Gospel Story Finder

It is important to remember that results like this were not confined to ancient times and are not limited to the children of prophets. As I visited with the father who sought me out, I told him of a boy I knew who had slipped into his own abyss and then found the way out through repentance.
This boy had been sent, at great sacrifice by his parents, to a university to acquire an education. He went with little aspiration or desire to succeed, seeking instead to “have a good time.” Shortly after he arrived, he became involved in a case of petty theft, “just for the excitement,” he said later. He was caught and put on probation. But when his search for good times exhausted the limited resources provided by his parents, he tried in desperation to steal a large sum of money—and was caught again. This time he went to the state penitentiary.
His bishop, knowing that I would be traveling in the vicinity of the prison, asked if I would visit the young man. I took a member of the stake high council with me. The large gate swung shut behind us, a guard searched us carefully, and then we were ushered into a small concrete building where those from the outside were allowed to spend time visiting with inmates.
I had in my mind a picture of a hardened criminal—mean, surly, dangerous, someone to be feared. Then the door opened, and one of the most handsome young men I had ever seen stepped into the room—neat, clean-shaven, hair nicely combed. He smiled at me in recognition and offered his hand in greeting. “President, what are you doing here? You have probably never seen me, but I heard you speak once at a stake conference,” he explained. Then he asked earnestly, “How is my family?”
After I reassured him about his parents, we talked about him: how soon he would be released and how he was being treated. He seemed in good spirits and cheerful despite the bleak surroundings. As we visited, I asked him if he had really done all the things he was accused of. His reply was prompt and direct: “Yes, and more. I deserve all of this.” The motion of his hand took in the confining room and its surroundings. “I have lost nearly everything—my self-respect, my friends, the confidence of my family—almost everything.” His chin quivered, and his face became anguished. He broke down crying. Sobs shook his body, and I held him in my arms just as I would have my own son.
When he regained his composure, we continued our visit. It proved to be a marvelous moment to teach him; he was humble and eager to learn. We talked about faith, repentance, and the divine mission of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I reminded the young man that Christ gave his own sweet life in holy sacrifice as payment for the sins of those who repent and obey. The Spirit touched each of us during those moments together. My young friend was contrite, filled with hope and a greater understanding of God’s love.
On the morning of his release from prison, a loving father and mother embraced their son and welcomed him to a new life. They visited at our home. The son was repentant and eager to start anew. He expressed his great love for the Savior and his gratitude for the opportunity to progress through blessings offered in the Church. I assured him of my respect, my confidence, and my love for him.
Over a period of several years, I received occasional telephone calls from him advising me of his progress. He was doing well; there were still difficulties and obstacles to overcome, but his progress was steady. The call that touched me most was the one in which he told me that he would be taking a young woman to the house of the Lord to be married. He had come full circle, from wickedness and despair to righteousness and joy. The Spirit of the Lord had led him to the Living Waters, and he had drunk deeply.

The problem with Christmas this year was what to do about Grandma. She’s usually the one to solve the problems, not cause them, so everyone was caught off guard when she made her announcement at Thanksgiving dinner.
“I don’t want anyone to give me any Christmas presents this year,” she said. “I don’t need anything, and I’ve run out of places to put things.”
“Oh, Mom,” Dad said, “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “All my cupboards and closets and drawers are full. My china cabinet hasn’t one square inch in which to put another knickknack, and I have enough perfume to last until the millennium. I’m going on a diet, so I don’t want any fattening food around. When I say I don’t want any gifts, I mean it!”
We all knew she did. When Grandma got that tone in her voice, no one argued. She wasn’t angry, just firm.
The hard part was that everyone wanted to give Grandma something. She was one of our favorite people. If you had a wild wish for something silly, or frivolous, or just plain dumb, you could count on her to understand and come through with it. If you needed something comfy or cozy or cute, she made it for you. No matter what lopsided, glue-splotched project you brought home from school, she loved it, praised it, and hung it on her bulletin board. She had as many friends as a dandelion has petals, and she was always doing fun and thoughtful things for them. Everyone remembered her at Christmas.
When she said, “No presents this year,” everyone in the family recognized that Grandma was going to be a problem. They met at our house to decide what to do about her. As the oldest of the brothers and sisters, Dad led the discussion. “What are we going to get Grandma for Christmas this year?” he asked.
She said she didn’t want anything,” Mom reminded him.
“Surely she didn’t mean that,” Aunt Gracie said.
“I think she did,” Uncle Bob said.
“We’ll just have to think of something she will want,” Dad insisted.
“Why?” asked Uncle Jack.
“Because it’s Christmas, that’s why,” Dad answered.
Aunt Nan thought she must have some secret desire. Uncle Bob didn’t think she’d ever tell, if she did.
“Then we’ll have to figure it out,” Dad challenged.
“I know what it is,” I said.
No one heard me. They talked about microwave ovens, clock radios, and electric skillets.
I tugged on Dad’s coat. “Dad,” I whispered, “I know what she’d like.”
“Don’t bother me now, Janie,” he whispered back. “I’m busy.”
They talked about this and that and everything else and didn’t come even close to guessing the right thing. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, so in the middle of the confusion, I shouted, “She wants a red wagon!” Then I ran from the room before anyone could get mad at me for interrupting. When I listened through the heater to see what they thought of my idea, everyone was laughing.
“Well that’s one way to make sure there is something for Janie to play with when she goes to Grandma’s house,” Aunt Gracie said.
I gave up and went to play.
Later, when the uncles and aunts had gone home, Dad asked me what was the big idea shouting out like I had.
“Because Grandma does want a red wagon.”
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“Because she always borrows mine,” I told him. “She comes over to get me to help her in her yard, and she says, ‘Can we use your wagon?’ and we put it in the back of her car and use it to haul plants or weeds or other things, and then she brings it back. The last time I was over there, she said, ‘I always wanted to have a wagon when I was little, but I never got to because I was a girl. In those days girls had their toys and boys had theirs. The only way I could take my dolls for a ride was to borrow my brother’s wagon. But it wasn’t mine, and I’ve always wanted one.’”
“Grandma already has that big wheelbarrow,” Dad reminded me. “Grandpa bought it for her birthday the year before he died.”
“But it tips the plants over, and when she gets to where she’s going, they’re all in a mess. Besides, it’s almost too big for her to handle. She’s tough, but she’s not very tall.”
“You have a point,” Dad said. “But a red wagon for a grandma?”
“Why not?” I wanted to know.
“It seems so silly.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’s a neat idea.”
Well, everyone was supposed to watch Grandma and listen to her and see if they could figure out what she really wanted for Christmas. All they found out was that she didn’t want anything. She kept reminding them over and over again.
I couldn’t understand why no one took my idea seriously, because I could see more and more ways it would be convenient for Grandma to have that wagon she always wanted. She could take it to the grocery store on nice days when she wanted a little exercise, to the post office with packages, or just out to the street with her garbage can in it. And it would be perfect for her to pull along as she worked in the garden. I’d even figured out a little rack to hold her trowel, scratcher, scissors, and snail bait. The rack would fit in the front of the wagon and leave plenty of room for plants or weeds. I knew that she would love it.
Finally, because they really couldn’t think of anything else, the family members decided to chip in and buy the biggest, reddest, fanciest wagon they could find for Grandma. The handle was just the right length, and the wheels rolled along so easily that it seemed to be floating. It was beautiful!
They decided to leave it in the backyard because she was so determined not to have any presents under the tree.
“She’ll notice it out the window,” Aunt Nan said, “and if she doesn’t like it, we won’t be embarrassed, because she’ll think it belongs to one of the children.”
But I wanted to make sure that she knew the wagon was hers, so I painted “Grandma” on it in big white letters.
I was the one who got to sneak it out of the car and put it behind the house on Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning came, and I didn’t want to open my packages until I found out how Grandma felt about her present. It would be an awful day for her if she didn’t like it, because there wasn’t one gift wrapped up for her.
It wasn’t far to her house, so I hopped onto my bike and rode over. She saw me coming out the front window, waved, and threw open the door to yell. “Hurry, Janie! Hurry!”
She sounded so desperate that I wondered if she was having a heart attack, and when I got closer and saw the tears running down her cheeks, I felt terrible. She must be awfully sad or mad! I thought. But then I saw that she was smiling!
“You’ll never believe it, Janie!” she cried. “After all these years, I got my wagon! It was sitting right out there in the middle of the back lawn.”
“Wow!” I said, “That’s super!”
“I thought I didn’t want a thing this year,” she went on, “but someone knew exactly what I’d like.”
“I wonder who it was,” I said, trying to sound innocent.
She grabbed me in a big hug, and I snuggled close to her.
“Someone who prints just like you do,” she whispered.
I never could fool Grandma.

I am the product of a similar kind of intentional parenting. When I was a young boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old, my mother asked me, “Mark, do you know for yourself, by the Holy Ghost, that the gospel is true?”

Her question surprised me. I had always tried to be a “good boy,” and I thought that was enough. But my mother, like Lehi, knew that something more was needed. I needed to act and know for myself.

I replied that I had not yet had that experience. And she didn’t seem surprised at all by my answer.

She then said something I have never forgotten. I remember her words to this day: “Heavenly Father wants you to know for yourself. But you must put in the effort. You need to read the Book of Mormon and pray to know by the Holy Ghost. Heavenly Father will answer your prayers.”

Well, I had never read the Book of Mormon before. I didn’t think I was old enough to do that. But my mother knew better.

Her question ignited in me a desire to know for myself.

So, each night, in the bedroom I shared with two of my brothers, I turned on the light above my bed and read a chapter in the Book of Mormon. Then, turning off the light, I slipped out of my bed onto my knees and prayed. I prayed more sincerely and with greater desire than I ever had before. I asked Heavenly Father to please let me know of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.

From the time I started reading the Book of Mormon, I felt that Heavenly Father was aware of my efforts. And I felt that I mattered to Him. As I read and prayed, comfortable, peaceful feelings rested upon me. Chapter by chapter, the light of faith was growing brighter inside my soul. In time, I realized that these feelings were confirmations of truth from the Holy Ghost. I came to know for myself that the Book of Mormon is true and that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world. How grateful I am for my mother’s inspired invitation.

This experience reading the Book of Mormon as a boy started a pattern of scripture study that continues to bless me to this day. I still read the Book of Mormon and kneel in prayer. And the Holy Ghost confirms its truths over and over again.

I opened my eyes just as the sun started to peek under my flowered drapes. Excitement flooded my body, but for just a moment I couldn’t remember why. Then I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. “Today is the day! Today is the glorious day!” I sang quietly—it was way too early to disturb anyone. I stood there thinking about how wonderful today would be: I was going to get a puppy of my very own. Well, not exactly of my very own, for I would have to give it up in a year. Still, I’d have him practically forever. A year is an awfully long time.
I had always wanted a dog, but Mom said that she had enough to do with me and Jeffy and her part-time job at the library, without having a dog underfoot.
I tried to explain that it wouldn’t be underfoot and that I’d take complete care of it. “I already know how to take care of a dog,” I argued.
For several weeks I’d worked after school at Pete’s Pet Shop. It wasn’t a real job, but Pete said that he’d hire me when I grew up, so it was almost a job. I watered and fed the animals, then played with the pups until it was time to go home for dinner.
One day Pete had introduced me to Mrs. Evans. “Meet my friend Tracy Stevens. She’s my right hand. I don’t know what those dogs would do if she didn’t come in every day and get them fresh food and water.”
“I like dogs, too,” Mrs. Evans had said. “I find people to take care of pups until they are trained enough to give to a person who needs them to see.”
How would a dog help someone to see? I had wondered. After she went out, Pete explained to me that she worked for the Society for Seeing-Eye Dogs. When she picked Blacknose, one of Pete’s dogs, to use in the program, I felt my heart sinking. That meant that I wouldn’t see Blacknose again. He was one of my favorites. They were all my favorites, for that matter, and I felt a little sick every time I came to the store and a pup had been sold.
I listened carefully as Pete explained to me just what Mrs. Evans did, and then I ran home to explain it to my folks. At dinner I told them about the seeing-eye-dog program and that I really wanted Mrs. Evans to choose me to help her. I didn’t think that Mom was listening, because Jeffy threw his potatoes on the floor just then. But she winked at Dad, saying, “Now wouldn’t that be something—a dog to lick up Jeffy’s mashed potatoes.” Then she got serious and said, “I have plenty to do without running after a dog when I get home. No, Honey, I just don’t think that it would work.”
I’d argued and talked, and finally they’d agreed to see Mrs. Evans to hear what she had to say. And today was the day! Mrs. Evans was bringing a live puppy with her while she explained the training program.
I thought that noon would never come. Finally I saw a car drive up. Mrs. Evans got out, shook hands with Mom and Dad, and handed me the cutest little puppy that I had ever seen. Then she started to explain what would be expected of me. “You’ll have to keep him with you as much as possible. You’ll have to show him love without getting him spoiled. You must never let him jump up on you, because blind people can’t anticipate that kind of thing. You must feed him properly—no snacks!”
After Mrs. Evans had explained everything about the program and what my responsibilities would be, Mom and Dad agreed to let me train the puppy.
“I hope that we’re doing the right thing,” Mother said to me as we all signed some papers, “and that it won’t break your heart when you have to give him up.”
“A year is a long time,” I answered. I spent as much time with Chip as I could.
I took him walking where we’d see cats and bikes and dogs. He must never run or bark without a reason. I taught him to heel and sit, and he even learned about traffic. I couldn’t bear the mournful look in his eyes when I ate cookies, so I’d slip him a tiny piece from time to time. That’s why I called him Chip, for chocolate chips.
Then one day we got that awful phone call from Mrs. Evans. “I’ll be over next Saturday to take you and the dog to the center,” she told me.
“The year isn’t up yet, is it?” I wailed.
Mrs. Evans laughed. “Not quite, but I hope that you aren’t getting too attached to that dog. He will have to go in two months, you know.”
“So what will we do next Saturday?”
“He’ll be tested by a professional handler. If he tests out, he’ll be ready to help a blind person.”
“What if he doesn’t test out?”
“We couldn’t use him and would have to give him away,” she answered.
Only a week, I thought. How can I bear to lose him? I had a wild idea: If I could make Chip forget everything, they wouldn’t want him. So why not try to make him act disobedient? “Heel,” I shouted. When Chip obeyed instantly, I yelled at him, “You bad dog! You are so dumb.”
“Sit,” I ordered next, and when he sat, I pulled on his collar and told him how bad he was.
He began to look more and more bewildered as I gave him orders, then punished him for obeying. It broke my heart when I saw his sad eyes looking at me. “Please understand. I’m doing it for your sake,” I told him.
By Saturday Chip was slinking around with his tail between his legs. “What’s wrong with Chip?” Dad asked.
“He’s been acting strange all week,” I answered. I felt terrible about lying like that, but I wanted to keep Chip with me.
When we got to the arena, Mrs. Evans met us and smiled. “Well, here is one of our young handlers. What a fine looking dog. It looks as though you did a good job.”
A man came up and took the leash from my hands. I wanted Chip to sit down and growl at him or do anything except what he was supposed to. But he obediently followed the man to the center of the big floor. I watched as Chip performed perfectly. He came bounding happily back to me with an expectant look on his face, and I realized that I’d failed in my efforts to keep him. “Couldn’t you have run after a cat or something?” I muttered sadly.
As we drove home, Dad chattered pleasantly about the beautiful day, and I sat there wishing that I could crawl into a big hole and just die. I was going to lose Chip. I’d have him for just two more months, and I knew that I wouldn’t try to confuse him any more. I did keep praying that I could keep him, though.
Every Saturday we drove to the center and watched as the handlers put Chip through his paces. They took him into traffic. They had a man run at him with a club. They used horns and whistles and records of screaming crowds. Chip responded perfectly. I couldn’t help but be proud as I watched him work.
Then came the Saturday when Dad said, “You’ve done a superb job. Your work is over now. I’m sure that the person who gets Chip can hardly wait. Imagine waiting for a whole year to finally walk in the sun! You’ve helped someone be able to do that.”
I huddled in the seat with my arm around Chip. I felt miserable. What did it matter that Dad was proud of me? I had lost Chip. Hot tears spilled down my face. Without a word, Dad handed me his handkerchief and squeezed my hand. “We are all born with different talents. Maybe this is one of the things that you were born to accomplish,” he said softly.
When we got to the center, I took Chip’s leash and walked as tall and proud as I could. I didn’t want Chip to be ashamed of me this last day. Mrs. Evans pointed out a young man sitting in a corner. “That’s Mike. He’ll be getting Chip. He’s waited a long time for this.”
The expression on Mike’s face was expectant, and his head was turned slightly. I realized that he was listening harder than most people because he couldn’t see.
“This is Tracy,” Mrs. Evans said when we reached him. “She’s trained your dog for you.”
Mike got up and held out his hand. I took it and felt strong, warm fingers close over mine.
“I want to thank you for everything.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and his voice choked in his throat. “What do you call him?”
“I call him Chip.” I hesitated, then added, “I’ll tell you why later.” Then, when Mrs. Evans walked away with Dad, I whispered to Mike, “We aren’t supposed to give him snacks, but I give him a piece of cookie now and then. He loves it.”
Mike laughed and whispered back. “I love cookies too. Don’t worry—I’ll slip him a cookie sometimes.”
Mike reached down and took Chip’s leash. Chip watched me with a puzzled look, whining softly. Mike put his arms around Chip’s neck. I saw Chip wag his tail, and his tongue came out and touched Mike’s hand. I knew that he’d agreed to go with Mike. I suddenly felt warm and light inside. I’d done my best, and I had helped someone. It really felt good.
And after Chip had been gone for a month, the very best thing happened! Mrs. Evans came back and handed me a little ball of fur. He looked something like Blacknose. Mother groaned, but there was a smile on her lips. I remembered that Dad had said that maybe this was one of the talents I was born with. If it was, I always had to do my best. Grateful, I took the wriggling puppy in my arms and thought, I’ll have you for a whole year. And a year is a long time!

Now, it’s probably not as hard to remember the day you were baptized—your second birth. Listen to what Lan-Ting, a Beehive girl from the Philippines, wrote about her baptism: “I felt like I had been born again. What an extraordinary feeling of cleanliness, sinlessness! My mother’s tears flowed like a fountain of pearls, and I could tell these were tears of joy! My mother told me sincerely, ‘Lan-Ting, today I am relieved to say I can turn you over to the Lord. I trust He will accompany you along the roads of your life’” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.

I was over in England a while back and a bishop asked me, “What is the Church’s stand on cola drinks?” I said, “Well, I can’t remember the exact wording of the bulletin, but I remember seeing the bulletin when I was a stake president. The Church, of course, advises against them.”

He said, “Well, I have read the Priesthood Bulletin, but that isn’t what it says to me.”

And I said, “Would you get your Priesthood Bulletin? Let’s read it together.” And so we found under the heading “Cola Drinks”: “… the leaders of the Church have advised, and we do now specifically advise, against use of any drink containing harmful habit-forming drugs. …” (The Priesthood Bulletin, Feb. 1972, p. 4.)

He said, “Well, you see, that doesn’t mean cola.”

I said, “Well, I guess you will have to come to your own grips with that, but to me, there is no question.” You see, there can’t be the slightest particle of rebellion, and in him there is. We can find loopholes in a lot of things if we want to bend the rules of the Church.

While his mother was the dominant influence in Heber’s life, the Lord placed many others in his path to help guide and direct him. One of the first of these associations was with President Brigham Young (1801–77). Young Heber, too poor to own a sled, entertained himself in the winter by catching hold of passing vehicles, sliding on the snow a block or two, and letting go. One day when he was six years old, Heber caught hold of President Young’s sleigh. As Heber later told the story, President Young “was very fond of a fine team, and was given to driving quite rapidly. I therefore found myself skimming along with such speed that I dared not jump off, and after riding some time I became very cold.”
Finally President Young noticed Heber, told his driver to stop, tucked the cold child under buffalo robes, and then asked who he was. When President Young discovered that the boy was Jedediah M. Grant’s son, he expressed his love for Heber’s father and the hope that Heber would be as fine a man. Before President Young dropped Heber off, he invited the boy to visit him in his office. Thus began a friendship that lasted until President Young’s death. Of this friendship, Heber said, “I learned not only to respect and venerate him, but to love him with an affection akin to that which I imagine I would have felt for my own father, had I been permitted to know and return a father’s love.”5

I came to understand more fully the relationship between the “priesthood” rocket and the “opportunity to benefit from Christ’s atoning power” payload several years ago. During a weekend, I had two assignments. One was to create the first stake in a country, and the other was to interview a young man and, if all was in order, restore his priesthood and temple blessings. This 30-year-old man had joined the Church in his late teens. He served an honorable mission. But when he returned home, he lost his way, and he lost his membership in the Church. After some years, “he came to himself,” and with the help of loving priesthood leaders and kind members, he repented and was readmitted by baptism into the Church.

Later, he applied to have his priesthood and temple blessings restored. We set an appointment for Saturday at 10:00 a.m. at the meetinghouse. When I arrived for the earlier interviews, he was already there. He was so anxious to have the priesthood once again, he just could not wait.

During our interview, I showed him the letter explaining that President Thomas S. Monson had personally reviewed his application and authorized the interview. This otherwise stoic young man wept. I then told him that the date of our interview would have no official meaning in his life. He looked puzzled. I informed him that after I restored his blessings, his membership record would show only his original baptism, confirmation, priesthood ordination, and endowment dates. He choked up again.

I asked him to read from the Doctrine and Covenants:
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.
“By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”

Tears filled his eyes a third time. Then I placed my hands on his head, and in the name of Jesus Christ and by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, and with the authorization of the President of the Church, I restored his priesthood and temple blessings.

The joy that came over us was profound. He knew he was once again authorized to hold and exercise the priesthood of God. He knew that his temple blessings were again fully operative. He had a bounce in his step and a radiant light about him. I was so proud of him, and I sensed how proud Heavenly Father was of him too.

Thereafter, the stake was organized. The meetings were well attended by enthusiastic, faithful Saints, and a wonderful stake presidency was sustained. However, for me, the historic occasion of organizing this first stake in a country was overshadowed by the joy I felt in restoring the blessings to this young man.

Shortly after I returned from my mission, my stake president asked me to interpret for Elder Hartman Rector Jr., then of the Seventy, who had come to Mendoza, Argentina, to preside over a stake conference. These marvelous opportunities have continued over the years. I interpreted for President Thomas S. Monson and other General Authorities during the 11 dedicatory sessions of the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
During four of those sessions, I read the dedicatory prayer in Spanish from the pulpit in the celestial room. My voice broke up several times because of my emotions; tears filled my eyes and flowed down my face. I was reading the inspired prayers and promises for my country from Heavenly Father, who lives and reveals His will, just as He did 12 years earlier through my mission president when I accepted the challenge to learn English.
I also interpreted for the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, during the four dedicatory sessions of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the four dedicatory sessions of the Asunción Paraguay Temple.
It’s difficult for me to explain how sacred those moments were for me when I stood alongside prophets, seers, and revelators in the Lord’s house. I felt somewhat like Peter, James, and John when they had the amazing experience of seeing Jesus transfigured. Peter expressed my feelings when he told Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matt. 17:4).

By the time my husband and I graduated, we had been married for a year. Elder Russell M. Nelson (at the time, he was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) came to speak at our graduation. A luncheon followed, and only 16 students were invited to attend. Oddly enough, both my husband I were selected to be there. When the discussion was opened for questions and answers. I raised my hand, looked Elder Nelson in the eye, and expressed my concerns about being both an artist and a mother. I had worked so hard to build my talents in school, and I wanted to continue to work hard and improve, but I also knew that motherhood took precedence. Was there a way to do both? Elder Nelson’s eyes sparkled as he replied, “Absolutely!” He encouraged me to improve upon my talents and to pray to Heavenly Father for help in knowing how I could do both and that with Him, I would be able to do things I once thought impossible. I took that advice to heart.

Illustrations by Mark Robison
“Say cheese!” the photographer said.
The camera clicked, and a light flashed. It was class picture day for Mae’s sixth-grade class. And she was in the center of the back row—again. That was where the tallest person in the class always stood. And she was always the tallest.
Mae didn’t like how she had to look down when she talked to her friends. She didn’t like how the boys looked up at her like she was a skyscraper. She didn’t like how her friends wore size extra small and she wore size medium. Every TV show she watched made it seem like girls were supposed to be small.
Mae’s friends waited for her as she climbed down the bleachers.
Kayla waved for Mae to hurry. “It’s finally lunchtime! I’m starving!” she said.
Mae smiled and headed to lunch with her friends. After eating their deliciously warm, cheesy pizza, they went outside.
“Let’s go play kickball!” Kayla and Lexi said, running ahead.
Mae started to run after them when someone called, “Hey!”
She turned around. It was Demi and some of her friends.
“Good thing they put you in the back row for pictures,” Demi said. “Otherwise you’d cover everyone up with your big head!”
Demi’s friends laughed. Mae looked around for Kayla and Lexi. They were far away now.
“Leave me alone,” Mae said.
“What’s a giant like you going to do about it?” Demi smirked.
Mae felt tears roll down her cheeks as she ran past Demi and her friends. She ran until she got to the back corner of the field, where no one would see her crying.
Mae felt sick to her stomach, and her heart hurt. She thought of the words to her favorite Primary song: “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?”
Mae knew she could pray anytime, anywhere. She found a quiet spot behind a tree and knelt down to pray.
“Heavenly Father, what Demi said made me feel bad. Please help me feel better. I love Thee and thank Thee for the nice friends I do have.”
Mae ended her prayer and continued to kneel quietly. She could hear kids playing across the field. She felt like someone had wrapped a blanket around her. It was like a warm hug!
Then she thought she heard the quietest voice in her mind say, “I love you, Mae.”
She smiled. She knew that Heavenly Father was answering her prayer. Even though Demi’s words still made her feel sad, she felt better.
Mae knew she was a child of God. There was nothing wrong with the way she looked! God loved her and cared about her. Maybe Demi wouldn’t say mean things if she knew she was a child of God too, she thought.
Then Mae got an idea. She smiled and prayed again.
“Heavenly Father,” she said, “help me forgive Demi and be kind to her. Please help her know that she is a child of God too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When Mae stood up, she didn’t feel sad anymore. Sure, she was still the tallest and probably would be for a few years. But she knew that Heavenly Father loved her, and that was all that mattered.

In 1959 I received that invitation. I did not even know of this, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a dance I met a young lady who was raised in the gospel. I was attracted to her. She said to me, “You know, I could never consider marrying you unless it were in the temple.” I responded to that invitation and was taught the gospel. She is now my eternal companion. I will ever be grateful that was the invitation she extended to me, for it has transformed my life.

When the Church published a rendering of the temple to be built in Bengaluru, a friend messaged me, pointing out how closely it resembled a picture I had drawn in my missionary journal 20 years ago. I had forgotten all about this drawing, so I immediately looked for the journal and was awestruck to see that my friend was right. To me this was a very personal and special manifestation of God’s love for me. How utterly grateful I am to see this dream come true. My rendering in 1999, depicted my stick-figure future family going to the temple outside our home in India. Although I now live in Melbourne, Australia with my family, I can’t wait for us to one day visit this temple. But for now, I truly rejoice with by brothers and sisters in India and many Saints around the world, as we celebrate a sight that we have so longed to behold.

Many of us have had experiences with the sweet power of prayer. One of mine was shared with a stake patriarch from southern Utah. I first met him in my medical office more than 40 years ago, during the early pioneering days of surgery of the heart. This saintly soul suffered much because of a failing heart. He pleaded for help, thinking that his condition resulted from a damaged but repairable valve in his heart.
Extensive evaluation revealed that he had two faulty valves. While one could be helped surgically, the other could not. Thus, an operation was not advised. He received this news with deep disappointment.
Subsequent visits ended with the same advice. Finally, in desperation, he spoke to me with considerable emotion: “Dr. Nelson, I have prayed for help and have been directed to you. The Lord will not reveal to me how to repair that second valve, but He can reveal it to you. Your mind is so prepared. If you will operate upon me, the Lord will make it known to you what to do. Please perform the operation that I need, and pray for the help that you need.”
His great faith had a profound effect upon me. How could I turn him away again? Following a fervent prayer together, I agreed to try. In preparing for that fateful day, I prayed over and over again, but still did not know what to do for his leaking tricuspid valve. Even as the operation commenced, my assistant asked, “What are you going to do for that?”
I said, “I do not know.”
We began the operation. After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. “The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.”
But how? We could not apply a belt as one would use to tighten the waist of oversized trousers. We could not squeeze with a strap as one would cinch a saddle on a horse. Then a picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed—to make a pleat here and a tuck there—to accomplish the desired objective. I still remember that mental image—complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, “It’s a miracle.”
I responded, “It’s an answer to prayer.”
The patient’s recovery was rapid and his relief gratifying. Not only was he helped in a marvelous way, but surgical help for other people with similar problems had become a possibility. I take no credit. Praise goes to this faithful patriarch and to God, who answered our prayers. This faithful man lived for many more years and has since gone to his eternal glory.

How do we develop desires? Few will have the kind of crisis that motivated Aron Ralston, but his experience provides a valuable lesson about developing desires. While Ralston was hiking in a remote canyon in southern Utah, an 800-pound (360 kg) rock shifted suddenly and trapped his right arm. For five lonely days he struggled to free himself. When he was about to give up and accept death, he had a vision of a three-year-old boy running toward him and being scooped up with his left arm. Understanding this as a vision of his future son and an assurance that he could still live, Ralston summoned the courage and took drastic action to save his life before his strength ran out. He broke the two bones in his trapped right arm and then used the knife in his multitool to cut off that arm. He then summoned the strength to hike five miles (8 km) for help. What an example of the power of an overwhelming desire! When we have a vision of what we can become, our desire and our power to act increase enormously.

There are those of us who have laid away our little ones in the grave, and we had that responsibility. A little daughter was born to us over in Holland while I was president of the mission there, and we kept her until she was three and a half years old. My wife has said time and time again that she knew the angels brought that spirit to her because she felt their presence, and yet we laid her away in the grave. If we had to feel that that was the end, we would have given anything in this world to have her back again. And then we come to this great knowledge that we have in the restoration of the gospel, that she will be ours in the eternal world and we will have the joy of seeing her grow up without sin, unto salvation. Sometimes I have thought that probably some of these choice spirits did not need the experience here in mortality like other children, and that is why the Lord has seen fit to call them home.

The young men, 16 and older, in the Duchesne Utah Stake have had a tantalizing taste of what it feels like to be a missionary. They held a stake missionary conference, planned by their leaders and two youth cochairs, that attempted to include some aspects of a two-year mission experience into two days. Of course, the young men only got a sampling of what it will really be like to be on a mission, but the experience is one they won’t soon forget.
Nearly 50 would-be missionaries arrived on a Friday afternoon at the Duchesne missionary training center—a.k.a. the Duchesne stake center—in their suits, toting their luggage, with their parents in tow. After a short devotional the young men went through one door into the cultural hall and their parents exited another to head back home (a la MTC fashion).
In the cultural hall, the young men were greeted with dinner, missionary packets, and an assigned companion. Outfitted with name tags that read “Brother_______,” the companionships headed to their first training classes. The classes covered a whole range of topics from learning the first missionary discussion and mission rules, to how to sort laundry and pack a suitcase.
Their Saturday classes were not only preparing the young men for their missions but also for their teaching appointments later in the day. The companionships were assigned to teach the first discussion to families in their stake, some of which were part-member and less-active families.
Besides teaching the first discussion, the young men also did what every missionary spends a good deal of time doing: service. They spent all morning landscaping around a chapel, cleaning a section of highway, and beautifying the Duchesne River boardwalk. It was so hot many of the young men were tempted to jump into the river, but a quick check of their missionary handbooks told them swimming was against the rules.
They chose to obey mission rules, just as they are choosing to prepare themselves to go on full-time missions when they turn 19. They are working on their faith and obedience to the gospel. As future missionaries, they know that’s a top priority. Delaney Mecham of the First ward says, “We should all go on missions to bring people to the gospel and to help ourselves. When we’re on our missions our testimonies will grow even more than they have at this conference.”

September 9—Today wasn’t the best. I didn’t have anyone to sit by at lunch. I missed an easy question on the geography quiz. Also our team lost at kickball. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have any friends at this school.
I wish we hadn’t moved here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. That’s why I’m starting a journal. People in books always seem to have journals. I’ve heard stories from pioneers’ journals. I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything amazing, but it’s nice to talk to someone. Hope I can keep this up! Gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.
P.S. I do feel a little better now.
I closed my journal and went to set the table.
The next day was just as bad. When I came home, I felt like I might explode. Instead I went to my room, opened my journal, and started writing. I dumped all those feelings out. I felt better this time too. After that, I wrote every few days. I wrote about everything. It was like I was writing my own book!
October 21—Guess what? I made a friend! Her name is Claire, and she’s new too. We both like board games, and we don’t like geography. I think I’m going to invite her over for family game night on Friday.
I love my journal. I like writing when I feel mad or worried because it makes me feel better. I also like writing about the good things that happen because then I can remember them.
Guess what else? I have a book report due next week. Wish me luck!
Little by little things started getting better. I still got picked last for kickball, but I had a few friends, and I joined the math team. I wrote about all of it. Soon I wasn’t writing just to complain, I was writing to a good friend—me!
And before I knew it, sixth grade was over. When I came home from the class party, I had quite a few signatures in my yearbook—all from new friends I had made. I pulled out my journal, plopped down on my bed, and wrote my last entry as a sixth grader.
June 15—Today was the last day of sixth grade. Next year I’ll be in seventh grade! I’m nervous about that, but I know I can write when I get scared or when I feel like everything is going wrong. I just went back and read my first entry again. It was so sad that I almost laughed! I’m glad I have it. It shows how much I’ve grown up this year! I’m glad I’m not so angry or sad anymore.
When we moved here, I felt like I would never be happy again. But now when I read my journal, I can see how much Heavenly Father has blessed me. He helped me make new friends and learn hard things. I wonder what’s going to happen next year!

Children living in orphanages or refugee camps need simple educational toys that teach them basic skills and help occupy their time. File folder games** teach simple matching skills and are fun for the children. Each kit contains a file folder that includes matching games with shapes, colors, or numbers and an envelope to keep them in.
The girls in the Waynesboro Virginia Stake had the opportunity to make file folder games for the humanitarian center when they were at their stake young women’s camp.
On the day of the project, the girls were excited to be doing something that would help others. Danielle Beidler of the Waynesboro Ward says, “I learned that there are many ways to serve others, and it felt good to be able to help them. I realized that I have been so blessed.”
Chelsea Herring of the Rivanna Ward adds, “It made me think of how fortunate I am to be able to go to school.”
Martha Dudley, who was in charge of craft projects for their stake’s young women’s camp, went to ProvidentLiving.org for ideas on how to get involved with humanitarian kits. She says, “I went to the section that lists the current humanitarian needs and found that one need was for the file folder games. I thought that this would accomplish both of my goals: a humanitarian service project that would let our young women help others, as well as being fun to do at camp.”
The activity was so successful that many girls came back later that day and helped finish the folders that needed additional work and talked about their feelings of helping others. Tiffany Dudley of the Rivanna Ward says, “I learned that giving is easy when you are having fun and thinking of someone else.” In the end they assembled 60 file folder games for the humanitarian center.