Gospel Story Finder

One of our nursing students learned that being like the Savior is more than being able to teach charity, describe charity, or even profess charity. Let me quote from her journal:

I learned the deeper meaning of charity when I cared for a wheelchair-bound HIV patient who had lesions on his hands and buttocks. He was pale as a ghost with a red, spotted rash consuming his body. He wore dark sunglasses, which made him seem even ghastlier, and his partner sat at his bedside. Initially, looking at the men made me physically ill to my stomach. I felt like I should hold my breath, toss the patient his gown, and spend as little time in the room as possible, for I feared that somehow he would inevitably sneeze and I would catch his disease and bring it home to my husband and 10-month-old baby.

However, when his mother entered the room, she went to him and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Sweetheart, I will never leave you.” The words “charity never faileth” came to mind, and my soul melted. I put on my gloves, picked up a bottle of lotion at his bedside, and asked him if he wanted a back rub. That day I felt like I understood the words of the Savior more than ever before: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

I have been raised with the belief that homosexuality and IV drug abuse are immoral, unethical, and simply wrong. . . . I do believe that there comes a turning point in each person’s life. We must decide when we come to this point whether we will love others for who they are, surrendering judgment and criticism, or allow our prejudgments and the social barriers of the world to stifle another’s spiritual growth as well as our own.

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task to telephone President Paul C. Child, my stake president, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures. It was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. Since I knew from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:
“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to visit with you relative to being ordained an elder.”
“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you see me?”
Knowing that his sacrament meeting was at six o’clock, and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would five o’clock be?”
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at two o’clock, and bring with you your personally marked and referenced set of scriptures.”
Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home on Indiana Avenue. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Have you ever had angels minister to you?”
My reply was, “No, President Child.”
“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”
Again came my response, “No.”
Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels.”
It was almost as though an angel were in the room that day. I have never forgotten the interview. I yet feel the spirit of that solemn occasion. I revere the priesthood of Almighty God. I have witnessed its power. I have seen its strength. I have marveled at the miracles it has wrought.

I have a friend who learned this truth in a very personal way. His son was raised in the gospel, but he seemed to be wandering spiritually. He frequently declined opportunities to exercise the priesthood. His parents were disappointed when he declared that he had decided not to serve a mission. My friend prayed earnestly for his son, hoping that he would have a change of heart. Those hopes were dashed when his son announced that he was engaged to be married. The father pleaded with his son to get his patriarchal blessing. The son finally agreed but insisted on visiting the patriarch alone.

When he returned after the blessing, he was very emotional. He took his girlfriend outside, where he could talk to her privately. The father peeked out the window to see the young couple wiping away each other’s tears.

Later the son shared with his father what had happened. With great emotion he explained that during the blessing, he had a glimpse of who he was in the premortal world. He saw how valiant and influential he was in persuading others to follow Christ. Knowing who he really was, how could he not serve a mission?

Our six-year-old grandson, Oli, who affectionately calls me “Poppy,” had to get something from the car. His dad stood inside the house and, without Oli being aware, unlocked the car door remotely as Oli approached it, then locked it again when he was done. Oli then ran inside with a big smile!
All the family asked him, “How did you get the car door to unlock for you, then to lock again?” He just smiled.
Our daughter, his mother, said, “Maybe it’s like when Poppy does it—maybe you have magic powers like him!”
When it happened a second time a few minutes later, his response to further questions about his newfound abilities was: “It’s amazing! I think it’s because Poppy loves me and is one of my best friends, and he takes care of me!”

For as long as I can remember, Mom has talked about Aunt Vera. Aunt Vera is Mom’s youngest sister, and according to Mom, she loves to sing and dance. “Vera was always happy, and she made everyone around her happy.”
When Mom married Dad and left the Philippines, the hardest part was leaving her family—especially Aunt Vera—behind. But pretty soon my brother, Todd, and I were born, and Mom was really busy. She and Aunt Vera wrote letters back and forth, and two or three times a year they called each other on the telephone, but Mom still missed her.
When Aunt Vera wrote to say that she was coming to spend three weeks at Christmastime with us, Mom was ecstatic. We cleaned the house and put up decorations, and Mom told us about when she and Aunt Vera were little girls and decorated their home. They had always saved the Nativity scene for last. As they put each figure in place, they tried to imagine being there with the shepherds when the angel told them about the Baby Jesus, and with the Wise Men as they followed the star.
Aunt Vera was all smiles and laughter when she arrived, just as Mom said she’d be. She and Mom spent hours looking through picture albums and talking about old friends and family. But by the second week, Aunt Vera started to seem unhappy. A few days before Christmas, I came into the living room and found her staring out the window. She looked like she’d been crying, and I wasn’t sure what to do. “Aunt Vera, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Aunt Vera blew her nose and shook her head. “There’s really nothing wrong,” she said. “It’s just so different here. I’m afraid I’m a little homesick.”
“Oh,” I said. “I guess our weather doesn’t help much, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t get so cold at home, and it never snows. The snow is beautiful, but it’s so cold! I don’t think that I’ll ever be warm again. Mostly I miss Mother and Father … and Christmas.”
“Christmas? We have Christmas here!”
“Yes, but it isn’t the same,” Aunt Vera said with a smile. “You see, where I live in the Philippines, Christmas is a very big celebration. We start on December sixteenth by setting off firecrackers and other fireworks very early in the morning. And we keep celebrating until January sixth. Almost every night there are fireworks and parties. Decorations are everywhere, especially colored lights. And plays that tell Bible stories are performed in one village after another. All the children make beautiful paper lanterns of different shapes and colors, then put candles inside them and have a parade at night. It is beautiful!
“And everywhere are the Christmas stars. They’re lanterns made in the shape of a star. Every house has one hanging over a Nativity scene. On Christmas Eve, we have a “Parade of the Stars,” in which all the villages compete for prizes. Some of the Christmas stars are so big that they ride on the back of decorated pickup trucks or are carried by several people. Our family never misses the parade.”
Aunt Vera paused, a faraway look in her eyes. Then she looked at me. “It isn’t that there is anything wrong with your Christmas,” she said with a sigh. “It’s just that I have never been so far from home, and I didn’t expect things to be quite so different.”
I looked at the star we had hanging over the manger scene. I hadn’t known it was so special. I leaned over and hugged Aunt Vera. “I’m sorry you’re homesick,” I said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”
Aunt Vera laughed and hugged me back.
After that, Aunt Vera seemed to feel better, but I couldn’t help thinking about Christmas in the Philippines. It certainly did seem more festive. I told Todd what Aunt Vera had said and asked if he had any ideas on how to make her feel more at home. He said he’d think about it. Two days later he had a great idea! The very next day, Christmas Eve, we set about making it work.
Right after breakfast, we dressed to go out—boots, snow pants, sweaters, coats, gloves, scarves, and hats. Luckily it had snowed the night before, so there was a lot of snow. Better yet, it was the wet, heavy kind that’s good for building.
We worked by the side of the house where there were no windows. First we each rolled the biggest snowball we could. Todd had to roll his over next to mine because mine got so big that I couldn’t push it. Then we used the plastic buckets from the sandbox to make snow bricks, which we attached to the tops and sides of the snowballs. Then we used our sandbox shovels to smooth the sides and carve details. When we were finished, we had two large snow stars. They looked great, but something still wasn’t right.
“They’re supposed to have lights inside,” I said.
“No problem,” Todd replied. “We’ll just hollow out the center of each one and put in a flashlight.”
And that’s what we did. After lunch we went back out and made three smaller stars. By dinnertime I was drooping, but everything was ready.
After dinner we told Mom, Dad, and Aunt Vera to get their coats and boots on because we had a surprise for them. While they got ready, Todd ran out and turned on the flashlights. We’d borrowed some from the neighbors to have enough. By the time we all went outside, it was snowing again. As we turned the corner of the house, the adults stopped short.
“Oh my!” Mom exclaimed. “It’s gorgeous!”
It was beautiful! With the flashlights reflecting off the insides of the stars, and the snow sparkling from the lights in the houses against the dark night, our sculptures looked better than I had even imagined they would.
“It’s for Aunt Vera,” Todd said.
“For me!” Aunt Vera sounded surprised.
“Yes, you said one of the things you missed about being home was seeing the ‘Parade of Stars,’” I said. “So we made you a little one. Do you like it?”
“All this for me?” she asked again. “Oh, I love it! I’ll never forget it. These are the most beautiful Christmas stars I’ve ever seen!”
Aunt Vera hugged Todd and me for the longest time, and so did Mom and Dad. And for a long time we stood and watched the snow fall on our Christmas stars. Then together we went inside and read in the book of Luke the story of the Savior’s birth—the most beautiful part of Christmas in both our countries.

The river is a poem, a rune, a mystery. The water flows deep with rhythm and verse and beauty. But beneath the beauty, beneath the constant silk flow and tranquility, there are teeth.
“If you aren’t afraid of the river, if you don’t respect it, it will get you,” Bill Barnes said. But he reassured us that all of the guides are expert swimmers and are trained in lifesaving and first aid.
We started quietly, two to a boat, a zigzagging line of canoes desperately pursuing our guide’s course downstream. The current coaxed us away from the shore and slapped us back and forth in the choppy waves. We knew we had experts leading us, but a wariness gnawed at us just the same. The sheer power of the current increased rapidly, pulsing and coursing with a raw anger that could snap a tree trunk. Soon paddles seemed almost useless, but paddles were all we had.
“They had warned us not to run into trees,” David Black of Cottonwood said. “But we thought we could push against one. We tried to push away and it didn’t work. They had told us not to lean the wrong way, but we leaned the wrong way. We went under.”
Thanks to his life preserver, David popped to the surface, grabbed his paddle, and this time following instructions, clung to the canoe. A guide raced up alongside, made sure Dave and his partner were safe, righted their canoe, and coached them as they climbed back in. It was a scene repeated often, sometimes several times for the same partnership. “I’m wetter than a wet dog,” one frustrated Explorer yelped after he had swamped for the fourth time in a row.
“I tipped over nine or ten times,” said Steven Allred of Brigham City. “It demoralized me. But after a while you got used to cold water. And you figured out that if you didn’t want to spend all day swimming, you’d better pay attention.”
As the day wore on, confidence grew. We learned that there were difficult times and times to recover. At a smooth place in the river, everyone was relaxing.
“King Rapids is next,” one of the guides shouted. “Get ready!”
The guides had been talking about King Rapids for two days. It was the biggest, meanest, orneriest, most grizzly rapid on this stretch of the Snake. There were stories about it throwing canoes clean out of the water.
We were close to the base. We could stop and carry out our canoes if we wanted to and avoid King. But none of us did.
“I knew if I quit I’d regret it,” Doug said. “I’d look back later and say, ‘That would have been fun.’ I knew I could make it if I’d just keep trying. I’d already made it through a lot of tough things.”
The water sprayed. It pounded our canoes. We lost our breath, but this time from exhilaration. Even though many of us capsized, we didn’t panic. We glided on down to a smooth basin where the current eddied and fished ourselves and our boats out of the water. Then we all returned to the base to head for home.

I am a 57-year-old grandmother who was diagnosed with diabetes in June 2006. In addition to using medication, I turned to the Word of Wisdom for help. I learned the value of regular exercise and a healthy diet. I lost 88 pounds (40 kg) and have kept the weight off. I felt very blessed for my obedience to the Word of Wisdom the day my doctor discontinued my medications for diabetes and high blood pressure. I have a testimony of the Word of Wisdom because the spiritual and physical blessings I have received through obedience to it continue to bless my life.
Beverly Rutherford, Washington, USA

When our oldest son was 10 years old, I took him deer hunting with some friends in a rugged forest that was new to us. The evening before opening day we set up our tent and shared a campfire meal with the rest of the party. After dinner, the one nonmember in the group broke out a bottle of brandy proclaiming "a little nip will help everyone sleep better tonight." My son and I went back to our tent and were the only ones that did not have a drink. We read the scriptures by lantern light, said our prayers, and climbed in our sleeping bags.

Early the next morning we began the hunt. I told my son to work his way up one side of a canyon, I would work my way up the other side, and we would meet at the top. I arrived at the top, and he was not there yet. I had my Book of Mormon with me, so I sat down to read until he arrived. Time passed and he did not come, so I became worried and retraced my steps calling for him and looking for him on the other side of the canyon. I then saw what I had missed on the way up. The canyon had forked, and his fork took him away from our proposed meeting point.

I became even more alarmed and scrambled down the mountain to the bottom of the canyon. When I reached the sandy streambed, I dropped to my knees pleading with the Lord to tell me which way to go to find my son, upstream or down. As I stood up, I felt a nudge pushing me straight up the other side of the canyon. I climbed to the top of the mountain and found myself on a ridge. Once more the question, which way do I go? Again I knelt down and pleaded for direction. As I stood, I felt a similar nudge prodding me to the left along the ridge. I followed it until it came to a point. There on the point was a lone pine tree with two-by-fours nailed to the trunk allowing me to climb up and sit on a plank that had been set across two branches, forming a lookout and giving me an unobstructed view of the area. Within minutes I saw my son and was able to join him. Coincidence one might say. I felt the nudges!! We had never been in that forest before, but God knew it well. He knew where that lookout was, so I could locate my son.

Ten-year-old Alexandra and her family are grateful that the missionaries were able to come to their country. Several years ago, the missionaries knocked on their door, and her grandmother invited them in. Because of that contact, Alexandra, her parents (Rosa and Arnaldo), and her brother (Victor), as well as her grandmother joined the Church. When Alexandra attended a Latter-day Saint meeting for the first time, she felt more comfortable there than she had at any other church. Later, when she was baptized, she knew that it was the right thing to do. Alexandra knew that she could gain exaltation and return someday to Heavenly Father and Jesus.

The March day felt almost like summer as Raybell walked down the quiet country road. Her parents had gone to dinner the night before and had brought her two fortune cookies that she carried in a paper bag. She wanted to give one to her best friend, Linda.
Raybell looked out over the fields that were just beginning to turn green and thought how very quiet and empty her little farming town was. The sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and a meadowlark broke the lonely silence with its call from the telephone lines.
Raybell hurried up the long walkway to Linda’s house and knocked on the door. She waited and then knocked again. The house was silent. Maybe Linda’s family had gone into town. Raybell sat on the steps and waited for about ten minutes, though it seemed longer. Finally she got up and wandered across the road to the church, a white building with pine trees in front. She sat down on the church steps where she had a view of Linda’s house. She could also see Judy’s house across the field, and she began to think about what had happened after Primary one day last month.
Now Raybell sat on the steps in the warm sunshine and remembered the feelings of that day. Judy hadn’t spoken to her in the last month, but she had never been very friendly. Raybell looked across the field at Judy’s run-down house, surrounded by old, broken-down cars.
Raybell looked again at Judy’s old house. She looked at the paper sack sitting on the steps with the two fortune cookies in it. She picked it up and climbed through the fence into the damp, plowed field.
As Raybell approached the house, she saw Judy sitting on her rickety front steps wearing an old army shirt and baggy pants. She watched Raybell with a hostile expression, and Raybell wished she hadn’t come. She tried to smile.
“My mom and dad went out to eat last night—”
“So?” Judy said.
“Well, they brought these fortune cookies, and I thought we could open them and read our fortunes.” Judy’s expression was puzzled but not angry. “Judy, I’m really sorry about putting snow in your boots.” She stood there not knowing what else to say.
“What do I care if my boots are wet? It doesn’t bother me,” Judy said.
“Well, I’m sorry anyway. I’d hate it if my boots were all wet inside. I guess I’m not as tough as you.”
Judy shrugged her shoulders. “So are you going to give me one of those fortune cookies or not?”
“Oh, sure.” Raybell sat down on the steps and handed a cookie to Judy. They broke the cookies in half and read the slips of paper. “What does yours say?” Raybell asked.
Judy sat up very straight. “It says I will be rich and famous one day. How about yours?”
“‘You are a good leader and should consider politics or business,’” Raybell read. They both laughed.
Judy took a bite of her cookie. “I prefer chocolate cookies, but they’re not bad.”
“Me too,” Raybell said. They both laughed again. Raybell munched her cookie and thought that the spring sunshine felt even warmer here on Judy’s steps.

“How could you not tell me how horrible it is?” I wrote to Elder Newman, one of my instructors at the Missionary Training Center. When I arrived in the mission field 20 years ago, it was hard, and I was hating it. I would stick it out because I wasn’t a quitter, but I would never tell anyone it was the best 18 months of my life.

Elder Newman wrote back: “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sister Betz. Actually, Elder Bradford and I tried to tell you. All of you. We always do, but no one ever wants to believe it. Don’t worry. It will get better. And by the time you get home, you’ll be glad you went.”

I decided to make the best of it. After all, I was sure Heavenly Father wanted me to come, and I couldn’t deny the Spirit I had felt when I had approached Him with my decision to serve a mission. Many of my friends had served missions or were serving, and they seemed to have insights into the gospel that I felt I was missing. Every one of my missionary friends told glowing stories of people whose lives were touched by the gospel and of miracles they witnessed on a daily basis. They all said that serving a mission was the greatest thing they had ever done, and their experiences had helped me choose to serve.

Yet there I was in northern Germany with jet lag, a senior companion who was almost as green as I was, and cool weather in June. We were soaked to the skin at least twice a day and generally looked like we had been dragged through large puddles. Riding bikes didn’t make matters any better. We lived at the top of one of the few high hills in northern Germany, and our investigators, it seemed, all lived at the top of another. Most discouraging, however, was my awareness that I had not yet learned to recognize the subtle influence of the Spirit. I worried that I was doomed to failure as a missionary. And I hadn’t even been in Germany two months yet.

Incredibly, however, I came to find out that Elder Newman was right. It did get better. None of the hard stuff went away, but I learned to see and savor the good times.

Elder Newman was right. By the time I left Germany, my heart had expanded to include an entirely new world full of people, ideas, traditions, and customs—not to mention spiritual impressions—that will remain inscribed on my heart forever. I learned to love, to give, and to suffer for people I had once thought of as strangers.

By age nineteen, she had saved enough money to go to Chicago, Illinois, where she studied at the Chicago Art Institute under the great John Vanderpoel. Several times during her three-year course she had to go home to earn more money by working in the fields or in the classroom. But Minerva always returned to her studies. With characteristic confidence, Minerva once confronted Mr. Vanderpoel, asking why he criticized her work so harshly when so many classmates were doing much poorer work. She later recalled, “I shall never forget the disappointment on the man’s face when he answered in a choked voice, ‘Can it be possible you do not understand; those other students are not worth it, they will eventually leave school, but you—ah, there is no end’” (“Miss Kohlhepp’s Own Story,” Pocatello, Idaho, 1917).
By 1912, she had finished her course at the Art Institute and returned west to earn more money. During this period she was courted by two young men—calling off a wedding with one wealthy suitor when she learned that he didn’t want to be married in a Mormon church. The other young man, not a Church member either (she knew no Latter-day Saint young men), was Herman Teichert. Herman was a gentle cowboy whose favorite activity was chasing wild horses on the desert by moonlight. In April 1915, however, she left Herman behind, telling him to marry someone else, and went to the Art Students’ League in New York City.

In the famous movie The African Queen, two refugees from World War I violence in East Africa are trying to reach the relative safety of Lake Victoria. After surviving many near disasters, their boat, The African Queen, is stranded in a marsh. Unable to tell which way the current is flowing and surrounded by high growth, the two refugees become disoriented and discouraged. At the end of their energy and faith, they are about to give up and die.
Then, in a moment of high drama, the camera through which we are viewing their peril rises, and with new perspective we see their true location. Out of sight to them, but just a few meters away, are the long-sought liberating waters of Lake Victoria.

Among the many wonderful things I would like to remind you about, I love and will conclude with a brief statement from a great book written long ago. It is about a slave who lived in Christ’s time and watched him on a certain special Sunday in the midst of a multitude.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that Demetrius could observe, there was a wave of excitement. It swept down over the sluggish swollen stream of zealots like a sharp breeze. Men all about him were breaking loose from their families, tossing their packs into the arms of their overburdened children, and racing forward toward some urgent attraction. Far up ahead the shouts were increasing in volume, spontaneously organizing into a concerted reiterated cry; a single, magic word that drove the multitude into a frenzy.

“Do you know what is going on?” said Demetrius. [He was talking to another slave.]

“They’re yelling something about a king. That’s all I can make of it.”

“You think they’ve got somebody up front who wants to be their king? Is that it?”

“Looks like it. They keep howling another word that I don’t know—Messiah. The man’s name, maybe.”

Standing on tiptoe for an instant in the swaying crowd, Demetrius caught a fleeting glimpse of the obvious center of interest, a brown-haired, bareheaded, well-favored Jew. A tight little circle had been left open for the slow advance of the shaggy white donkey on which he rode. . . . There had been no effort to bedeck the pretender with any royal regalia. He was clad in a simple brown mantle with no decorations of any kind, and the handful of men—his intimate friends, no doubt—who tried to shield him from the pressure of the throng, wore the commonest sort of country garb.

It was quite clear now to Demetrius that the incident was accidental. . . . Whoever had started this wild pandemonium, it was apparent that it lacked the hero’s approbation.

The face of the enigmatic Jew seemed weighted with an almost insupportable burden of anxiety. The eyes, narrowed as if in resigned acceptance of some inevitable catastrophe, stared straight ahead toward Jerusalem.

Gradually the brooding eyes moved over the crowd until they came to rest on the strained, bewildered face of Demetrius. Perhaps, he wondered, the man’s gaze halted there because he alone—in all this welter of hysteria—refrained from shouting. His silence singled him out. The eyes calmly appraised Demetrius. They neither widened nor smiled; but, in some indefinable manner, they held Demetrius in a grip so firm it was almost a physical compulsion. The message they communicated was something other than sympathy, something more vital than friendly concern; a sort of stabilizing power that swept away all such negations as slavery, poverty, or any other afflicting circumstance. Demetrius was suffused with the glow of this curious kinship. Blind with sudden tears, he elbowed through the throng and reached the roadside. The uncouth Athenian, bursting with curiosity, inopportunely accosted him.

“See him—close up?” he asked.

Demetrius nodded.

“Crazy?” persisted the Athenian.

“No.”

“King?”

“No,” muttered Demetrius, soberly—“not a king.”

“What is he, then?” demanded the Athenian.

“I don’t know,” mumbled Demetrius, in a puzzled voice, “but—he is something more important than a king.” [Lloyd C. Douglas, The Robe, chapter 4]

As I was growing up, my mother insisted that I read regularly. She would take me down to the public library and check out about a one-foot length of books from the shelves. She typically chose biographies of great men and women. Sometimes it was painful to stay inside and read when I would rather be doing other things. But then each day I would see my mother reading, and I noted that she finished a book almost every day. That habit has stayed with her throughout her life and has blessed not only her children but her grandchildren, extended family, former students, and friends.

Today at the age of 87, my mother has grown blind, but she still “reads” constantly. She now reads by listening to audiotapes of books. Just a few days ago I asked her what books she had read recently. The list she gave me was impressive. She told me that she was rereading several of the classics, including The Iliad, The Odyssey, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Moby Dick, Walden, etc., all intermingled with scripture and gospel study. She has made the quest for knowledge a lifelong pursuit.

With that intricate process in mind, imagine the work that goes into creating a massive stained glass mural depicting Christ’s mortal ministry, because that is exactly what Tom and Gayle Holdman of Provo, Utah, USA, and a team of artists, designers, and models miraculously accomplished in less than a year. The finished product is displayed in the Rome Italy Temple Visitors’ Center and is absolutely breathtaking.
In the beginning, plans for the Rome Temple Visitors’ Center included a video wall, but the idea was canceled, which made an opening for the stained glass window to be placed there. A scene was drafted for the window; then actors in costumes were brought in to pose for it, allowing artists to create concept art for the window.
“We kept feeling more and more impressed to go with a certain concept design,” Brother Holdman says. “We ended up doing an intricate sketch of the whole picture so we could capture the emotion of the actors.” After the final sketch was created, Tom was able to begin working with the glass.
The window depicts the Savior and His Twelve Apostles during His earthly ministry. It is placed strategically at the center of the visitors’ center so it will be the first thing visitors see as they walk in the building. Then as visitors walk around to the other side of the window, they can see the marble statues of the Christus and the original Twelve Apostles.
One of the many beauties this stained glass window contains is that it does not depict just one scene from the Lord’s earthly ministry. In what appears to be a single scene at first glance, Jesus Christ and the Twelve Apostles are in the midst of characters and symbols that represent events and people from the Lord’s earthly ministry as well as each parable He taught. The Holdmans are excited for visitors to see the piece and to find and point out their favorite stories about Christ.
The depiction of the woman by the well is especially intricate. She represents more accounts than just the woman at the well; she is reaching out to the Savior as the woman with the issue of blood did, and the stones next to her symbolize the woman accused of committing adultery who was brought to be stoned.
“The woman at the well is one of my favorite parts of this window because she represents so many different women from the New Testament,” says Sister Holdman. “Each of those women had a different outward need, but ultimately they all just needed to be healed. Their stories and faith truly testify to me, and hopefully to many visitors, of the Savior’s healing power.”
One of the Holdmans’ highest hopes is that their stained glass will be a useful missionary tool at the visitors’ center. “This whole piece was created to be a visual testimony of Christ,” Sister Holdman explains. The artwork includes symbols and elements of Christ’s birth, Crucifixion, Atonement, Resurrection, and many more symbols of Him.
“We included imagery that exists within other Christian religions like the cross and the crown of thorns so it can possibly create a spark of recognition and allow investigators and missionaries to build on common beliefs,” says Brother Holdman. “This whole window shows that what is important to them is important to us. It shows that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is a Christian church. I hope this will help people fully understand that.”
After working tirelessly to complete this miraculous project in less than a year, Brother and Sister Holdman have been humbled and overjoyed in seeing this beautiful piece of artwork come together. “The artwork really allows you to see how all the stories of Christ’s ministry overlay and interweave and also relate to us today,” says Sister Holdman. “We’re not much different from those who lived in Christ’s day because we need Him and His teachings just as much as they did.”
“We specifically crafted and designed this piece so that all of the lines of glass point to the heart of the Savior at the center of the piece,” Brother Holdman explains. “From the buildings to the height of the people, everything in this artwork points back to Him.”

There are others among us who search for light in their lives. One such young man had broken many of the laws of the land and had been punished by a prison sentence. He even escaped from prison, only to be caught and reincarcerated a short time later. His was truly a life of darkness and misery, but through the constant efforts of a caring bishop, this young man decided to change his ways and return to Christ. With a meek and lowly heart he began to repent, and the Spirit of the Holy Ghost touched his heart.
As he prepared to leave prison after serving his term, there to greet him at the gate were his bishop, who had worked with him all those years, and he brought with him his father, mother, brothers, and sisters, who received him with open arms and great rejoicing. What a deep appreciation this young man had for his bishop and his family, who had stood by him even though he had caused them much embarrassment and many sleepless nights with his wayward activities. But their faith never wavered, and indeed a miracle was wrought. Today, this young man serves as the elders quorum president of his ward.

Professional life is another area which provides opportunities for friendships. Once when I was working in California, I was offered a job in New York City. My employers told me people didn’t care about each other there.
I couldn’t believe people could live the way they described. It made me want to go to New York City just to prove them wrong. But after six months working there, I was ready to concede my California friends were right. Then I decided I hadn’t made much of an effort myself.
So I started a program to find out if New York City workers were really human. I lived in Scarsdale, about a 45-minute train ride from New York. The train ran exactly on schedule. I started noticing the habits of the commuters. They would leave home at exactly the same minute each morning, walk to the station, buy a New York Times, walk to a certain board on the platform, fold their paper, stand on that board until the train arrived, get on the same car, find the same seat, and read their newspaper all the way into Grand Central Station. They would never speak as they traveled their various routes.
I decided the only way to get to know them was to break the routine. I selected a man I thought I would like to get acquainted with, and after observing his routine for a few days, I planned a counter-routine.
I arrived at the station at about the same time he did. As soon as he started to walk down to his favorite board on the platform, I broke into a run and just beat him there, firmly planting my two feet on his favorite spot. This unnerved him so that he didn’t even unfold his newspaper.
When the train arrived, I jumped on and took his favorite seat. He rode all the way into the city visibly disturbed. I believe I ruined the entire day for him. The next morning I repeated the same process.
Then the most remarkable thing happened the third morning. When I arrived at the train platform, he was already there, firmly planted on his favorite board, reading his newspaper. I couldn’t help but laugh. He gave me a scowl, and then he couldn’t hold back either. I introduced myself as a new arrival determined to break the routine of a commuter. We had an enjoyable visit. We got on the train and talked all the way into New York.
From then on, breaking each other’s routine became a game. We would race each morning for that favorite spot. Soon others noticed what we were doing, and before we knew it, there were three, then four, then five, then ten, all racing for that particular board each morning.
The great friendships made then have endured many years. The cold New Yorker was just as friendly as anyone else. All you had to do was break through that city shell.

I would like to share a story of when I was able to give service to someone:

In 2011, two years after my Father passed away, my cousin, Tamara Mo’o Ulima Soliai’s husband passed away leaving five young children ages 6 to 17 behind. Our family was shocked and saddened by the ordeal. This time I could give back and help support my cousin with love. I could provide some comfort and peace that I knew she was going through because we had gone through it before. I was grateful that I could give of my time by being there for her. Because I received service from others it helped me to render service to her and her family. I didn’t do anything big or spectacular. I didn’t do anything that was physically strenuous or tiring. I was just there for her, in person, to offer a helpful hand and a shoulder to lean on or cry on.

It doesn’t take much to give service. Start with a kind word, a smile, a warm hello, a friendly text or just being there, are a few simple things you can do. Make your service genuine and with love. You should be “anxiously engaged in a good cause … For the power is in [you].”15 You have the power to help and serve others, you should take every opportunity to do so. When you serve remember, “God loveth a cheerful giver.”16

Walking slowly along the wet sand—hands in pockets and bare feet kicking the water that lapped at his toes—Guillermo (Gee-yer-mo) wished he had a present to welcome his friend Philip. Soon it would be time for Philip to arrive in Baja, California, after the trip with his family along the Oregon seacoast. Two years ago the two boys had been neighbors in Arizona. Will Philip be the same? he wondered. He was concerned that perhaps they wouldn’t still like the same things.
Guillermo stooped to pick up a flat, gray, roundish seashell almost hidden in the wet sand. It was a sand dollar! He turned it over in his hand with the feeling of awe and wonder he always felt when he thought about the legend of the shell. He slipped the shell into his jeans pocket as he heard the sound of his mother’s voice floating down from the bluff.
“Guillermo, it is time.”
He climbed the winding path up the bluff to their red brick home at the top and opened the heavy wooden door to enter a cool, tile-bordered room.
“Hurry, Guillermo, and help me set the table,” urged his mother. “Philip’s parents will want their lunch so they can be on their way to Cabo San Lucas. How nice that Philip can stay with you for a whole week!”
Guillermo had just finished putting a bright cloth on the table and had changed into a clean T-shirt when he heard a car pull into the yard.
“Here they are,” said his mother. “Tell Papa.”
“Papa, they’re here!” called Guillermo. Then he hurried outside, one hand in his pocket.
A red-haired boy ran toward him with a package in his hand.
“Hola (hello), Guillermo, como está usted (how are you)?”
“I’m fine, Philip,” Guillermo replied.
“I’ve been practicing Spanish,” his friend explained. “Look what I brought you.” He shoved the package into Guillermo’s hand and said excitedly, “Open it, OK?”
Guillermo opened the package. Inside was a plastic flying saucer.
“Muchas gracias, Felipe (many thanks, Philip),” he said, grinning.
Again he wished he had a welcoming gift for Philip. Then he remembered the sand dollar he had picked up. He put his hand into his pocket and drew out the flat seashell.
“I have a present for you, too, Philip. I’m sorry it isn’t wrapped.”
“I’ve never seen a shell like this before,” said Philip. “What is it?”
“It’s a sand dollar. However, some people call it a keyhole urchin. It’s found on the Gulf coast and Atlantic coast. After dinner let’s go to my room and I’ll tell you about it.”
Later when they reached his bedroom, Guillermo opened a shoe box on his dresser and took out a dry, sun-bleached sand dollar. “The legend,” Guillermo began, “says that this shell tells the story of the birth and death of Jesus.”
“How can a sand dollar do that?” asked Philip.
Guillermo pointed to the shell in his hand.
“The markings show up better on this dry shell than on yours. See, on the back there’s an Easter lily. In the center of it is the tracing of the star that guided the wise men to the Christ child.”
Guillermo turned the shell over. “Here on the other side are the markings of the Christmas poinsettia. In the middle are five holes, representing the wounds in Jesus’ body when He was crucified.”
“Wow!” said Philip, “that’s interesting.” Then, looking closely at the holes, he thought of something else and asked, “How does the shell move?”
“When it’s alive it’s covered with brown, hair-like spines, and it moves with them. It’s an animal like the starfish.” Guillermo pointed to a small hole in the bottom of the shell. “It takes food in through here.” He handed the shell to Philip. “Here, shake it,” he suggested to his friend.
Guillermo watched as Philip gently shook the shell and sand fell out.
“What’s inside, more sand?” asked Philip.
“No. Hold out your hand. Now watch.”
Guillermo broke open the sand dollar and out dropped several tiny white wing-like objects.
“They’re like folded butterflies made of ivory or bone!” Philip exclaimed.
“The legend says they are the white doves that spread goodwill and peace,” Guillermo explained.
“That’s really neat,” said Philip. “Can we look for more sand dollars on the beach?”
“Sure, Philip. Did you know that some women wear pendants of gold cast from real sand dollars? Other people thread sand dollars on strings and use them for wind chimes.”
“I can make a chime for my mother!” said Philip excitedly. “Or maybe I could make her a necklace for Christmas. Boy, Guillermo, I’m so glad I came!”