Gospel Story Finder

In November 1999, my brother David and I were practicing our volleyball serves on a hill in our front yard. My six-year-old brother, Luc (Luke), was leaning on the screen in the window above the garage. He fell through it 13? (4 m) to the driveway. I ran in and told my mom and dad, and they came out and picked him up. No one knew he had landed on his head.
My mom took him to the hospital and called my dad half an hour later, saying that Luc’s skull was practically shattered. He was life-flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was in a coma for three days. The doctors said that he had a huge blood clot behind his right eye. He couldn’t see for a couple of days. The doctors also said that he’d be in the hospital for two months.
While Luc was in the coma, our ward fasted and prayed for him. We fasted after sacrament meeting on Sunday until Monday night. People we knew in India and France did, too, even though most of them weren’t members of the Church. Luc woke up from his coma and got better and so did some other kids in the hospital. Luc was known as the “Miracle Boy.” He was in the hospital for only a week!
He’s OK now but has to go for a couple of checkups. I’m so glad that he survived his accident, and I know that fasting and prayer really work.

Long ago when the earth was new, all the birds that flew in the sky were gray. They were awed by the rainbow’s shimmering beauty, for they had no color. Great Bird, who ruled the skies, would call a meeting after every rainfall so all could admire the splendid colors of the rainbow arching over the earth.
One evening as the sky glistened with the red, yellow, green, blue, and violet of the rainbow, Great Bird made an announcement: “Too long have you just admired such gleaming colors. This night you may share them. You may each choose one color from the rainbow to tint your feathers.”
Almost before Great Bird was through talking, the parrot streaked through the sky and snatched the green. “This is my color. All mine,” he screeched.
“I want the yellow. Give me the yellow,” cried the canary, darting in and out among the feathered bodies.
“Don’t touch the blue,” shrieked the jay.
The cardinal fluttered his wings over the rainbow. “I’ll take the red. It was meant just for me.”
A large duck reached through the crowd and captured the violet ribbon. He wound it tightly around his neck, then flapped to a nearby pond.
Great Bird flew to a tree and watched the fluttering and flapping, the shoving and pushing, the calling and crowding as the birds flew to the rainbow in search of beauty. But sitting beside Great Bird under a leafy branch sat a small gray finch.
“Why are you not grabbing for a color, little finch?” asked Great Bird.
“I was waiting my turn,” answered the finch gently. “But now I’m afraid all the colors are gone.”
“Never!” cried Great Bird, and he called his flock back as they were about to fly away.
While the other birds passed before him, Great Bird took a bit of color from each one and passed it to the finch. The cardinal lost a bit of red; the canary a touch of yellow. The parrot surrendered some green and the jay some of his blue. Finally, the duck unwound the violet ribbon from his neck and passed a strand to the finch.
The little finch glistened with all the hues of the rainbow. Like the rainbow, all the colors melted softly into one another, tinting the feathers with a glow.
Great Bird looked at the gentle finch. “While the rainbow is a symbol of thanks for rain, your beauty is a thank-you for waiting your turn,” he said. “Little finch, wear your colors as a medal for patience.”
To this day, after a rain, the sweet song of the finch can be heard over the rainbow, telling all to wait their turn.

I sighed heavily but quietly in the darkness of my hospital room. I felt frustrated, but I didn’t want to disturb my mother, asleep on a couch not far from my bed. I was recovering from my fourth unexpected surgery in three weeks, with another operation planned in two months during the summer. That later operation, we had been told, would last about five hours, with four to six weeks afterward for recovery in the hospital.
Nevertheless, on what felt like the darkest and most dismal night I had ever faced, I forgot the many blessings I had received from the Lord. I thought only of the sorry state of my life. My negativity engulfed me, and I began to doubt all I had been taught about my Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. A loving God, I rationalized, would not have left me alone to face this nightmarish reality. Worst of all, no one knew what I was going through. My family felt a portion, but they did not fully understand how painful my experiences had been. No one did.
I was about to voice these thoughts in prayer when I heard my name. Through my anguish I recognized the voice of the Spirit, carrying a message to my soul from my Savior reminding me I was not alone. Jesus Christ knew what I was going through. He had felt my pain.
As the message resonated in me, doubt was replaced by shame. In my self-pity, I had forgotten about Jesus Christ. I had been taught much about how the Savior suffered for our sins. I had forgotten that in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross, the Lord had also borne my grief and carried my pain (see Isaiah 53:4; Alma 7:11). This reminder forever changed the way I look at the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Inwardly, I resolved that I would never again forget. This reminder would govern my thoughts, words, and deeds in this life and in the life to come.
This change in perspective also brought a change in attitude. Remembering that I am not alone, I have been more positive about my situation. I believe that this allowed me to recover more quickly from the surgeries. It also helped me to come through the extensive surgery in the summer within three hours and cut my hospital stay (originally projected to be four to six weeks) to only three weeks.
My disabilities and the trials that accompany them have not been easy to bear. But because I know that my Savior completely understands what I am going through, even if no one else does, I know He will always be there for me. All I have to do is “drop my burden[s] at his feet and bear a song away” (“How Gentle God’s Commands,” Hymns, no. 125).
I will be forever grateful to a Savior who not only carried my sins, sorrows, and afflictions but also took the time to remind me that He has done so. I hope that my experiences can help others to take courage, bear up under their burdens, remember that they are not alone, and be blessed to endure to the end.

“What color was the sky today, Benjy?”
Benjy picked up his pewter supper plate and took it into the dark little bedroom where his twin sister, Betsy, lay ill. She and their mother had eaten earlier, but she liked to have Benjy sit near as he ate.
“Why, uh, blue, I guess. Isn’t the sky always blue?”
“Oh, no, Benjy! It can be almost white, or nearly black or gray. And there are so many different blues. Was it blue-blue all over, or sort of white-blue, like it can be when there are lots and lots of high thin clouds? Or was it an angry blue—very dark, as though a storm might be coming? What color was it, Benjy?”
Benjy hadn’t left the glassworks, where he had been apprenticed to Mr. Gibson for all of his three years in Boston, until almost dusk. He had made deliveries along the way—one square pane of glass to Mr. Edmund Litton, and two roundels for Mr. Alexander Greene. But Benjy had had his mind on not breaking the precious glass and had not noticed the sky.
“I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said. “When I went on errands today, I guess I had my mind on other things. Did you know that Mr. Trenton will return in two weeks? That means there will be another month or two of school. I was so pleased to hear that news that I guess I just didn’t notice the sky.”
Benjy hated to disappoint her. Sometimes he forgot how long the days were for a twelve-year-old who had to spend most of them in bed. Dr. Bryant said that the weakness in her heart came as a result of the high fever she had last winter. He hoped that with plenty of good food and rest, the time would come when she could again run and play as other children did, without pain or shortness of breath.
The heavy piece of waxed paper in the cabin window made the bedroom dark, even at midday. Someway, somehow, Benjy had to get a pane of glass for Betsy’s window.
Mother did fine sewing for ladies who lived in the big houses high up on King’s Row. She worked hard but made only enough for food and other necessities for the three of them. She heard Betsy’s question now and came to Benjy’s aid. “The sky was blue-blue, Betsy—just like your very own eyes, not greenish-blue, like Benjy’s. And the sunlight? It was every bit as warm as your smile. Today was what your father used to call a ‘Betsy Day’ because it was just like you. Remember?”
Betsy laughed, delighted. “A Betsy Day! I haven’t heard those words in so long, not since Papa …” She stopped and her face clouded, remembering that great storm at sea three years before, after which neither her father nor his boat had been found.
A good friend to the family, Mr. Gibson had taken Benjy on right away as an apprentice. “You are a bit lacking in years, lad, and ordinarily I wouldn’t have one so young around the molten glass. But I have confidence in you, and if you mind instruction, we should get along. Now find your tongue, lad. Be you willing to do what is to be done, rather than what you might be wanting to do?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, Mr. Gibson! Then, when I have a trade, I will be able to help my mother—”
Mr. Gibson had interrupted. “Now, understand from the first, lad. There is no pay until you have finished your apprenticeship. That won’t be the day after tomorrow. Seven years it is, lad. But you’ll be getting an early start, and after those seven years, well, we’ll have a place for you in the Gibson Glassworks. Or, who knows, perhaps you’ll set up your own business. Glass is here to stay, and people will always be wanting to have windows in their houses. So it’s a good chance I’m offering you, lad—but best know from the beginning that it won’t be easy.”
Mr. Gibson had been right. It had not been easy. Benjy began by working next to the great brick oven in the center of the furnace room, sweeping up the fine white sand and lime and soda ash that spilled from the shovels. Later he began shoveling the ingredients into the big pot himself. And later yet, Mr. Gibson entrusted him to deliver some of the smaller panes to the buyers.
But Benjy was still anxiously awaiting the day when Mr. Gibson would think him ready to blow the glass himself—to dip the end of the long blowpipe into a glowing, orange-red mass and see the magic of the expanding glass as he blew.
Benjy felt confident that he could do it. He had seen his master and Rolf, who also worked with him, do it many times. So though he had kept his promise to Mr. Gibson, his eagerness grew to try his hand at blowing the glass. He wanted to make a windowpane for Betsy, although he didn’t know how he could pay for it. If only he were making a very small salary! If only he had time to take another job.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful—Mr. Gibson even gave him time off for school, allowing him to work before and after class to make up for the time. Few apprentices had that privilege! But Mr. Gibson had told him, “You must learn to read and cipher, lad, if you are ever to have your own business. It is important that you be present when the schoolmaster is in town.”
Other than this, however, Mr. Gibson made it clear that the boy’s time belonged to him. There were always ashes to be removed, cleaning to be done, and deliveries to be made, and the master insisted that his apprentice be there, working.
Benjy appreciated the schooling, and not just for himself. With their mother’s help, he taught his lessons to Betsy. She would draw the lamp closer to her bed in her dark little room, and she soon was reading better than Benjy. It pleased her to find that on occasion she could help him.
“The Bible is so big. It has so many words,” he complained once in his struggle to read it.
“I know, Benjy. But it is a blessing to be able to read the words of God. And once you can read the Bible, think how well you will be able to read other books when we get them.”
He was kept so busy at the glassworks that it gave him a feeling of guilt to return at night and realize that all day long he had given little thought to Betsy. On stormy days the closed shutters made the room darker than ever.
It was on just such a day that he arrived home and Betsy asked again, “Benjy, what color was the sky?”
This time Benjy knew. “It was bright blue this morning, Betsy. Then about noon, when I took a pane of glass over to the church, the clouds were coming in and it was more gray than blue. Tonight as I was walking home, at sundown, the clouds were quite black, but rimmed with gold at the sundowning. I wish you had seen it, Betsy. …”
He stopped, knowing only too well how very much she wanted to. If only he could get the glass! Through the little window to the west she could see the sundowns herself.
On his thirteenth birthday, it happened! Mr. Gibson said, “This is the day, Benjy. You are beginning to be a man, and you are beginning to be a glassblower. You have watched Rolf and me often enough. On this day you shall try it for yourself.”
As much as he had wanted this moment to come, Benjy’s hands were shaking as he picked up the blowpipe. Stepping up to the big pot that held the red bubbling mass, he dipped the rod in carefully, lifted the glowing ball, and began to blow. As Mr. Gibson had instructed him, he blew gently, then more gently as the bubble grew and began to thin and expand into a long tube.
When the tube started to cool and harden, Mr. Gibson helped Benjy take it off the blowpipe, cut off its ends, and slit it lengthwise. Then Benjy reheated it enough to bend it flat and smooth it out.
Both Rolf and Mr. Gibson applauded. “There you are!” shouted Mr. Gibson. “You see what we have here, Rolf? No longer just a boy apprentice, but a real glassblower!”
Rolf grinned. “This gives us one more man in the shop. We will be able to make more glass than we have ever made!”
Mr. Gibson nodded, and said to Benjy, “This pane is not quite perfect, but it is wonderfully done for a first one, and you will learn to make them better in time. We’ll hang it on the wall, lad, and then, as you improve with experience, you can compare your panes with this first one.”
Benjy’s heart was pounding harder than when he first dipped the blowpipe into the glass. “You mean you’re not going to melt it down again? You’re just going to hang it on the wall? Here?”
“Why, yes, lad. We could throw it back in, melt it down, and try again, but I thought that you might like to keep your first piece. Do you not wish to see it on the wall?”
“Oh, yes!” Benjy exclaimed. “But if you’re not going to sell it, could you … could I … well, could I put it in Betsy’s window at home?”
When he showed the pane of glass to Betsy, Benjy thought her eyes were the bluest blue he had ever seen.
“Oh, Benjy! How can I ever thank you? I know I’ll be better soon now! I just know it!”
Upon his return from work the following day, it was Benjy who asked, “Betsy, what color is the sky?”
“Blue, Benjy! So very blue!” She looked up at him and grinned. “Aren’t skies always blue?”

Michael Weir said:
“My marriage had failed. I was living a life contrary to the principles of the Church. Not only was I inactive but had lost confidence in my ability to go back. I became successful in business, drove the nicest car, and bought expensive clothes. I had everything that the world would want.
“One day, my company hired Ken Wheeler, whom I knew to be a Mormon by the way he acted. We became friends, and he invited me to Church. I wanted to go but didn’t feel worthy. He continued to invite me, and I continued to refuse. I wanted to get back, but I didn’t have the strength to do it.
“One night, alone in my apartment, I became very depressed and broke into uncontrollable sobs. I prayed to the Lord and begged for His help. The next day Ken asked me how I was doing; he could sense something was wrong. Putting his arms around me, he said, ‘He still loves you, and we do, too. Why don’t you come back home?’ That was the answer to my prayers; that was the help I had begged for the night before.
“I came home! I felt uncomfortable at first, but the feeling that everyone cared made it easier. Today, I don’t drive the nicest car or wear the fanciest clothes, but I feel richer than ever.”
He continued, “Those who have fallen away want so badly to come back, but they are afraid to make the move. They don’t lose their testimony; they lose confidence in themselves.”

David Baugh, the deacons quorum adviser, shared a story about a raw egg wrapped in several layers of egg cartons and tape. The teacher invited the class to bounce the bundle off the wall or drop it on the floor. Then he took the package back, pulled it apart, and showed the students the sheltered, unbroken egg inside. He taught the students that the gospel was designed to protect each of them in the same way—by helping them build layers of testimony as they kept the commandments.

Like many of you, I am frequently before those who are not of our faith, and the challenge is great and wonderful. Not long ago I was given a little honor before a great group of non-Latter-day Saint athletes. In the proceedings of the convention, one of my great idols, a Hall of Famer, was to take the rostrum and speak to us. Being the great athlete that he was, respected by many, I was shocked to hear his language as he repeatedly took the name of the Lord in vain. As I sat there, I wondered, “What do you do as a Latter-day Saint in these kinds of social situations?” And then I remembered—again, a great influence in my life—the counsel from a prophet and an experience that he had had one time coming out of surgery. An orderly who was wheeling the prophet back to his hospital room on a little metal cart caught his hand between the door and the cart in the elevator and, not thinking, let go with a few adjectives, taking the name of the Lord in vain in the process. And a prophet, sick as he was physically but very well spiritually, lifted his head and said, “Please don’t talk that way—that’s my best friend.”

Sometimes we think that we have learned all that we need to know about something and that we don’t need to learn the same things over and over. I had an experience that taught me how important it is to be humble and willing to learn the same lessons again and again.
A number of years ago, while teaching at a university, I received an invitation to attend a professional seminar in Dallas, Texas. I was delighted because my wife’s sister lived there with her family. We were able to combine a family vacation with my seminar. When my sister-in-law learned of the seminar’s location, she informed me that the hotel was difficult to locate due to construction in the area. She drew up a map with numerous details to assist me in getting to downtown Dallas.
On the first morning of the seminar, I was extremely careful and gave much attention to the map. Remarkably, I made all the correct turns and arrived safely at the hotel. As I approached the hotel, I realized that it truly had been a difficult route. I knew that without the map, I would have been lost. I was pleased that I had arrived on time and never had to seek directions from anyone.
After the day’s seminar, I drove home, once again closely following the directions on the map. It was even more difficult, as I had to reverse the directions. Again, I was pleased to make all the correct turns and arrive home safely. The drive took more than an hour.
The second morning found me being a little casual about the map, due to my success of the previous day. At times, I even tried to rely solely on my recollections of the previous day’s journey. I arrived at the hotel on time, amazed at my ability to navigate in this unfamiliar city. That day the seminar instructors presented us with two armloads of books and other materials to study in the evening.
When I arrived at my car for the drive home, I tossed the map onto the backseat and put my new materials on the front seat. I started to think that my sister-in-law did not have enough confidence in my ability to drive in this city. I decided that I no longer needed the map.
I had no trouble getting onto the right interstate highway and making the correct exit to the next one. Then I took the right exit to the subdivision where my sister-in-law lived, found the right street without any problems, and parked in front of the house.
I retrieved all my materials from the car and juggled them in my arms as I picked up the evening paper from the lawn. I entered the front door and turned right, walking down the hall to the guest bedroom. I put my books on the dresser, sat down on the bed and removed my shoes, anxious to study my new materials. As I opened my first book, I glanced quickly around the room, then looked again. The furniture had been changed. I thought that my family should have told us that they were changing furniture. I looked more closely at it, thinking that I liked the old bedroom set better than this new one. I stood up and looked across the hall into another bedroom. Two teenage girls were sitting on the bed, talking. I thought that my sister-in-law must be serving in Young Women, as her own children were three young boys. The girls didn’t seem to notice me. I tried to study my materials again, but I couldn’t concentrate. A suspicion was growing in me that I had made a dreadful mistake.
By now you have realized what it took me a long time to figure out: I was in the wrong house, sitting on a stranger’s bed with my shoes off! Somehow I put on my shoes, collected my books and the newspaper, and started down the hall toward the front door. Just before I reached it, I encountered two ladies. “Pardon me,” I said. “I haven’t met you before.” Then I quickly shouted, “I am in the wrong house!” They watched calmly as I bolted through the door and tossed their newspaper onto the lawn where I had retrieved it only minutes before. My heart was beating wildly! I jumped into the car and made my getaway. I had stopped one block short of my destination.
I got myself into this predicament because I became too casual in following the road map. I learned a great principle from this experience: We can do many things right but still leave important things undone and come up a kingdom short. I had made all the correct turns on my journey home, but it was clear that I still needed to pay attention to the map.

I rushed to the time clock, found my card, and quickly punched it in. The time, 4:01, blared out at me in red. One minute late! After all that hurrying, I was still late. I had a class at the university that ended at 3:30, and it was always a hectic rush to make it to work on time. I worked as an evening receptionist at one of the larger convalescent centers for the elderly in Salt Lake City, Utah.
As I walked to my desk, I heard a voice singing “There’s Sunshine in My Soul Today.” The voice was bellowing the song out at the top of its lungs. Curious, I followed the sound of the voice. At the end of one of the corridors, I found a husky old man sitting up in his bed. The cords on his neck stood out with the strain of singing.
“Hello!” he called out to me cheerfully. He didn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. He just grinned brightly at me. The windows were wide open. The air and sunshine poured in. It seemed to be one of the most cheerful rooms that I had ever been in, yet it was similar to all of the other rooms in the building.
“I heard you singing,” I remarked to him.
“Good!” He nodded his head courteously at me. “I sing because it makes me happy!”
As duties awaited me at my desk, I said good-bye to him. As I went down the hall, I heard him singing “High on the Mountain Top” as if he were yodeling it from the hilltops. For the rest of the evening I found myself humming, “High on the mountain top …”
The next day I managed to arrive a few minutes early. Again I heard the cheerful voice singing. Irresistibly pulled, I went down to his room.
“Well, hello, young lady!” His eyes and toothless smile welcomed me as if I were a queen.
I greeted him and asked if I could listen to him sing.
“Sure!” He invited me to sit down on the only chair in the room. He sang through all the verses of “How Firm a Foundation.” His off-key voice charmed me.
I asked him if he knew “The World Has Need of Willing Men.” This was a favorite song of mine. I had taught it to my youngest brother when he was just four.
Not only did he sing it for me, but he sang it with such force that I couldn’t help but join him and sing too. I caught his enthusiasm and sang much louder than I normally would. A nurse passed by and glanced at us curiously.
As I left, I asked him when he had taken time to memorize all of the hymns.
“Oh, that’s easy!” He clapped his hands together. “I memorized them as I sang them in church. Once I knew them, I never opened the hymn book again!”
I made an inward resolve to do the same.
It became regular routine to stop in at his room before I went down to my desk. He always greeted me brightly. I found myself humming Church hymns between my classes at the university.
Christmastime came and my classes were over for three weeks. As I had made arrangements with someone to take my place at work during that time, I was free to go home and visit my family in Ephraim, Utah.
Before I left, however, I stopped in to see the old man. We sang through countless Christmas carols together. I was more in the Christmas spirit than I had ever been before. I left him singing a rousing version of “Silent Night.”
As I walked back down the corridor, I passed a nurse who frowned at me. I didn’t recall seeing her before. I puzzled about it for a minute and then shrugged it off. I was too happy to let a frown bother me. Later, I found out that she had just recently been hired as the head nurse.
Christmas vacation, as always, flew by too fast for me. Soon it was time for me to reluctantly go back to my studies. I said good-bye to my parents and houseful of brothers and sisters.
When I stepped through the doors at the convalescent center to go back to work, I expected to hear a cheerful voice booming out some song down the hall. As I punched in my time card at the time clock, I cocked my ear for his voice. All I could hear was the confusion of a few televisions tuned to different stations and the conversation of a few patients who were sitting near me in the hallway.
“He’s probably asleep,” I said to myself. But, to reassure myself, I walked down to his room.
I peeked in the door, expecting to see him curled up in bed sound asleep. However, he was sitting up with his back supported by a few pillows. The windows were half shut and the curtains pulled. He sat listlessly in the half gloom.
Hearing my step, he slowly turned his head and saw me. He grinned the ghost of a smile.
I was shocked. His wrinkled skin hung in loose pouches around his face as if he had lost a great amount of weight.
“I … I thought you’d be singing,” I stammered out.
He shook his head and tears slid down his cheeks. “Can’t sing anymore. Nurse said it bothered too many people.” He looked at me earnestly. “I don’t want to bother anyone. Singing just made me happy.” There was a long pause as he thought. “No, I don’t want to bother anyone,” he repeated.
I blinked back tears as I walked over and took his hand. “Why don’t we sing together right now?”
He looked at me anxiously, “Oh no, please don’t. I don’t think she would like it.”
“Well, then,” I said softly, “I’ll sing. I’ll sing so quietly that no one will hear me but you.”
I softly sang the first song that came to me. I sang all the verses of “I Am a Child of God” for him. His wrinkled lips mouthed most of the words with me.
After singing, I talked softly with him for a while and rubbed his brow. As I needed to get to my desk, I told him I would be back tomorrow. He called me when I had reached the door. I turned to look at him questioningly. His leathery cheeks wrinkled deeply as he gave me a smile. His eyes had a hint of their old sparkle.
As soon as I got out into the hall, I was fighting mad. I couldn’t wait to find the nurse who had done this. Angry words were close to the surface of my thoughts.
I didn’t have to search long. The new head nurse was waiting for me at the end of the hall. Before I could even say a word, she demanded, “Young lady, what were you doing there?” I explained that I worked at the center as a receptionist and that the old man was a friend of mine. I tried to go on and explain about his singing, but she cut me off.
“Well, if you’re the receptionist here, then go do your work. You have no right to be back here with the patients.” She planted her feet in front of me and folded her chin firmly into her neck.
“I just wanted to tell you that you’re making the old man sick by not letting him sing! It makes him happy to sing!” I said this in a rush before she could stop me.
She thrust her face in front of mine. “The old man is dying from an incurable disease. Not from the reason you state.” She checked her watch. “Now, if you’re the evening receptionist, you’re already 15 minutes late. If you still want your job, I advise you to go immediately to your desk and leave this part of the building to me.”
I walked through the building to my desk. I made a resolve to see the old man tomorrow regardless of the nurse. Even if I had to crawl through the window, I would go to him and sing for him until he was well enough to sing like he used to.
The next afternoon I arrived at work early so I could spend more time with the old man. I stepped cautiously into the center watching for the head nurse. There was no sign of her. I reached his room without having an encounter with her. Relieved, I turned to go into his room. The drapes and windows were wide open and sunshine spread through the room. The bed was tightly made and the floor appeared to be newly waxed. There was no sign of the old man or his personal possessions. I was filled with dread at the sight of the well-cleaned room. My footsteps dragged as I walked down to the nurse’s station to inquire about him.
“Room 67?” she repeated after me. I nodded. The nurse aide then turned to a chart and examined it for a minute. She looked up at me. “He died last night about 2:00 A.M.”
Tears blinded my vision as I stumbled down the hall to my desk. I wished with all my heart that I had done more for him. All I could think of was the smile he had given me before I left him yesterday. It had been a grateful smile.
When I reached my desk, I laid my head down and cried helpless tears for the old man. The telephone rang. As I composed myself to answer it, I thought I could hear the faint echo of “There’s Sunshine in My Soul Today.” Suddenly I felt strongly that the old man would be singing at the top of his lungs today. Maybe I was hearing the faint echo of his voice from heaven. I smiled through my tears and started to softly hum the tune.

The lake’s water stays at an almost constant temperature of 51º F (11º C); that’s pretty brisk for swimming—downright cold for a baptism. But it was in Lake Titicaca that Roberto Carlos Condori Pachuri, 16, was baptized last year. Sometimes the village doesn’t have enough water to fill the font at the meetinghouse in El Alto, Bolivia, so they go to the lake. Roberto Carlos remembers his baptism well, but it’s not because of the water. It’s because of the warm spirit he felt when he became a member of the Church.
Roberto Carlos was introduced to the Church by his friend José Luís Mamani Kari, 15. “I came to seminary,” says Roberto Carlos. “It was the first time I entered a Church building, and I was a little scared.” But he quickly found out he was welcome. In fact, usually 15 of the 30 or so youth who attend seminary each week are not Church members. Youth from the Batallas Branch, Titicaca Bolivia District, attend seminary on Thursday evenings and study at home during the week.
Roberto Carlos wanted to attend seminary for all these reasons. “I liked the things I was learning, and I have lots of friends here,” he says. “We play soccer or volleyball after class.” It was at seminary and in meeting with the elders that he learned about ancient prophets, a living prophet today, and Christ’s visit to the Americas. It was through learning the truths of the gospel that Roberto Carlos joined the Church.
President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) had a motto to remind us of our duties as member missionaries: “Do it!” He promised that as we testified of the Restoration we would be blessed. José Luís knows this is true.
“It felt good,” says José Luís, to see Roberto Carlos accept the gospel. “I wanted to share my testimony, so I did.”

The first day I saw Frances, I knew I’d found the right one. The Lord brought us together later, and I asked her to go out with me. I went to her home to call on her. She introduced me, and her father said, “ ‘Monson’—that’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good.”

Then he went into another room and brought out a picture of two missionaries with their top hats and their copies of the Book of Mormon.

“Are you related to this Monson,” he said, “Elias Monson?”

I said, “Yes, he’s my grandfather’s brother. He too was a missionary in Sweden.”

Her father wept. He wept easily. He said, “He and his companion were the missionaries who taught the gospel to my mother and my father and all of my brothers and sisters and to me.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then her mother cried, and she kissed me on the other cheek. And then I looked around for Frances. She said, “I’ll go get my coat.”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

Brethren, let’s treat our wives with dignity and with respect. They’re our eternal companions. Sisters, honor your husbands. They need to hear a good word. They need a friendly smile. They need a warm expression of true love.

This story happened in Ghana.
I am a child of God, and He has sent me here …
You have a loud voice, Eric.
I think it’s a nice voice.
Thanks! I want to learn to sing better.
The next week …
I have a gift for you. It’s a hymnbook so you can learn more Church songs.
Wow! Thank you.
Teach me to walk in the light of His love …
Hope of Israel, rise in might! With the sword of truth and light …
Sister Kaku just called. She asked if you two wanted to sing in the choir for stake conference.
Yes!
We’re so happy you are in our choir!
Thanks!
We love to sing about Jesus.
You did a great job.
Singing makes me happy. I think it makes Jesus happy too!
“For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me” (Doctrine and Covenants 25:12).
Illustrations by Jared Beckstrand

In the Salt Lake Valley, the sisters continued their ministrations—sometimes in dramatic ways—as Sister Lucy Meserve Smith, wife of Elder George A. Smith, recalls in her Reminiscences. News of the approach of a handcart company came to President Brigham Young as he was conducting October conference in the old Tabernacle. She stated:
“President Young and others were [so] excited and anxious for fear those companies would be caught in the snows in the mountains [that] they could not go on with the Conference. The president called for men, teams, clothing and provisions. … The sisters stripped off their petticoats, stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there … and piled [them] into the wagons to send to the Saints in the mountains.” (Reminiscences of Lucy Meserve Smith, MS, 1886, Historical Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City.)

Recently I took my three-year-old granddaughter to a sacrament meeting where a young man was speaking prior to leaving for a mission. I had brought the usual books and things to encourage her to be reverent, but she’s a bright and energetic little girl, so at one point I stood her beside me on the bench so she could see the missionary who was speaking. Then I whispered in her ear, “This young man is going on a mission, and that means he is going to live far away from home and go around telling people all about Jesus.” She looked all around the chapel filled with people and said, “Well, where is Jesus anyway?” She had seen His picture in Primary, but she could not find Him in the audience.
I cannot tell you how glad I was that I could tell her where Jesus is. As she can understand, I will tell her who He is, what He has done for her and for me, and what He can mean in her life. I was reminded on that occasion what a great opportunity we as women have to influence the lives of those around us. I love my children and my grandchildren, and I desire to keep them safe. Sometimes this world is a frightening place to be. I believe, however, that women have unique opportunities and special gifts and talents to protect, nurture, and influence others. We can create places of security where marriages, children, and families can thrive and avoid the evil of the world.

As our youngest son, Clark, was approaching his 12th birthday, he and I were leaving the Church Administration Building when President Harold B. Lee approached and greeted us. I mentioned that Clark would soon be 12, whereupon President Lee turned to him and asked, “What happens to you when you turn 12?”

This was one of those times when a father prays that a son will be inspired to give a proper response. Clark, without hesitation, said to President Lee, “I will be ordained a deacon!”

The answer was the one President Lee had sought. He then counseled our son, “Remember, it is a great blessing to hold the priesthood.”

In December 23, a birthday party was going on inside the warm, cozy home of Norma and Stan Jones. But instead of “Happy Birthday to You,” the family was singing “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29), a favorite hymn of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
As the strains of music filled the pine-scented air, Benjamin Jones, their 21-year-old grandson, was filled with love, appreciation, and excitement. He was preparing for a mission and couldn’t wait to share his testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
You see, Ben’s grandma, Norma, has gathered her family and special friends together each December for 38 years to celebrate the Prophet’s birthday by studying his life and teachings. But for Ben, this December 23rd was special because the seeds of love and respect for the Prophet these firesides planted in his heart finally took root.
“I’ve always had a testimony, but I haven’t always made the best choices,” says Elder Jones, of the Salt Lake River Oaks Second Ward, now serving as a full-time missionary in West Virginia. “However, when I saw the death mask that artist David Lindsley brought to our party that year, all of a sudden the Prophet became more than just a story I had heard many times or a painting on the wall. He came alive for me. I had been studying, praying, and searching for the direction my life should take, and I knew at that moment that Joseph Smith was truly a prophet of God.”

What if you didn’t even have a room to meet in for Sunday classes? That’s the situation some young women from Iceland found themselves in a few years ago. The Church rents rooms in a building there, and at first the young women had to meet in the foyer. That wasn’t the best environment for a class, so after some renovations they turned a closet into a classroom.
Still, “the room was tiny and empty. It was impersonal,” recalls Karolina G., 18. “We decided as a class that we wanted to make the room our room. We wanted to feel the Spirit just by being there, to make it a holy place. So we did. We picked pictures and made our own poster with the Young Women theme on it.”
The result? The room may be small—the five youth and their two leaders barely fit—and it may be cold in the winter and very hot in the summer, but “the room is now a place where you can feel the Spirit,” Karolina says. “I’ve had many spiritual experiences in there. We’re squeezed in, but we’ve become closer. We’ve become a little family. I love this room!”

The restored gospel was not preached again in Bulgaria for 90 years. As the Communist era ended, then-Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles traveled to Sofia with other Church leaders. In February 1990, during a meeting with government officials, Elder Nelson asked what the Church could do for Bulgaria and was asked to send English teachers.
That fall, six missionaries, most with formal teaching experience, began teaching English classes in Sofia, Pravets, and Smolyan. In Sofia, Elder Morris and Sister Annetta Mower found several members of the Church—baptized elsewhere in Europe—already living in the area. On October 14, 1990, the Mowers began holding weekly Church services in their apartment. Within a month, more than 50 people were cramming into the Mowers’ tiny apartment for the weekly meetings. 5 When the first proselytizing missionaries arrived in November, six people were awaiting baptism. 6 As interest in the Church grew, the need for a mission headquartered in Bulgaria was soon clear.
One morning in April 1991, Kiril and Nevenka Kiriakov were at their home in Virginia when the telephone rang. Nevenka immediately recognized the familiar voice: “May I speak with Brother Kiriakov?” then-Elder Thomas S. Monson asked. 7
“Certainly,” she responded. Before she could hand the phone to Kiril, however, Elder Monson continued, “How would you feel if your husband were called as the first mission president in Bulgaria?” 8
Kiril and Nevenka had fled Bulgaria in 1963 with their children, Julia and Peter, and joined the Church in France before settling in the United States. Although Communist authorities had threatened Kiril with death and his family with life imprisonment if they ever returned, Kiril had been promised in a blessing that he would preach the gospel in Bulgaria. With a new government in place, they felt safe to return. Despite Kiril’s significant health concerns, he and Nevenka courageously accepted a call to serve. 9 “I was anxious to see all my relatives and friends,” Nevenka said, “and share with them the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.” 10
As Kiril and Nevenka prepared to return to their homeland, the first missionaries who would serve under their leadership were arriving at the missionary training center in Provo, Utah, USA. The language teacher who greeted them on their first day was Julia Kiriakov Caswell, Kiril and Nevenka’s daughter. 11
In July 1991, the Bulgaria Sofia Mission officially opened. Through the faith, perseverance, and efforts of the local members and the missionaries, the Church soon received official recognition. 12 By the end of 1991, more than 150 Bulgarian Saints had been baptized. 13
Decades before the opportunity to preach the gospel in Bulgaria would become a reality, the Lord started making preparations. Despite the Church’s long absence in the country and early difficulties, the faith and diligence of those whom the Lord prepared opened the door for many others to receive the restored gospel.

This Saturday morning, youth from the Richmond Ward are spread out in five different locations around the city. The first stop is a small house in the middle of Richmond. Fourteen-year-old Zack Harton and his friend Will Jones are stationed here, raking leaves, pulling weeds, and having fun.
Zack doesn’t personally know the family his group is helping, but he does know that this family is investigating the Church. Therefore, he knows that he’s also setting an example. “It makes me feel good, because I’m helping someone in need—just as I would help my own brother and sister if they needed help,” Zack says.
His friend Will is also investigating the Church and is glad that Zack invited him to come along today. Will has already caught on to the wonderful feeling that comes from service. “I feel that I have an obligation toward other people,” Will says. “I started coming with Zack to Scouts and never knew it was going to get into this. But I just think it’s wonderful that somebody would care enough to do this. While we were working in the yard, everyone would just help one another. You didn’t even have to ask. I could just feel God around me.”

Such was the situation of Hollis and Gwen Kersey, who sold their home, bought a little farm, fixed up the house to be warm and comfortable, cleared the land, and planted a garden. “We settled down to be retired,” they said.

They were Baptists and had no thought of changing religions this late in life. But missionaries and a neighbor family touched their lives, and they were baptized. On their fortieth wedding anniversary they were sealed in the Atlanta Temple. They were soon called as stake missionaries and later called to serve a full-time mission.

As they arrived at the Missionary Training Center, the Kerseys remarked:
“We gave away the chickens, turkeys, rabbits, took the pony and two dogs … [to our] son, … emptied the freezers and gave away the cats, … boarded up the windows, nailed up the sheds, had everything turned off, went and kissed our ten grandchildren good-bye, and here we are!”

What a marvelous attitude!