a good laugh and continued to play.

Consider this tender example. It was fast Sunday as Vance and I knocked on the door of a small, humble home. We and other deacons in the quorum had come to expect the words “Please come in,” yelled warmly in a thick German accent loud enough to hear through the door. Sister Muellar was one of several immigrant widows in the ward. She couldn’t answer the door very easily, as she was legally blind. As we stepped inside the dimly lit home, she greeted us with kind questions: What are your names? How are you doing? Do you love the Lord? We answered and shared that we came to receive her fast offering. Even at our young age, her meager circumstances were readily apparent, and her faith-filled response was profoundly touching: “I placed a dime on the counter earlier this morning. I am so grateful to offer my fast offering. Would you be kind enough to place it in the envelope and fill out my fast-offering receipt?” Her love of the Lord lifted our faith each time we left her home.

One night for family home evening our parents gave us a lesson on how we should treat our bodies as temples. We learned about not letting unkind words leave our mouths. We also learned about how to take care of our bodies by eating nutritious foods as well as how to dress modestly.
At the end of the lesson, our parents helped us build models of temples out of sugar cubes, construction paper, straws, cotton, and glue. We used the pictures of the temples in the Friend to get ideas for our own temples. We had a fun night together as a family.Dillon and April Robertson, ages 8 and 5Los Banos, California

I would like to begin today by sharing part of my conversion story.
In the fall of 2011, my family went through an experience that changed our lives. I remember being at home when I received a call from my dad. He was crying so uncontrollably that I could barely understand what he was saying. Eventually, he was able to tell me that my younger brother had been found unconscious at a friend’s house and had been rushed to the hospital.
My heart dropped.
I grabbed my keys and drove about 30 minutes to the hospital. When I arrived, I found my parents trying to process what was happening. I spoke with the doctors and learned that my brother was in a coma and would need to be airlifted to a children’s hospital in Portland, Oregon, roughly four hours from where we lived.
Once the helicopter took my brother, my family regrouped and drove to Portland right away. When we arrived, we learned that the hospital had temporary housing for patients’ families. We had no idea that we would end up living there for more than two months.
My brother was in the ICU, and because my parents’ limited English, I became the unofficial and very inexperienced translator for them. We met regularly with doctors who updated us on his condition. One meeting stands out in my memory. There were more doctors present than usual, and they told us that it was unlikely my brother would wake up. They said we might need to make a decision: to let him go, or to let him live in a coma for the rest of his life.
I still remember having to explain that to my parents. I had to help them understand that they might have to choose what to do with their youngest child. It was one of the most painful moments of my life.
My family had fallen away from regular religious practice for years. Life had become busy. Responsibilities had shifted. Church attendance no longer seemed central to our lives. But deep down, we still believed in God, and we still believed that He cared about us. As we contemplated what we were going through, we did the only thing we knew to do.
We prayed.
Because we all shared a room at the hospital, I remember waking up in the middle of the night and hearing my mom praying for my brother. I remember walking from our room to the main hospital building early in the morning with a prayer in my heart. I remember praying day and night, in every possible moment. And I remember one prayer in particular, when I begged Heavenly Father to help my brother. In that prayer, I promised that if my brother woke up, I would find a church to attend.
Weeks went by, and my brother remained in a coma.
But one morning, when we walked into his room, he was surrounded by doctors. Against the odds and against what we had been told to expect, he had woken up.
He was like a little child again. He had to relearn how to talk, to walk, to eat; everything. Slowly, he improved. Eventually, he was discharged from the hospital and sent home.
The road to recovery was still difficult. There were many appointments, many meetings with teachers, and many adjustments to a new normal life. My parents did everything they could to take care of him. And slowly, life moved forward.

Bob’s family roots were in the West, and he went west to college at the University of Utah. He was a starting pitcher with the potential to be a Major League Baseball player. But overuse of his arm led to permanent injury.

That, however, proved providential, as it turned Bob’s attention to military service. He enlisted in the Air Force ROTC and became a jet fighter pilot. His unit’s motto was “Return with Honor.”

Though the work of flying fighter jets was glamorous, it was also dangerous. Bob risked severe injury when, on takeoff, his plane malfunctioned and caught on fire. His health was spared thanks to quick thinking and well-rehearsed practice. Bringing the plane to a hard stop, he jumped from the cockpit to the ground. His ankles likely would have been shattered had it not been for attending to a seemingly small precaution. Bob’s flight instructors had taught him and his fellow flyers the importance of tightly lacing up their nearly knee-high boots. As a result of honoring the seemingly small procedure, he was able to continue his service, rather than landing in the hospital and being transferred to a job on the ground.

Yet there was no rest, even for a downed pilot. While Bob was still sitting on the ground, strapped to his parachute and his plane burning nearby, his commanding officer pulled up in a jeep. Upon learning that Bob wasn’t seriously hurt, the commander said, “Hales, you fly again tomorrow.” And off he sped.

But less than a minute later, Bob saw the jeep turn back. Without smiling, his commander said, “Hales, you owe the Air Force a million dollars.”

She learned it’s important to forgive others. For a while, Wiew had a problem with her leg and couldn’t participate in some of the school activities. Because she couldn’t spend as much time with her best friend, the best friend started being better friends with another girl. One day Wiew smiled at her best friend, but her friend did not smile back. Wiew was hurt, and the next day she asked the girl why she wasn’t her friend anymore. The best friend replied, “Oh, I didn’t see you!” Wiew forgave her friend and didn’t feel sad anymore.

That evening I prayed and asked God to help me find His missionary church. The next day I looked for the missionaries. I checked with every person I saw who was wearing a white shirt, but I had no success.
Outside my home a few days later, I saw three people wearing white shirts, ties, and name tags! I ran inside, got the book, and hurried after them.
When I caught up with them, one of them asked, “Can we help you?”
“Is this book from your church?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s our book,” he replied enthusiastically. “We are the missionaries.”
After several weeks of learning about the restored gospel, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A year later my father was baptized.

Kimberly Seyboldt of Oregon, USA, tells the story of seeking inspiration and giving gifts to show love:
“When I find life is getting me down, I get up and make zucchini bread, usually about eight loaves. My special ingredient is the silent prayer I offer as I bake to know who needs those loaves of bread. I have been able to better know my surrounding neighbors as the warm zucchini bread has been my invite into their homes and lives.
“One warm summer day, I pulled up alongside a family selling pints of blackberries on the side of the road. I didn’t need more blackberries, but the young, thin boy at the stand was excited to see me, thinking I was his next customer. I bought some blackberries, but I also had a gift for him. I gave the boy two loaves of bread. He turned to his father for approval, then said, ‘Look, Dad, now we have something to eat today.’ I was filled with gratitude for this opportunity to show love in a simple way.”

Many years ago I attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, where the stake presidency was reorganized. The stake president who was being released, E. Francis Winters, had served faithfully for the lengthy term of 23 years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.

As I stood to speak, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he or she felt when we witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.

Matthew said goodnight to his mom and dad and started up the stairs. But before he closed the door to his room, he heard his father say, “I’m sure tired. It’s been a long day.”
Why does Dad always think it’s been such a long day? wondered Matthew. There just weren’t enough daylight hours to do all that he wanted. Darkness, quickly followed by bedtime, always came too soon.
The next morning his father greeted him at the breakfast table. “Son, how would you like to go with me on a business trip? You could ask your friend Jimmy to take your paper route for a week.”
A week, Matthew thought. He’d occasionally gone with his father before, but usually only for a day or two at the most. A whole week!
His father continued, “I have a convention in Helsinki, Finland. You could stay with your Uncle Jussi and Aunt Helvi.”
“You mean I’d get to see Matti?” asked Matthew excitedly. He and his Finnish cousin were both named after their great-uncle Matias. Both boys were almost twelve now, and had been writing to each other for several years.
After hours of anticipation, the flight to Helsinki seemed short to Matthew. Then, picking up their suitcases, the two of them were whisked to their hotel in a taxi.
Later Matthew was looking out the hotel window and watching the trolley cars below when his dad said, “You’d better get to bed, son. You have to leave early in the morning.”
Tomorrow Matthew would go by plane to Oulu, flying northward half the length of Finland. He would stay with his cousin Matti, while his father remained in Helsinki for meetings.
The hotel room was flooded with light when Matthew awoke the next morning. He shook his father. “Hey, Dad. Wake up. It’s late!”
His father rolled over and looked at his watch. “It’s only three-thirty, Matt. The plane doesn’t leave until eight. Go back to sleep,” he suggested and shut his eyes again.
But Matthew was awake now and too excited to sleep. He quietly walked over to the window and looked down at the sleeping city. The sun was shining brightly on the street below.
It’s strange to have the sun shining when it’s only a few hours after midnight, he thought.
Later that morning the fifty-five-minute plane ride took Matthew over the industrial section north of Helsinki. Dairy farms and grainfields broke up the blue and green pattern of the lakes and forests below. He’d never seen so many small lakes. He remembered something he had read about this pleasantly strange land: “Silvery lakes—55,000 of them—embroidering a carpeted forest and strung together with short … rivers make Finland a labyrinthine land.”
Uncle Jussi and Aunt Helvi greeted him warmly. He and Matti shook hands shyly but were soon laughing and talking together excitedly.
“I think you speak English better than I do,” said Matthew.
“We start learning it when we are seven and first enter school,” replied Matti. “Our school radio broadcasts lessons into our classrooms,” he added.
Matti showed his American cousin around their home. They stepped into a storage shed next to the house where several pairs of ice skates hung from the wall and skis were stored above the rafters.
“The countryside looks flat. Where do you ski?” asked Matthew. “I haven’t seen any mountains.”
“We don’t need mountains or steep slopes. We ski cross-country,” replied Matti. “Nearly everyone has a pair of skis. Those small ones belong to my sisters Tuula and Liisa.”
Back in the kitchen, Matti said, “Aiti (Mother), I’m going to take Matthew down to the harbor to see the fishing boats.”
“You’d better eat something first,” she suggested. “I’m sure Matthew must be hungry.” She placed a plate of sliced rye bread on the table along with some cheese and milk.
Matthew had never seen such dark bread before. “This is really good,” he said as he finished one slice and then reached for another.
The boys left for the harbor, but Matthew returned for a sweater. He wasn’t used to such cool summer weather. “I keep forgetting we’re so far north,” he told his cousin as he pulled on the sweater. “Say, I haven’t seen any reindeer yet.”
Matti replied, “Oh, most of them are farther north in Lapland. Many people think Finland is nothing but Laplanders and reindeer. But I’ll show you lots of other things about our country. Come on. Let’s go.”
Matthew was tired by suppertime—too tired to eat all of the potatoes, meatballs, and raspberry pudding placed before him. He yawned. “Doesn’t it ever get dark here?” he asked. “The sun seems as bright as ever.”
“The days are the longest of the year now,” said Matti. “The sun shines for over twenty hours. It won’t get dark until about midnight.”
At nine-thirty, with several hours of daylight left, Matthew excused himself and headed for bed. “It’s been a long day,” he said, yawning, “and I’ve some catching up to do!”

Gerald Horton Bath told the experience of a small African boy who
listened carefully as the teacher explained why it is that Christians give presents to each other on Christmas day. “The gift is an expression of our joy over the birth of Jesus and our friendship for each other,” she said.
When Christmas day came, the boy brought to the teacher a sea shell of lustrous beauty. “Where did you ever find such a beautiful shell?” the teacher asked as she gently fingered the gift.
The youth told her that there was only one spot where such extraordinary shells could be found. When he named the place, a certain bay several miles away, the teacher was left speechless.
“Why . . . why, it’s gorgeous . . . wonderful, but you shouldn’t have gone all that way to get a gift for me.”
His eyes brightening, the boy answered, “Long walk part of gift.”