Gospel Story Finder

I was born in Cambodia, where most people are Buddhists. After the Khmer Rouge regime killed so many people, many of the survivors didn’t understand why, if there was a God, He would let this happen to our people. At 14 years old, I wondered the same thing.
After the regime ended, several religions began taking hold in Cambodia. I was confused because the churches taught so many different things. My family remained Buddhists, but I wanted answers to the questions of my soul: where did we come from, why are we here, and where are we going after this life?
One day as I returned from school, my aunt told me that two young men wearing white shirts and ties had come to her home talking about Jesus Christ. She was surprised because they spoke good Cambodian. I wanted to learn about Christ. I wanted to know who created us. I wondered, “Who is God? Is it Buddha, Jesus Christ, or some other god?”
My aunt and I accepted the missionaries. During the first discussion, we felt the Spirit telling us that what they said was true. They gave us a Book of Mormon and promised that if we read it, pondered it, and asked God with a sincere heart, having faith in Him, He would manifest the truth unto us. It made a lot of sense to me. I accepted the gospel, along with my aunt and her children. About a month later, we were all baptized and confirmed.

In Act One by Moss Hart, the author tells of a particularly difficult experience he had one Christmas. His father was working several jobs, his mother had taken in renters, and still they were barely making it.

“Obviously Christmas was out of the question—we were barely staying alive. On Christmas Eve my father was very silent during the evening meal. Then he surprised and startled me by turning to me and saying, ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He had never suggested such a thing before, and moreover it was a very cold winter’s night. I was even more surprised when he said as we left the house, ‘Let’s go down to a Hundred Forty-ninth Street and Westchester Avenue.’ My heart leapt within me. That was the section where all the big stores were, where at Christmastime open pushcarts full of toys stood packed end-to-end for blocks at a stretch. On other Christmas Eves I had often gone there with my aunt, and from our tour of the carts she had gathered what I wanted the most. My father had known of this, of course, and I joyously concluded that this walk could mean only one thing—he was going to buy me a Christmas present.

“On the walk down I was beside myself with delight and an inner relief. It had been a bad year for me, that year of my aunt’s going, and I wanted a Christmas present terribly—not a present merely, but a symbol, a token of some sort. I needed some sign from my father or mother that they knew what I was going through and cared for me as much as my aunt and my grandfather did. I am sure they were giving me what mute signs they could, but I did not see them. The idea that my father had managed a Christmas present for me in spite of everything filled me with a sudden peace and lightness of heart I had not known in months.

“We hurried on, our heads bent against the wind, to the cluster of lights ahead that was 149th Street and Westchester Avenue, and those lights seemed to me the brightest lights I had ever seen. Tugging at my father’s coat, I started down the line of pushcarts. There were all kinds of things that I wanted, but since nothing had been said by my father about buying a present, I would merely pause before a pushcart to say, with as much control as I could muster, ‘Look at that chemistry set!’ or, ‘There’s a stamp album!’ or, ‘Look at the printing press!’ Each time my father would pause and ask the pushcart man the price. Then without a word we would move on to the next pushcart. Once or twice he would pick up a toy of some kind and look at it and then at me, as if to suggest this might be something I might like, but I was ten years old and a good deal beyond just a toy; my heart was set on a chemistry set or a printing press. There they were on every pushcart we stopped at, but the price was always the same and soon I looked up and saw we were nearing the end of the line. Only two or three more pushcarts remained. My father looked up, too, and I heard him jingle some coins in his pocket. In a flash I knew it all. He’d gotten together about seventy-five cents to buy me a Christmas present, and he hadn’t dared say so in case there was nothing to be had for so small a sum.

“As I looked up at him I saw a look of despair and disappointment in his eyes that brought me closer to him than I had ever been in my life. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, ‘It doesn’t matter … I understand … this is better than a chemistry set or a printing press … I love you.’ But instead we stood shivering beside each other for a moment—then turned away from the last two pushcarts and started silently back home. I don’t know why the words remained choked up within me. I didn’t even take his hand on the way home nor did he take mine. We were not on that basis. Nor did I ever tell him how close to him I felt that night—that for a little while the concrete wall between father and son had crumbled away and I knew that we were two lonely people struggling to reach each other.

“I came close to telling him many years later, but again the moment passed.” (From ACT ONE, by Moss Hart. Copyright 1959 by Catherine Carlisle Hart and Joseph M. Hyman, Trustees. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.)

When I was young, I was overly dependent on my older sister. For example, I was a fussy eater, and when we went to visit our grandparents, I was constantly faced with being offered food I didn’t like. When the plate was passed to me, I would turn to my sister and ask, “Collene, do I like this?”
If it was familiar and she knew that I didn’t like it, she would say, “No, you don’t like that.”
If it was something we hadn’t eaten before, she would say, “Just a minute,” and taste it, and then tell me if I liked it or not. If she said that I didn’t like it, no amount of coaxing could get me to eat it.
Just as I needed to rely on my own taste buds and stop denying myself good food just because my sister told me that I didn’t like it, we must all feast on the fruit of our own testimony and not the testimony of another person. We also need to increase our ability to receive personal revelation.

When I was 16, the stake presidency announced that our stake would visit the temple in Buenos Aires, and I was invited to go. I saved money and worked hard to be worthy to obtain a temple recommend.
After I received the recommend, temptations attacked me from every side, all trying to make me lose that worthiness. But I had a desire to attend the temple. I didn’t want to just hear the experience and testimony of others; I wanted to have my own experience and testimony.
The night to travel came. Even before getting on the bus, I had thoughts about not going, but I didn’t give in. During the 10-hour trip, I sat by a member of the Church who was very friendly to me. He was around 60 years old. He told me about his life and how happy he was to have gone through the trials he had.
I began to tell him about my life and how I felt very alone because many people had distanced themselves from me because I was following God. He told me, “God will give you a great friend, and that friend will always be there for you. Don’t forget it.” When he finished saying these words, I felt calm and peaceful because I felt that what he told me was true.
When I entered the temple, the heaviness I was carrying disappeared. It felt like there was a spiritual embrace telling me, “Welcome, my son. I have been waiting for you.”
I felt that the temple really was the house of God, not just a beautiful structure. After doing some baptisms and confirmations, I went outside. I felt the burdens return, but now I felt like I had the strength to overcome them.
I know that preparing ourselves and leaving everything in the hands of God and giving the best of ourselves to enter the temple is what is expected of us. Then God blesses us abundantly.

Then President Pulman related this story. He, along with the advance party for the conference, had arrived a day early to prepare everything. The first person they saw was a porter of the university, who asked them to sit down a moment as he had something to say.

This porter had about 500 young people in his wing of the college every year. He said about 60 percent were not very well behaved. But for the last three years there had been a truly exceptional student who had never put a foot wrong and had been a wonderful example to all around her. He had learned that she was LDS, so he had decided to give the Latter-day Saints a welcome on behalf of the staff.

Then President Pulman called on the soloist to stand up, and stated that she was the student the porter had spoken of. I realized why I had been so impressed with the beautiful young lady who had proved such a worthy representative of the Church. I hope that as other LDS youth leave home, whether for a university or a youth conference, they will live so that they too can be outstanding examples.

Amy and her family lived in an old log house at the foot of a pine tree covered mountain. She used to have to stand on a chair to look out the window, but now Amy stood on the floor and pressed her nose against the windowpane, watching the snowflakes float down.
“Mom! Mom!” she called. “Mother Goose is shaking her feather pillows again. Look at the snow coming down!” Amy danced happily around the room. “May I go outside?” Amy asked her mother. “I want to play in the snow.”
Amy’s mother looked outside at the snow-covered slope. Turning, she smiled at Amy and said, “Yes, but be careful. The snow looks soft and snuggly, but it covers hard rocks and holes.”
Giving her mother a quick little hug, Amy ran to the closet and put on her coat, stocking cap, mittens, and boots. Then she grinned at her mother and bounded out the door. There was a half-foot of snow on the ground. Amy laughed as she fell backward into the snow and moved her arms up and down and her legs back and forth to make a snow angel.
Quickly jumping up, Amy ran to the woodshed. I wish we had a sled, Amy thought as she opened the door. Maybe there’s something in here that I can use. Looking around, she saw an old deer hide stretched over a box. Maybe that will make a good sled, she thought, grabbing at the corner of the hide and dragging it up the hill. But the hide didn’t slide well at all, so Amy dragged it back to the woodshed. This time she found a large piece of cardboard.
After carrying the cardboard up the slope and checking for rocks and holes, Amy sat down on the cardboard and slid down the hill. “Whee! That was fun!” she shouted when she reached the bottom. But it wasn’t long until the cardboard was too soggy and ragged to slide.
Amy was soon back in the woodshed to find something else. She searched in all the corners and behind the woodpile. Just as she was about to give up, she spotted a big metal dishpan hanging on the wall. “Oh!” Amy squealed happily at her discovery. “I bet that would make a wonderful sled!”
Picking up a broom, Amy knocked the dishpan off the wall. She grabbed the pan, stepped outside, and ran back up the slope.
SWISH! Round and round Amy went down the hill, sitting in the dishpan. Tumbling out at the bottom into the soft, deepening snow, she lay there, breathless and dizzy.
“What’s the matter?” a voice asked.
Turning over, Amy looked up into the face of her older brother Roy. “Just the greatest ride ever,” Amy replied. “You should take a ride. It goes round and round!”
“You want me to ride in a dishpan?” Roy asked. “I’m too big. How do you steer it anyway?”
“You don’t steer it,” Amy said excitedly. “You just ride in it! C’mon, I’ll give you a push.”
Not wanting to be outdone by his little sister, Roy walked up the hill with her. With a push from Amy, he was off.
“Yippee!” Roy shouted as round and round and down and down he went.
At the bottom Roy tumbled out and rolled over in the snow. Amy ran down to meet him. “I told you, didn’t I? Wasn’t it fun?” she asked.
“That’s really terrific,” Roy told her with a big grin.
Mom and Dad came running up. “What happened?” Mother gasped. “We heard someone hollering.”
Roy, getting up and looking at Amy, said, “Only the greatest ride ever. Amy found a ‘sled’ that really goes.”
“Let me show you,” said Amy as she grabbed the dishpan and ran up the hill. Mom and Dad watched Amy push off and come hurtling toward them. Faster and faster she came down the hill until she tumbled out at the bottom.
Laughing with excitement, Amy and Roy and Mother watched Dad reach down, pick up the dishpan, and run up the hill. He scrunched down in the dishpan and, before you knew it, was flying down the slope, shouting with glee.
At the bottom of the hill Dad handed the dishpan to Mom and said, “Now it’s your turn.” Taking the dishpan, Mom ran up the slope for her ride in Amy’s sled!

We know a sweet young woman who is a convert to the Church. Her father is a Baptist minister. I spoke to a group of young adults and counseled them as President Kimball has asked that we do regarding temple marriage. Later in a testimony meeting, she said, “I am a convert to the Church. My father is a Baptist minister. It just about broke his heart when I joined the Mormon church. The only hope to which he could cling to salvage his ‘wayward’ daughter was to perform the wedding ceremony when I get married. Not only will he not be able to perform the ceremony, but he will not even be able to see me married. I love him and Mother dearly, but I must follow the prophet’s counsel to be married in the temple.”

We can seldom foresee how the Lord will make us instruments in his hands. One year when my companion was out of town, my daughter Elizabeth went with me on my visits. It was Christmastime, so we baked cookies, wrapped them in cellophane, and tied them with red ribbon and a pine branch. Then we put all these little gifts in a bag and had a prayer together. At the last minute I felt a strong prompting and slipped in an extra package.
After visiting several houses, we reached the home of a sister who lived with her married son and his family, all of whom were members. Another older woman, looking very tired, was there delivering clothing. Her name was Margarita, and she earned her living doing laundry by hand. Knowing what hard work that is, I handed her the other little package of cookies and wished her a Merry Christmas. With tears in her eyes, she told me that she was completely alone and that this would be her only gift.
I spoke to her then about the Lord Jesus Christ and told her that if he is with us, we will not be lonely. I assured her that she was a daughter of God who loved her just as an earthly father loves his children and that if she sought after him, he would receive her with open arms. I told her many more things. Her face lighted up, and she agreed to receive the missionaries.
The next month when we went to visit that house, Margarita was there again. She hugged us and said, “Now I can really call you sisters. I was baptized last week.”

Observing and serving sometimes requires great effort. An inspired young woman named Alexandria noticed that her cousin Madison was unable to complete her own Personal Progress requirements because she suffered from severe autism. Alexandria rallied the young women in her ward, counseled with her leaders, and determined to do something for Maddy that she could not do herself. Each of the young women completed a portion of the Personal Progress activities and projects vicariously to enable Maddy to receive her own medallion.7
These young women will progress well into roles of motherhood and Relief Society sisterhood because they are learning to first observe, then serve in charitable ways.

Jason lay by the hearth, doing his homework in the firelight. But he couldn’t concentrate. The image of Mr. Rayburn’s ranch kept coming back to him, and with it the sight of the beautiful little pony the rancher had for sale. Only eighteen dollars, that’s all it would cost! he thought. But it might as well be five hundred. Jason’s father had gone to fight in the Civil War, and had left his ten-year-old son as the man of the house.
More than anything he had ever wanted before, Jason wanted a pony. But how will I ever get eighteen dollars of my own? he asked himself. All the other boys rode to school on horses. But Jason had to be up before dawn to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and then walk the long distance to school. When he wasn’t at school, Jason was busy at home, helping his mother on their farm.
Jason’s mother listened sympathetically when he told her about Mr. Rayburn’s pony. But when the boy finished, she just looked at him with a sad kind of smile. “Oh, Jason,” she said. “The pony sounds wonderful. But I’m afraid we don’t have any money to spare. We’re having a hard time now and with a new baby coming …”
“I’d forgotten for a minute about the baby. I hope it’s a girl. I’d like to have a little sister,” said Jason with a smile. “And maybe if I work extra hard, there will be enough money for a cradle.”
His mother hugged him close. “With you here to help, we’ll do just fine, Jason,” she said.
Later that night Jason climbed the ladder up to the loft where he slept. But before sleep came he couldn’t help thinking about the pony.
The next morning on his way to school, Jason saw a notice in the window of the general store:
Boys needed afternoons or evenings at the planing mill—10¢ an hour.
Ten cents an hour is a lot of money, Jason thought. I hope I can get that job after school.
The hours seemed to drag by until school was over. When the bell rang, Jason raced to the mill, but his heart sank when he saw the long line of waiting boys. At last it was his turn to apply for a job.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“Ten years old, sir. But I’ll be eleven in March. And I’m a hard worker,” replied Jason.
“I don’t think you’re old enough for a job here, son. Why don’t you try us next year?”
Jason did not move. “Please, sir, now that my father is at war, I’m the only man in the house. And I’ll work hard.”
“Well, if your dad’s away fighting, I guess we can find a job for you,” the man said.
Jason could hardly wait to tell his mother about his new job. “I know you’ll make me proud of you,” she said. “And since you’re working on your own time between school and chores, son, you may keep the money you earn.”
Jason jumped up with delight and hugged her. His chores weren’t so hard that night. In his mind he could just see himself up on the back of that little pony. It won’t matter if I don’t have a saddle. I’ll still be able to ride like the other boys, and they won’t laugh at (ridicule) me anymore, he thought.
Jason liked his work at the mill. But it became hard to study without falling asleep and even harder to get up in the mornings. As the weeks passed, Jason’s little pile of money grew. Each payday brought him closer to his goal. However, it was nearly time for the baby to be born and Jason knew that he would soon have to quit working at the mill because his mother would need more help at home. Every night when he went to bed he wondered how long he would be able to work.
The next payday Jason counted his savings. He had $19.10, and in his mind he could see the little pony in their barn. He was so busy thinking about the pony that he almost bumped into a buggy parked in their yard. He looked up and his heart leaped. It was Dr. Frank’s. The baby must have been born! He raced toward the house. Then he suddenly got sad. The cradle! Mother still didn’t have a cradle for the baby. But it really wasn’t his fault. Mother had said he could keep the money he earned. Still, he felt a little selfish. He opened the door slowly and peeked in. His grandmother was in the kitchen.
“Grandmother is it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Grandmother smiled and put a finger to her lips, “Shh, your mother is asleep. Come and see your baby sister.”
Jason approached timidly. He had not been this close to a newborn baby before. She lay curled up in the laundry basket, wrapped in layers of blankets.
“Oh, Grandmother she’s so tiny,” he whispered.
“Your mother has named her Jenny. She looks a little like you did when you were a baby,” said Grandmother.
Jason bent down to look at the tiny fingers. They moved when he touched them and curled themselves around his larger finger. He frowned. He was the man of the house, and this little baby was partly his responsibility. How could he think of buying a pony when Jenny had no cradle?
“Grandmother I’m not very hungry. I have something important to do. Please tell Mother I’ll be back soon.”
Jason ran outside and didn’t stop till he came to the general store. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, also did woodworking as a hobby.
“Mr. Wright! My mother had a baby girl. How much would you charge to make me a cradle for her—one that rocks?”
“Well, since you’re a working man,” the storekeeper said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll make a real nice one for you for nine dollars. I can have it ready by Friday.”
“That’d be fine,” said Jason. As he turned to leave, he saw some baby clothes inside a showcase. “How much is that pretty little gown?” he asked. “I want to get that for Jenny too.”
All the way home Jason whistled a jaunty tune. He was sure that the real man of the house couldn’t be any happier about the new baby than her big brother was.

My dad announced a “pet peeve” night. During family home evening, each member of the family writes down things that other members of the family do that bother him without mentioning any names. Dad reads them out loud. We all try to stop doing the things that bother other members of the family. We had so much fun with it, we have a “pet peeve” night about three times a year.
Mitch Alley, 15Spokane, Washington

“One day when I was about nine, Mother and Dad were on their way to a Church meeting and their car was struck by a train at a railroad crossing. Dad was unhurt in the accident, but Mother had one lung punctured and suffered many cuts and broken bones. The Latter-day Saint doctor who attended her shook his head and said, ‘She just can’t survive.’ But a member of our stake presidency gave her a blessing that she would recover. Soon the pain subsided, the lung healed, and the broken bones knitted together perfectly. Mother was born with a slight curvature of the spine, and afterward she good-naturedly teased, ‘If the Lord was going to mend my broken bones, surely He could have straightened my spine too.’

Johanna was only eight when war came to her village in Holland and everything changed. When Johanna was ten, conditions were so bad that her only chance for life was to escape with an older sister and hide in a farmhouse many miles away from their home.
The two girls live with the Oosterveld family, who keep them hidden in an upstairs room—hidden from prying neighbors and from German soldiers who set up an office in the room just below them. Johanna and Sini spend days quietly in bed, bored and lonely and longing for exercise and fresh air. They spend years hidden away from the world.
This unforgettable book touches the heart and holds the reader breathless with excitement, wondering what will happen next. It was named a Newbery honor book for 1973.

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone.
Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Though perhaps not so cruel and dramatic, yet equally poignant, are the lives described in the obituaries of our day and time when the uninvited enemy called death enters the stage of our mortal existence and snatches from our grasp a loving husband or precious wife and frequently, in the young exuberance of life, our children and grandchildren. Death shows no mercy. Death is no respecter of persons, but in its insidious way it visits all. At times it is after long-suffering and is a blessing; while in other instances those in the prime of life are taken by its grasp.
As of old, the heartbroken frequently and silently repeat the ancient question: “Is there no balm in Gilead?” “Why me; why now?” The words of a beautiful hymn provide a partial answer:
Where can I turn for peace? Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart, Searching my soul? …
He answers privately, Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant he is and kind, Love without end.
The plight of the widow is a recurring theme through holy writ. Our hearts go out to the widow at Zarephath. Gone was her husband. Consumed was her scant supply of food. Starvation and death awaited. But then came God’s prophet with the seemingly brazen command that the widow woman should feed him. Her response is particularly touching: “As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse: and, behold, I am gathering two sticks, that I may go in and dress it for me and my son, that we may eat it, and die.”
The reassuring words of Elijah penetrated her very being:
“Fear not; go and do as thou hast said: but make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy son.
“For thus saith the Lord God of Israel, The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail. …
“And she went and did according to the saying of Elijah. …
“And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail.”
Like the widow at Zarephath was the widow of Nain. The New Testament of our Lord records a moving and soul-stirring account of the Master’s tender regard for the grieving widow:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him, and much people.
“Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her.
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.”
What power, what tenderness, what compassion did our Master and Exemplar demonstrate. We, too, can bless if we will but follow His noble example. Opportunities are everywhere. Needed are eyes to see the pitiable plight, ears to hear the silent pleadings of a broken heart; yes, and a soul filled with compassion, that we might communicate not only eye to eye or voice to ear, but in the majestic style of the Savior, even heart to heart.
The word widow appears to have had a most significant meaning to our Lord. He cautioned His disciples to beware of the example of the scribes, who feigned righteousness by their long apparel and their lengthy prayers, but who devoured the houses of widows.
To the Nephites came the direct warning: “I will come near to you to judgment; and I will be a swift witness against … those that oppress … the widow.”
And to the Prophet Joseph Smith, He directed: “The storehouse shall be kept by the consecrations of the church; and widows and orphans shall be provided for, as also the poor.”
The widow’s home is generally not large or ornate. Frequently it is a modest one in size and humble in appearance. Often it is tucked away at the top of the stairs or the back of the hallway and consists of but one room. To such homes He sends you and me.
There may exist an actual need for food, clothing—even shelter. Such can be supplied. Almost always there remains the hope for that special hyacinth to feed the soul.
Go, gladden the lonely, the dreary;
Go, comfort the weeping, the weary;
Go, scatter kind deeds on your way;
Oh, make the world brighter today!
Let us remember that after the funeral flowers fade, the well wishes of friends become memories and the prayers offered and words spoken dim in the corridors of the mind. Those who grieve frequently find themselves alone. Missed are the laughter of children, the commotion of teenagers, and the tender, loving concern of a departed companion. The clock ticks more loudly, time passes more slowly, and four walls do indeed a prison make.
Hopefully, all of us may again hear the echo of words spoken by the Master, inspiring us to good deeds: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto me.”
The late Elder Richard L. Evans left for our contemplation and action this admonition:
“We who are younger should never become so blindly absorbed in our own pursuits as to forget that there are still with us those who will live in loneliness unless we let them share our lives as once they let us share theirs. …
“We cannot bring them back the morning hours of youth. But we can help them live in the warm glow of a sunset made more beautiful by our thoughtfulness, by our provision, and by our active and unfeigned love. Life in its fullness is a loving ministry of service from generation to generation. God grant that those who belong to us may never be left in loneliness.”
Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, I said a prayer one evening that is especially sacred to me. I pleaded that these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed.
The wife of that generous businessman became a widow herself. I know the decision her husband and she made brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.
I express my sincere appreciation to one and all who are mindful of the widow. To the thoughtful neighbors who invite a widow to dinner and to that royal army of noble women, the visiting teachers of the Relief Society, I add, may God bless you for your kindness and your love unfeigned toward her who reaches out and touches vanished hands and listens to voices forever stilled. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith describe their mission: “I attended by request, the Female Relief Society, whose object is the relief of the poor, the destitute, the widow and the orphan, and for the exercise of all benevolent purposes.”
Thank you to thoughtful and caring bishops who ensure that no widow’s cupboard is empty, no house unwarmed, no life unblessed. I admire the ward leaders who invite the widows to all social activities, often providing a young Aaronic Priesthood lad to be a special escort for the occasion.
Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.
As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.
I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his children, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.
One evening at Christmastime, my wife and I visited a nursing home in Salt Lake City. We looked in vain for a 95-year-old widow, whose memory had become clouded and who could not speak a word. An attendant led us in our search, and we found Nell in the dining room. She had eaten her meal; she was sitting silently, staring into space. She did not show us any sign of recognition. As I reached to take her hand, she withdrew it. I noticed that she held firmly to a Christmas greeting card. The attendant smiled and said, “I don’t know who sent that card, but she will not lay it aside. She doesn’t speak but pats the card and holds it to her lips and kisses it.” I recognized the card. It was one my wife, Frances, had sent to Nell the week before.
We left more filled with the Christmas spirit than when we entered. We kept to ourselves the mystery of that special card and the life it had gladdened and the heart it had touched. Heaven was nearby.
We need not wait for Christmas; we need not postpone till Thanksgiving Day our response to the Savior’s tender admonition: “Go, and do thou likewise.”
As we follow in His footsteps, as we ponder His thoughts and His deeds, as we keep His commandments, we will be blessed. The grieving widow, the fatherless child, and the lonely of heart everywhere will be gladdened, comforted, and sustained through our service, and we will experience a deeper understanding of the words recorded in the Epistle of James: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

An American Indian, George Crum, is believed to have invented the potato chip. One day when he was working as a chef in a hotel restaurant in Saratoga Springs, New York, a guest at the hotel sent his plate back to the kitchen, complaining that the fried potatoes were too thick. George felt insulted. “I’ll show him what thin is,” he fumed.
With that the chef cut a potato into paper-thin slices. Then he dropped them into a vat of boiling oil to cook. After removing the slices from the oil, he sprinkled them with salt and sent the dish of crisp chips out to the guest.
To the chef’s surprise, the man loved the chips, and so “Saratoga Chips” were born. Soon many people in the area were selling them.

The love between David and Daniel is real—a love anyone in their presence can feel. They met in the fall of 1988 when David was assigned as a peer tutor to Daniel. David joined the peer tutoring program at Viewmont High School because he likes to help people. “We were instant best friends the first time we met,” says David. “Yep,” adds Daniel, “best friends, just like that.” And he snaps his fingers.
Most teens want to do all the “cool” things to be accepted by their peer group. David is obviously “cool.” He’s very popular—after all, he was elected student-body president. He’s handsome, outgoing, a good student, and a triathlete. And yet he befriends a youth who is mentally handicapped and even asks him to be his campaign manager in the school elections. Didn’t he wonder what the other kids would think? He answers, “People get too caught up in what others think. I only worry about what one person thinks. What the Lord thinks of me is most important.”
He continues, “I wanted Daniel to be my campaign manager because he’s so friendly and will talk to everybody. I wanted people to know that handicapped people have feelings just like everyone else and they want to be accepted. That’s exactly what I got.”

While studying dental surgery in Nantes, France, Gervais Gerard Zang began to have many questions about life that his Catholic faith did not answer. He began investigating many churches and, on this journey, he met the Latter-day Saint missionaries. He was baptized on 11 November 1989 and, after a few months, received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was ordained an elder in the Church. After obtaining his diplomas in dental surgery, he returned to Cameroon.
On 10 January 1993 the first branch of the Church in Cameroon was organized. Known as the Bastos Branch, it was established in Yaoundé, Cameroon, with Brother Zang as the branch president.
By September of the same year the Church was granted legal recognition by the president of Cameroon. Before the government granted recognition, about 30 people had been baptized and another 60 investigators were attending Sunday meetings. —Sister Julie Brough, Church History missionary in the Africa Central Area

At one privately owned and operated care facility, compassion reigned supreme. The proprietress was Edna Hewlett. There was a waiting list of patients who desired to live out their remaining days under her tender care, for she was an angelic person. She would wash and style the hair of every patient. She cleansed elderly bodies and dressed them with bright and clean clothing.
Through the years, in visiting the widows of the ward over which I once presided, I would generally start my visits at Edna’s facility. She would welcome me with a cheery smile and take me to the living room where a number of the patients were seated. I always had to begin with Jeannie Burt, who was the oldest—102 when she died. She had known me and my family from the time I was born.
On one occasion, Jeannie asked with her thick Scottish brogue, “Tommy, have you been to Edinburgh lately?”
I replied, “Yes, not too long ago I was there.”
“Isn’t it beautiful!” she responded.
Jeannie closed her aged eyes in an expression of silent reverie. Then she became serious. “I’ve paid in advance for my funeral—in cash. You are to speak at my funeral and you are to recite ‘Crossing the Bar’ by Tennyson. Now let’s hear it!”
It seemed every eye was upon me, and surely this was the case. I took a deep breath and began:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
Jeannie’s smile was benign and heavenly—then she declared, “Oh, Tommy, that was nice. But see that you practice a wee bit before my funeral!” This I did.

In 1839 some members of the Quorum of the Twelve left for missions in England under very trying circumstances:
“Wilford Woodruff and John Taylor were the first to start out. Wilford, in Montrose, had been suffering for days from chills and fever. His infant daughter, Sarah Emma, also seriously ill, was being cared for by friends with more suitable accommodations. On August 8 he finally bade [his wife] Phoebe a tender farewell and walked to the banks of the Mississippi. Brigham Young paddled him across the river in a canoe. When Joseph Smith found him resting by the post office, Wilford told the Prophet that he felt and looked more like a subject for the dissecting room than a missionary. …
“It took Elders Woodruff and Taylor, traveling together, the rest of the month to make it as far as Germantown, Indiana. …
“By the time they arrived in Germantown John Taylor was so desperately ill that it was impossible for him to continue. …
“[He] remained ill, sometimes near death, for about three weeks. His optimism was tenacious, however, as suggested in a tender letter to [his wife] Leonora, dated September 19 [1839]:
“‘You may ask me how I am going to prosecute my journey. … I do not know but one thing I do know, that there is a being who clothes the lillies of the valley & feeds the ravens & he has given me to understand that all these things shall be added & that is all I want to know. He laid me on a bed of sickness & I was satisfied, he has raised me from it again & I am thankful. He stopped me on my road & I am content. … If he took me I felt that it would be well. He has spared me, & it is better’” (James B. Allen, Ronald K. Esplin, and David J. Whittaker, Men with a Mission, 1837–1841: The Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the British Isles [1992], 67–70).

“If you aren’t happy, you are doing something wrong.” I’m sure when my Sunday School teacher told us this, he never imagined how I would misinterpret it. I wrote it down and posted it on my mirror, knowing I wasn’t very happy. I cried in my room many nights—out of fear, disappointment, and self-pity. So I began to feel that I must be doing something terribly wrong. Even though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, I knew I must have some fatal flaw.
Of course, I wasn’t perfect as a teenager. But now I know that my feelings of unworthiness were not justified. Most of my sorrow came from the choices of others. And their choices were almost completely beyond my control. I was a child in my family. And as a child, I was not responsible for the overall success or failure of my family. Nor was I responsible for my parents’ choices.
The same is true for you. You may have an alcoholic parent or parents who fight or parents who violate the commandments. True, you need to do your best to not be part of the problem, but try not to complicate your situation with false feelings of guilt.
Sometimes making it through a divorce or another kind of family difficulty is a matter of simply hanging on. Hang on to the reality that your Heavenly Father loves you and your family deeply and eternally.
Often, my prayers for my family seemed to go unanswered. Sometimes, the more I prayed, the worse things seemed to get. I didn’t know then that, though the Lord shares our sorrow, he will not force change. But over time, his love can often find a way to bring even greater blessings than we had prayed for. So many of those fervent prayers of long ago have now been answered. And I now know that he has never ceased trying to bless my loved ones.
Hang on to the scriptures that fill you with faith. For example, “Let your hearts be comforted; for all things shall work together for good to them that walk uprightly” (D&C 100:15).
Find music that feeds your spirit. How many nights I found peace by singing to myself, “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark. At the end of the storm is a golden sky and the sweet, silver song of the lark. Walk on through the wind. Walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone. You’ll never walk alone” (Rodgers and Hammerstein, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” Carousel).
If your family’s unhappiness includes abuse—physical, sexual, or emotional—you may need to ask for help. Find an adult—a parent, Church leader, social worker, school counselor, or physician—whom you trust and who will take you seriously. This may be embarrassing and very difficult. But sometimes intervention from outside the family is needed to protect you and other family members.
Hang on to leaders and friends who encourage you and help you keep your faith and standards. Brother Cherrington, a stake patriarch in our ward, always made me feel that I was someone special and that I would make it.
Hang on to your patriarchal blessing and the vision of yourself it gives you. Its promises, however distant they may seem, are real and eternal. The Lord knew all about your present difficulties when he gave those promises, and they will be fulfilled.
Hang on to the reality that you are not alone in your situation. As a teenager, I felt that my family and our problems were unique. When my best friend spent the night at my house, I worried that she would notice what I wanted to hide. Not until we were adults did we discover that her family had very similar problems to mine.
Don’t be fooled by appearances. The most confident, witty, and popular of your friends may face problems even greater than yours. Even the most faithful families may have deep challenges. Knowing this can help you break out of the prison of being totally absorbed with your own problems. Let it also prompt you to reach out in love to your friends, even when your own problems seem great.
In times of difficulty, how can we possibly keep a positive attitude? In August 1831, the Prophet Joseph Smith and ten elders were returning to Kirtland, Ohio, from a missionary journey to Jackson County, Missouri. On the third day of their trip, they had a perilous canoe ride down the Missouri River. They must have been tired and shaken, possibly homesick as well. Then the Lord reassured them with these gentle words: “Be of good cheer, little children; for I am in your midst, and I have not forsaken you” (D&C 61:36).
We, too, can be assured that the Lord will never leave us alone. During my teenage years, I did not always recognize his presence. Now I know that when my way was the most perilous, he was always with me.
We need to also know that our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation is infinitely more just and merciful than we can possibly comprehend. He will leave nothing undone for the blessing of his children. Truly, there are no eternal orphans in his loving plan.
Although we must live in the present, we can also live for the future. We can live for the day when we can go to the temple to receive greater understanding and blessings than we now enjoy. We can live for the day when we can make a home of our own—a home where we can strive to bring love, peace, and the Spirit. We can also live for the day when we can nurture others as we may not have been nurtured ourselves.
For me, this day has come at last. I know that it can come for you.