Gospel Story Finder

Tim Ryan listened to the wind howling through the empty city streets. Night was rapidly approaching, the night of December 24. In other years the day of the 24th itself and most especially the day to follow would have been joyful days for Tim Ryan. But not this year. No, most definitely anything but joyful. Upstairs in the back bedroom on the third floor of the house that he was just leaving, Maggie was dying.
“Only hours,” the young doctor had said. “Your wife has a very short time to live, Mr. Ryan.” He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in being able to so casually measure off the time of life remaining to another human being.
That had been this morning. The hours had dragged by slowly since then. The pale sunlight of December had brought little warmth to Timothy Edward Ryan, caught in the middle of his 67th year.
Long ago, and it seemed to be a part of that other world in which he and Maggie had been born, little Tim would have taken comfort from what the priests would have offered him. He had been faithful in his church, and when he married Maggie, the ceremony had been performed by Father Kelly. He hadn’t considered any other alternative.
Forty-eight years had gone by since that day. In those 48 years, Christmastime had been special to the Ryans. Their house had been filled with the laughter of six children and the children’s friends. Twenty years ago the first grandchild had seen Christmas at the Ryan’s.
Now December 24 or 25, and it didn’t really matter which, was about to become a day etched in pain and sorrow in the mind of Tim Ryan. There was a part of him up there, a part of him that was slowly, painfully slipping away. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come.
As he began to move away from the front steps, moving in some direction, any direction to be away from this place, he took a companion with him. The companion was Bitterness, and he had been with Tim for some time now.
Bitterness laughed at long-held beliefs. “See, Tim? It all must end this way. This is the end of the laughter. That was temporary; this is not.”
At 4:30 he pulled on his scarf and followed with his heavy parka. He told the nurse that he would be back, that he needed to get out and get some air. Really Tim wanted to go and embrace the cold and the coming darkness, for without Maggie, would there be anything left but cold and darkness in his life?
The sunlight had faded rapidly away and become the dark of night. Tim walked aimlessly through the streets of his adopted city, about to be alone for the first time. “I must make a plan,” he thought. “I must see to the future. There is hope—”
The word hope stuck in his throat. His companion, Bitterness, told him that to believe in hope at this point was a cruel joke on himself. Why, it was like believing that angels would come and lift their voices to the heavens! Both hope and angels were things of the past, Bitterness told him.
Bitterness became quiet as Tim turned his mind to thoughts of past years. When he was just a boy, he had left Ireland with his two older brothers and a younger sister to come to America. They landed in New York and then moved to Baltimore to join an uncle.
The streets of Baltimore hadn’t been paved with gold. They had had to work long hours in their uncle’s store. Slowly the hours began to pay off, and the sweat and toil became the mortgage price of prosperity. Ever so slowly, poverty released its strong icy fingers from around the immigrants.
When he was 17, Tim Ryan had let his brother Michael talk him into going to a parish dance. “Come along, Timmy. It’s time that you began to think about the ladies. And what better place to meet them than at the parish house?”
Tim went with Michael, shyly, unwillingly at first. He stood off on the sidelines, watching the others dance and hating them for their social graces and himself for his shyness. Then Maggie appeared and the climate changed.
She was short, no taller than his five foot three inches, with long black hair. She smiled often, and once, when he looked enough in her direction, she smiled at him. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
He summoned up the courage to go over and introduce himself. She asked him with that ever-present smile if he always blushed so brightly. “No,” he said, “it only happens when I talk with a beautiful young lady. And by the way, may I have the next dance?” She said yes.
Tim Ryan walked Maggie Rourke home that night after the dance. They saw each other often in the next year. Then, one night, on the anniversary of that dance in the parish house, he asked her another question. She answered yes to this one too, and they made arrangements with Father Kelly to perform the ceremony.
The old man that Tim Ryan had become shook himself to break the train of thought. He had walked so far as to arrive in the department store district. The big stores were closed now, their displays of Christmas merchandise garish in the neon sun.
“I will walk a little further,” Tim thought. “Just a few more minutes here in the cold and I will be ready to return and face what I know I cannot avoid.” He headed slowly up the hill into the wind, with its blasts tearing at his face and jacket.
“One more house, Brother Henderson?” That was Jan Andrews’s question.
Gregory Henderson looked at his group. He had come into the city with a dozen of the kids from his Sunday School class to visit some of the older members of the ward and sing Christmas carols. They had seen all of the families on their list with the exception of the Billings, and it was getting late and the kids were getting cold.
“Face it, Henderson,” he thought, “you’d like to go home too. You have a family to be with on Christmas Eve and a wife who would like some help in decorating the Christmas tree.” Another part of him spoke up quickly, though, and put things into perspective.
“Yes, we’re going to see the Billings. They live on Clayton Avenue. It shouldn’t take too long to get there. I think we’ll sing three songs, like we’ve been doing, and then head for home.”
As the kids piled into his car and Dave Maxfield’s van, he could see on their faces that one last visit would be about enough. He hoped that the project had touched some of them. They needed to start learning a little about service.
His car moved on through the dark Baltimore streets in silence. Inside were the most active kids in the ward, the doers and movers. Jan Andrews, Tony Morgan, Bob Smith, Carol Miller—his wife called them the angels. They had been the biggest helps to him so far.
After several minutes’ ride, Greg saw the turn-off for Clayton Avenue. He swung the big Dodge into the narrow street and continued down the two blocks to the Billings’ house. The young people piled out again, ready to conclude the project, thinking thoughts of home and the next morning.
Jan called the group together outside the house: “Let’s start off with ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,’ then go to ‘Joy to the World,’ and close with ‘Silent Night.’ The Billings are both pretty sick and haven’t been able to get out to church for a long time. They’ll appreciate this a lot.”
Tim Ryan turned the corner onto Clayton Avenue. He was only a few blocks from home, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away. His thoughts had led him downward into a valley of despair. His normal energetic step had become the shuffle of a man worn down by age.
Then he heard the voices. Like the clear, pure sound of a tinkling chandelier, the voices cut through the cold night air, reaching his ear with cheerfulness. They brought his mind back to what day would fall tomorrow.
Tim stopped to listen more closely, despite the still-insistent voice of Bitterness inside. He wanted to hear what they were singing and find out who they were. How could they be happy on a night like this when he was about to lose the most important thing in his life? Didn’t they have any feelings?
The words, carried to him on the back of the wind, began to enter his mind. Subtly at first, and then more quickly, a light that had been burning low within Tim Ryan began to flare up once again. The flame began to thaw the ice that had been forming inside and outside.
Once upon a time, when Michael had asked him what about Maggie had first attracted him, he had said that she had the laughter of an angel. Laughter fell clear and pure from her lips. Hearing her laugh made him feel that he had been able to set a foot into heaven.
Now, this group of young people, singing to an unseen audience in the house across the street, were touching him in that same way. They were like angels with their clear voices, simple and pure in the message which they presented.
“Oh, Lord,” he thought, “I cannot turn the tide of what must come. But I can learn to hear the bells again and look past tragedies. I must go home quickly, quickly.” Tim had intended to stay and talk with them when they finished. Instead, the urgency of the moment directed him homeward.
In the back of his mind, Greg Henderson wondered if the old man standing across the street was enjoying the singing. The thought faded just as rapidly as it had come, and Greg turned his mind back to the music.
It was late, almost midnight. Tim sat by the bed, holding Maggie’s hand. It was an act that he had performed often in 48 years. Tonight it took on special meaning.
“My dear, you would have loved it. They were like angels with their clear voices. I doubt that I have ever heard the songs of Christmas sung so beautifully or received such enjoyment out of the sacred music.”
She said nothing for a long time. Then she looked up at him with a smile, one like the smile that he had first seen so many years ago.
“Tim, you’re happier tonight than I’ve seen you at any time since I … since I’ve been ill. That makes me happy.”
Maggie lapsed into silence again.
The clock stretched forth both its hands to 12. Christmas would have already dawned over the desert where it had first been celebrated so many years ago.
“Tim.”
“Yes, dear. What is it?”
“Tim, I think I’ll sleep now. I feel so in need of rest. Will you hold my hand while I sleep?” She closed her eyes. Some of the worry and pain that had written itself across her face in the last year began to fade.
The little man with the shock of wind-blown white hair looked down at his Maggie. Great soft tears, tears like the drops of a gentle spring rain awakening the earth, began to well up in his eyes. The tears were sweet, though. He had heard the angels sing, and he was beginning to understand.
Somewhere out in the suburbs, Greg Henderson rolled over in bed. He had just finished assembling the last toys, and he was tired and wanted to rest before the children would patter in asking mommy and daddy if they knew that it was Christmas Day.
Just before the last trace of consciousness fled, Greg thought about the old man who had listened to them sing on Clayton Avenue. Greg wondered if the man had liked the kids’ singing. Then sleep came and chased the thought from his mind.

A recent nationwide survey found that nearly 8 in 10 Americans “believe that miracles still occur today as [they did] in ancient times.” A third of those surveyed said they had “experienced or witnessed a divine healing.”4 Many Latter-day Saints have experienced the power of faith in healing the sick. We also hear examples of this among people of faith in other churches. A Texas newspaperman described such a miracle. When a five-year-old girl breathed with difficulty and became feverish, her parents rushed her to the hospital. By the time she arrived there, her kidneys and lungs had shut down, her fever was 107 degrees, and her body was bright red and covered with purple lesions. The doctors said she was dying of toxic shock syndrome, cause unknown. As word spread to family and friends, God-fearing people began praying for her, and a special prayer service was held in their Protestant congregation in Waco, Texas. Miraculously, she suddenly returned from the brink of death and was released from the hospital in a little over a week. Her grandfather wrote, “She is living proof that God does answer prayers and work miracles.”5

Some of you will remember that last November we had a concert on campus featuring Billy Joel. Now President Holland and I aren’t quite up to the Billy Joel kind of performance (we are more into the St. George Senior Citizens Chorus), so we didn’t attend. But the night after the Billy Joel concert, I had a very unusual dream—a “weird” dream, I think it is safe to say.
I dreamed that Billy and I were driving down the highway talking about his experience at BYU. I was driving the car and completely in control, but suddenly I became terrified of something that was ahead. So, instead of continuing on our journey, I veered off the road and sent the car careening over the edge of a steep cliff. Instead of the crash landing expected, we were somehow plucked out of the car and perched safely on a ledge hidden from view. We sat comfortably, watching huge crowds of people milling down below. They were coming and going and looking around but never discovering the occupants of the battered car.
When I awoke the next morning, I was incredulous! What on earth—I said to myself—would a forty-five-year-old mother hen to thousands of BYU students have in common with Billy Joel? Now, at this point, I suppose I do have to confess to you that one of my lifelong secret desires has been to play the drums in a rock band, but that didn’t seem to be adequate motivation for a 3-D, Cinerama, Dolby sound, full-length “weird” dream.
I pondered a long time about that dream—and whether it is the right interpretation or not, I finally decided that I had associated Billy Joel’s concert performance for you with my own frequent assignments to speak to the same kind of crowd in this same monstrous hall and with every one of those same eyes upon me. I surmised that neither of us needed to put up with such performance fears any longer, so I just detoured us over the cliff. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Billy if he wanted to accompany me. But that’s the price he had to pay for riding with me. Next time he may want to take Greyhound.
Nonsense and rock concerts aside, I think I really did identify with the public performance of such a concert and subconsciously preferred to hide in safety, far from the gaze of the crowd. Anonymity has always seemed pretty appealing to me, yet here I am—and there you are—and the show must go on, again!

Immediately after young Tom Monson’s discharge from the navy following the conclusion of World War II, he was called to serve as a ward clerk. One evening he sat silently taking minutes while the bishopric agonized over the obvious lack of success with the young people in their ward, including challenges within the MIA program. Apparently the young clerk took it about as long as he could and then said, “Excuse me, brethren, but may I say something about the MIA and the youth challenges in this ward?” He then launched into a rapid-fire and profound summary of not only what was wrong with their ward youth program but what could rather quickly make it right. Then, realizing he may have been too bold and too presumptuous, he said, “Forgive me. I think I have said too much,” and excused himself from the room.
He was no sooner out the door than the bishopric looked at each other and said, “What are we waiting for?” They immediately called him back into the room, released him as ward clerk, and called him to be the superintendent of the MIA. In six months the 6–7th Ward combined program, with its totally committed young superintendent, was the example to which every other leader in the Temple View Stake looked for their own youth activities.

Chance skipped into his aunt’s home after a long drive. He and his mother and younger brother were excited to be visiting her. “Hi, Aunt Barbie!” Chance exclaimed as he hugged his aunt. “Do you have any crayons and scissors?”
Aunt Barbie smiled and got Chance settled at the kitchen table with the supplies.
As Aunt Barbie made dinner, she glanced at Chance’s project. “What are you drawing, Chance?” she asked.
“I’m coloring a picture I got in Primary,” Chance said. He carefully filled in the black-and-white figures with bright colors. “After we eat, can we have family home evening?” Chance asked. “I have a lesson I would like to teach.”
“That would be very nice,” Aunt Barbie said. “Thank you, Chance!”
After dinner Aunt Barbie invited her roommate to join them for family home evening. The roommate wasn’t a member of the Church, and she was curious about the family gathering.
Chance began the lesson by asking, “Where did we come from?” Then he held up a picture he had colored of the spirit world. He asked more questions and showed colorful drawings about Heavenly Father’s plan. Finally, Chance asked, “Does anyone know the name of this plan?”
Aunt Barbie’s roommate said, “I don’t. What is it?”
“It is the plan of salvation,” Chance said, smiling. “Because of it, we can be together forever with our family.”
After the lesson, Aunt Barbie took Chance aside. “Chance, you just helped my roommate learn about Heavenly Father’s plan. Thank you,” she said.
Chance didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked, “Why do I feel funny inside? I feel warm and happy.”
“That is the Holy Ghost testifying to you that what you just taught is true,” Aunt Barbie said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father is very happy with you.”
Chance got a big smile on his face. He was glad he could teach someone about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness.

As I walked down the fairway, thoughts of what had happened earlier in the round began to press in on my mind.
On the seventh hole of the junior golf tournament, my third shot had come to rest in the middle of the narrow fairway. I hit the ball. It sailed onto the green, took two bounces, and fell into the hole. My partner was impressed.
“Great shot. Is that a three?”
“Yes,” I had replied confidently. But I hadn’t really made a three. It had taken me four strokes to get the ball in the hole. But I thought one stroke wasn’t going to mean anything.
By the time I finished, I realized I had played the round of my life.
I headed back toward the clubhouse, adding my partner Joe’s scorecard as I walked.
At the scorer’s table, I handed Joe his scorecard, and he gave me mine. “You’re in first place,” he said.
I looked up at the scoreboard and thought, This score would put me in first place. Looking down at my card, I noticed the “3” I had given myself on the seventh hole was standing out like a neon sign. I could change it to a “4.” But I’m in first place by two strokes. That one stroke won’t make any difference, I thought.
I signed my name at the bottom of the card and handed it to the scorer. I watched with fascination as my name was placed at the top of the list on the giant scoreboard. I made my way to the pop machine. I was actually in first place.
While sipping on my soda, I sauntered over to the base of an elm tree, sat down against it, and began to think about what I had done.
In church, Scouting, and at home, I had been taught to be honest in my dealings with others.
I glanced again at the scoreboard. More scores were being posted. Then I noticed Fred Baker was only one stroke behind me. Now that one stroke I hadn’t counted meant the difference between undisputed first place and a tie.
Everyone cheats, I kept thinking. I remembered when Joe moved his ball to a better position when it came to rest in a bare spot of grass. Besides, no one will ever know what I did, I reasoned.
I again walked slowly to the scorer’s table and past the gigantic first-place trophy. “That sure would look nice in our family’s trophy case,” I mumbled to myself. As I walked past the trophy, I decided what I had to do.
“Can I help you, son?” the scorekeeper asked.
“Sir, I seem to have made a mistake on my scorecard. On the seventh hole, I made a four, not a three.”
“Have you already signed your scorecard?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, knowing I would be disqualified for turning in an incorrect scorecard.
“I’m sorry, son, but you know the rule.”
“I guess I’m disqualified then,” I mumbled. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. What’s your name? I’ll need to remove it from the scoreboard.”
“Jae Markham,” I said. I then stood by and watched as my name was scratched from the top spot.
That afternoon I slowly walked to the parking lot with my golf bag over my shoulder. The sun was bright and figures still dotted the course.
I looked back again at the first-place trophy, and somehow it didn’t seem so big anymore.

One way to recognize our self-worth is to recognize the self-worth of those around us. Focusing on others helps us feel good about ourselves because we are building others up. It’s a win-win! When I struggled with self-confidence, I decided I would serve someone around me who needed help. Every day for a month I gave a compliment to a friend who was struggling. Focusing on others helped me feel worthy and needed. When we strive to love others for who they are, it becomes easier to see how much God loves us. Helping others feel worthy of love will help us feel worthy of love ourselves.
Jayme W., age 15, Minnesota, USA

Well, I know from personal experience that one of the most difficult adjustments you have to make in life is to return from a position in the mission field, where you live so close to the Lord, to a position back in the world. My own experience was extreme. I had a month between my release as a missionary and my enlistment as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. The contrast was overwhelming. But I joined the Marine Corps at a most interesting time. Just a few months before they had recruited a Mormon Battalion of Marines. I followed them into boot camp. The reputation they had made during their period of basic training was most unique. To be a Mormon following that great group was a mark of distinction.

As the years of service progressed, I noticed how apparent those who lived their religion were among their buddies in the service. Those who stooped to the level of the world could not stop the spiral down, and I think they returned home with a heavy heart and a very concerned conscience. But those who were able to overcome, to live as they should, were unique in the service, and were noticed and used. They returned home with greater joy, satisfaction, and peace of mind.

For Nepali families, drinking tea with milk first thing in the morning is an ingrained tradition. In every home and every tiny shop along every narrow street, small stoves brew tea. To begin to follow the Word of Wisdom has been difficult for many of these young converts.
When Deepak Shrestha’s older brother, who was the first missionary to serve from Nepal, told him the Church was the greatest thing in the world, Deepak was interested. Then his brother challenged him to live the Word of Wisdom. Deepak quickly felt the wisdom of this advice because “it affects the future.” The result of that decision has been the start of Deepak’s strong and continually growing testimony of the gospel.

Third, live truth.
At times the most effective lesson in living truth is found close to the home and dear to the heart.
At the funeral service of a noble General Authority, H. Verlan Andersen (1914–92), a tribute was expressed by a son. It has application wherever we are and whatever we are doing. It is the example of personal experience.
The son of Elder Andersen related that years earlier he had a special school date on a Saturday night. He borrowed from his father the family car. As he obtained the car keys and headed for the door, his father said, “The car will need more gas before tomorrow. Be sure to fill the tank before coming home.”
Elder Andersen’s son then related that the evening activity was wonderful. Friends met, refreshments were served, and all had a good time. In his exuberance, however, he failed to follow his father’s instruction and add fuel to the car’s tank before returning home.
Sunday morning dawned. Elder Andersen discovered the gas gauge showed empty. In the Andersen family the Sabbath day was a day for worship and thanksgiving, not for purchases. Elder Andersen’s son declared, “I saw my father put on his coat, bid us good-bye, and walk the long distance to the chapel that he might attend an early meeting.” Duty called. Truth was not held slave to expedience.
In concluding his funeral message, Elder Andersen’s son said, “No son ever was taught more effectively by his father than I was on that occasion. My father not only knew the truth, but he also lived it.” Live truth.

Not all things are possible in all seasons. During a temple recommend interview, a mother of two small children told her stake president of her desire to attend the temple more often. But time demands, distance, and expense had prevented her from attending as often as she desired. The stake president told her, “Maria, I know you love the temple and look forward to a time when you can go often. For now, go when you can, but remember that you serve in many other important ways. The time will come when you can attend as often as you wish.”

I think of the bishop of my boyhood. He was there when I was given a name and a blessing by my good father. He it was who interviewed me and found me worthy of baptism into the Lord’s church. He it was who interviewed me and found me worthy to be ordained a deacon. He called me to my first Church responsibility as a member of the presidency of the deacons quorum. He it was who presided over the quorum of priests to which I once belonged. He it was who recommended me to the stake president as worthy to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. He it was who recommended me to the President of the Church as one worthy to serve as a missionary. He it was who welcomed me home and who signed my recommend as one worthy to be married in the house of the Lord.

One mother from Illinois, USA, shared how she made time to talk with her children:
“When our children were small, I got into the habit of watching a few favorite television programs. … Unfortunately, the programs came on at the same time the children went to bed.
“… At one point I realized I had put my programs at the top of my list and my children farther down. For a while I tried reading bedtime stories with the TV set on, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t the best way. As I pondered about the days and weeks I had lost to my TV habit, I began to feel guilty and decided to change. It took a while to convince myself that I could really turn off the TV.
“After about two weeks of leaving the television off, I felt a burden somehow lifted. I realized I felt better, even cleaner somehow, and I knew I had made the right choice.”2

One morning a few months later, Joshua woke up crying. His stomach hurt so much! “Mamá!” Joshua screamed from his bed. “My tummy really hurts!”
His stomach kept getting worse and worse. He couldn’t even walk. Papá gave Joshua a priesthood blessing, and then he and Mamá took him to see the doctor.
The doctor said that Joshua needed to have surgery right away. It sounded scary.
“We will take you to a special room for the surgery,” the doctor said. “You won’t feel anything, because you will be asleep. And your parents will be waiting for you right outside.”
Joshua felt even more scared. Why couldn’t his parents stay in the room with him? He couldn’t stop crying.
Mamá spoke gently. “What can we do to help you feel better?” she said.
“I know what we can do,” he said. “Please sing ‘I Am a Child of God’ with me. Then let’s say another prayer.”
As they quietly sang, Joshua remembered singing that song at his baptism. And as they prayed, he thought about what Papá had said on his baptism day: “The Holy Ghost can always be with you. You’ll never really be alone.”
Joshua still felt scared as the nurses took him into the surgery room. He couldn’t see the faces of the doctor and nurses because they were wearing masks. But when he looked into their eyes, he knew they were his friends and would take good care of him.
After his surgery the doctors said that Joshua would need to rest. He was still tired and sore, but the pain in his stomach was better. He didn’t feel like crying anymore. He knew he was going to be OK.
“I felt something in my heart,” Joshua told Mamá and Papá. “It was a warm feeling.”
“That’s one of the ways we feel the Holy Ghost,” said Mamá.
Joshua nodded. He was glad he had the gift of the Holy Ghost. Because of the Holy Ghost, he would never really be alone.

Here is one instance from an official account. During fighting in Somalia in October of 1993, two United States Army Rangers in a helicopter during the firefight learned that two other helicopters near them had fallen to the earth. The two rangers, in their relative safety aloft, learned by radio that no ground forces were available to rescue one of the downed aircrews. Growing numbers of the enemy were closing in on the crash site.

The two men watching from above volunteered to go down to the ground (the words they used on the radio were to “be inserted”) to protect their critically wounded comrades. Their request was denied because the situation was so dangerous. They asked a second time. Permission was again denied. Only after their third request were they put down on the ground.

Armed only with their personal weapons, they fought their way to the crashed helicopter and the injured fliers. They moved through intense small arms fire as enemies converged on the crash site. They pulled the wounded from the wreckage. They put themselves in a perimeter around the wounded, placing themselves in the most dangerous positions. They protected their comrades until their ammunition was depleted and they were fatally wounded. Their bravery and their sacrifice saved the life of a pilot who would have been lost.

They were each awarded posthumously the Medal of Honor, their nation’s highest recognition for bravery in the face of an armed enemy. The citation reads that what they did was “above and beyond the call of duty.”

But I wonder if they saw it that way as they moved to the downed airmen. Out of loyalty they felt a duty to stand by their fellow soldiers, whatever the cost. The courage to act and their selfless service came from feeling that they were responsible for the lives, the happiness, and the safety of comrades.

A second way we fail to feel blessed is by giving God a timeline. I have a darling three-year-old grandson named Dalan. His family arrived at my home late one night after a seven hour drive. My exhausted daughter wanted to sleep in the next morning, but Dalan did not. He jumped on her bed very early and said, "Wake up mommy; I'm hungry."

She opened one eye and said, "Oh, Dalan, I am so tired. Just give me five more minutes."

To her surprise, he said "Ok." Then he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "one, two, three, four, five. I did it mommy. I gave you five minutes."

He was so cute she just had to get up with him. I think that sometimes our perception of time is close to Dalan's. We tell God that we have waited for five, ten, or even twenty years and that is long enough. We think God asks too much of us. What if Columbus had finally told God that he knew he was inspired with the idea to sail west and he knew he had been told he would succeed. However, he had been doing everything he could to accomplish this for almost six years--and that was long enough. We need to be faithful, patient and know that we will be blessed.

A third way we deny ourselves the blessings of the Holy Ghost is that we listen when the prompting and revelation deals with serving someone else, but fail to listen when it requires a change in our lives. Years ago I was serving in a stake Relief Society here on campus. I was driving home late one Sunday afternoon when I noticed a young woman standing on the sidewalk and received the strong prompting to pull over and offer her a ride. I pulled over, rolled down the widow and asked her if she would like a ride. She looked at me for a minute, then she said yes. She told me where she lived and I drove her to the steps of her apartment. She thanked me but didn't say more.
I spoke in stake conference the next Sunday and I received a card from her during the week. She said she didn't share her experience with me that day because she didn't know who I was. She had had knee surgery and as she was walking home, her knee began to hurt so terribly she knew she would be unable to make it to her apartment. She prayed and asked Heavenly Father to either lessen the pain so she could stand to walk on her leg, or to send someone to give her a ride. She said, "I opened my eyes and there you were. You are the fastest answer to a prayer I have ever had." I was grateful I had been blessed to receive that prompting.
However, I also received some direction from the Holy Ghost that was not as easy to follow. I had developed the habit of turning on the television at night and I was watching more than I should. The words came into my mind very clearly telling me to turn off the television and to be wise in the way I used my time. That was not as easy for me to follow. The importance of responding to guidance was emphasized by former General Relief Society President Julie B. Beck, "The ability to qualify for, receive and act on personal revelation is the single most important skill that can be obtained in this life."[13]

Carrying our brooms, buckets, rakes, and gloves, and sporting bright yellow “Helping Hands” T-shirts to identify us as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we walked through the neighborhoods of my hometown as part of youth conference. Two by two, we went to assigned homes, knocked on doors, introduced ourselves as members of the Church, and asked if there was any service we could perform.
It was scary at first to simply walk up to a house and knock on a door, not knowing whether we would be greeted with an invitation to rake the yard or a door slammed in our faces. With nervous anticipation, I approached the first house and knocked on the front door, only to find no one home. Persevering, my companion and I canvassed the neighborhood in search of a service opportunity. Knock, knock. No answer. Try again. Knock, knock. “No thanks.” Try again. I was beginning to feel discouraged as knock after knock, door after door, our offers to provide service were met with surprise, dismay, and ultimately, rejection.
As my companion and I made our way down the quiet street, we noticed a home in need of some attention. The grass had been mowed, but piles of trimmings and yard waste were everywhere. The flower beds were overgrown with weeds, moss had crept up the sidewalk and front steps, and the porch was thickly covered with dust. If there were ever a house in need of “helping hands,” this was it. With a silent prayer in my heart that we could be of service, I summoned courage and headed toward the house with my companion.
An older woman in a wheelchair was wheeling up the porch and into the home, but seeing us come closer, she turned and came toward us. As we approached her, I could sense her apprehension and reluctance to allow us to speak with her. My companion and I both smiled, introduced ourselves, and explained to her that we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and were looking for opportunities to serve in the neighborhood. We asked her if there was anything we could do to help her. Instantly, the woman’s face lit up, and she began listing things we could do to help: weeding, raking grass, sweeping the porch, stacking wood, scraping moss, and washing the driveway. As her list of tasks grew longer and longer, I flagged the other members of our youth group to come join. Members from our group arrived, assignments were made, and we quickly set to work.
Performing this service put a smile on my face and made me want to do my very best. While we worked, we enjoyed getting to know this woman and listening to her stories. We learned that our offer to help came as a timely answer to prayer. She explained that she was not the homeowner but was caring for the house for her brother, who was scheduled to have open-heart surgery the next day. The woman knew how much her brother cared for his yard and enjoyed working in his garden, but because he was ill and she was unable to bend down and work, the yard was neglected and had become overgrown. Together, the brother and sister had prayed for someone to help with the upkeep of the yard. I felt the warmth of the Spirit fill my heart as I realized that through our service we were able to be the answer to another’s prayer.
Her brother called on the phone and, with tender emotion in his voice, thanked us for our labors. I was overcome with love for the man whom we had served and also for my Heavenly Father, who is ever mindful of the needs and prayers of His children.
When I set out that morning to perform service, I expected to use my rake, broom, and shovel to serve others, but I had no idea that the Lord would use me as His instrument to fill the needs of another. I am grateful for this experience that taught me the truth of the scripture, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

The children called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks as the children rose from their knees and one of them said, “I know Brother Joseph will be safe now.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night and told them that they could go to their own homes. He said he knew that the prayers of the children would be heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!

I learned this for myself when my oldest son received his first cell phone. With great excitement, he began entering the names of his family and friends into his contacts. One day I noticed his mom was calling. On the screen appeared the name “Mother.” That was a sensible and dignified choice—and, I’ll admit, a sign of respect for the better parent in our home. Naturally, I got curious. What name had he given me?
I scrolled through his contacts, assuming that if Wendi was “Mother,” I must be “Father.” Not there. I searched for “Dad.” Still nothing. My curiosity turned into mild concern. “Does he call me ‘Corey’?” No. In a last-ditch effort, I thought, “We’re soccer players—maybe he calls me ‘Pelé.’” Wishful thinking. Finally, I called his number myself, and two words popped up on his screen: “Not Mother”!

I want to share an example of someone who did find joy in the journey – even while living through great challenges. My father, Steve Elmer Johanson, was a hard worker. He put everything he had into providing for my mother and their seven children. Many didn’t realize how much he did enjoy the journey until after his passing a few years ago.

At a viewing prior to his funeral service, his best friend from high school, Brad Parker, came to us and shared some of the funniest, most off-the-wall things that we never knew about Dad. My dad loved cars. His first car was an Opal Cadet, and he told us stories of the fun he had in that car. He later had a Ford Pinto, and he took out the emergency brake between the front seats and put a pillow there so he could sit closer to his dates. (That’s a great idea – I wish I had thought of it! But if any boy tries that with my daughters… well, it all of a sudden doesn’t seem like such a great idea.)

Brad told us a story about another car they got their hands on. They proceeded to trash this car – I can only assume it was already in pretty bad shape. When they had done their duty on this car, they weren’t sure what to do with it. Well, it turns out that on my grandpa’s property in Ontario, Oregon, the two of them took an earthmover, dug a hole behind the house, and buried the car. We’re pretty sure it’s still there!

Now, that’s just a silly story of a couple of teenagers having fun, but as my father went through life, he continued to enjoy each day. He worked for 30 years for a corporate farm as an accountant and what most organizations would call their Chief Technology Officer. One of the partners at the farm, Brent Schultheis, shared with me that he and my dad on many occasions would sit in his office and laugh about life and the comical nuances that often come with it. This was a side of Dad that many didn’t publicly see.

When he realized that his life was probably going to be shortened by cancer, the happiness and joy he found each day was raised to a higher spiritual plane. His conversations were more Christ-centered, and his actions focused on others. When he was called home, I believe he was prepared to greet the Savior to begin the next phase of his eternal happiness… and he probably had some explaining to do to his mom and dad about that car.

Dad lived while he was alive. He found joy in the journey. He was happy, and now, I know he IS happy beyond what any of us can even imagine. How we live, the work we put into Being Happy today will make our tomorrows so much more memorable. “There is no tomorrow to remember if we don’t do something today.”