Gospel Story Finder

Peggy awoke on Christmas morning. She was excited to receive a fun new toy and eat a Christmas feast. But as she looked around, she knew this year would be different. Even though her father worked hard, money had been scarce for her family.
There were no signs of an upcoming Christmas feast. The vegetable trays were empty, and there was no food in the refrigerator.
Peggy and her brother, Malcolm, walked to the door of their parents’ bedroom and saw them kneeling next to their bed. They quietly listened as Mother and Father prayed that Heavenly Father would help the family have food.
“Come on,” Peggy said to Malcolm. “Let’s go outside.”
Peggy and Malcolm went out and collected some of the wild ferns that grew near the garden. Maybe there wouldn’t be any toys this year, but they could still make their home feel like Christmas.
They felt better after they decorated the house with green ferns, but there was still no sign of food.
“The Lord will provide,” Mother said. “Now let’s set the table.”
Father placed plates on the table while Mother set out forks and spoons.
The children looked at each other with confusion in their eyes. The table was ready, but there was still no food. Breakfast soon passed and lunchtime neared. Peggy could feel a few hunger pangs. She wondered how her family would get food.
The clock ticked to 12:00, then 12:30, then 12:45. Still nothing. Then Peggy heard a knock on the door.
She rushed to open the door and was shocked to see the Kirk family standing there. They were holding ham, bread, chicken, salads, and sweets. Peggy couldn’t believe her eyes.
“We were just sitting down to eat our Christmas meal when we thought of you,” Brother Kirk said. “We hope you can use this food.”
Father shook Brother Kirk’s hand, and Mother began to set the food on the kitchen table. Peggy was still shocked. She looked with wide eyes at Mother and Father, but they looked like they expected this to happen.
Peggy knew the feeling she had in the morning was right. This Christmas was different. This was the Christmas that she learned that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. And that was the best gift she could have received.

I grew up in a quiet town in Idaho, USA. My family is Catholic, but we always felt very welcomed by the large Latter-day Saint community. We were often invited to what I now know to be “ward” activities, and I would get invited to attend Primary. I don’t remember going to Primary that often, but when I became Young Women age, I participated in lessons and was asked to play on the volleyball and softball teams.
One very special activity I went to was Young Women in Excellence night. Leigh Anne, my best friend since second grade, had invited me. I wasn’t familiar with what happened at these activities, and she’d told me just to come in a dress and to listen with my heart. She walked me through the displays of handmade crafts, desserts, inspirational thoughts, and more crafts.
Then a movie was shown of a boy with his mother, who spoke to him about eternal families. As she spoke to him, I recognized a warmth and swelling in my heart that I’d never felt before, and it made me want to cry. I wasn’t sure what it was.
I looked at Leigh Anne, and she was looking at me. She knew what I was feeling. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me with tears in her eyes, nodding that she understood and wanted me to keep listening.
I remember the feeling I had as the Holy Ghost testified of the truthfulness of eternal families. I learned to recognize the witness of the Holy Ghost because my friend was someone I could trust and because she followed the prompting to allow me to learn. I’m so grateful for this first step in my conversion process.

After reading an article in the New Era about the merits of group dating, a small group of young Saints in Gerehu, Papua New Guinea, decided to give it a try.
When the big day arrived, the boys picked the girls up at their homes, and they all attended the annual Port Moresby Show (something like a county fair) and ate lunch together.
At the end of the day, the boys gave each girl a small gift to remind her of the occasion.
Although group dating was a new idea for most of the participants, many said they had a great time and plan to do it again soon.

I had always been jealous of Lynn. Despite a close friendship, Lynn and I had always been in unspoken competition with each other in high school—at least, I always felt that way. I longed to be like her. She was pretty, intelligent, talented, and fun to be around. I, on the other hand, lacked confidence in my appearance and felt socially inept.
One night on my mission I knelt at my bedside, desperately asking the Lord in the first of many prayers to help me overcome this sickness. Over time, the Lord answered my prayers. I learned to value my own worth. I learned that God does not love me for my intelligence or the number of my friends or the wealth of my possessions. He loves me for myself alone.

Our Sunday School lesson on keeping the Sabbath day holy had gone well—until somebody mentioned television.
As people chimed in with their opinions regarding whether watching television on Sunday was appropriate, some class members became prescriptive. Before long, other class members became offended. The Spirit, which at first had accompanied our discussion, was replaced by a palpable tension.
Observing the growing discord, Kenneth Payne, a member of our stake presidency, asked to speak. He stood and began telling us about his son Brian, who had served in the Japan Tokyo North Mission. When President Payne and his family greeted Brian at the airport upon his return from his mission in March 2003, he complained of a stiff, sore jaw. Within weeks, Brian was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
A month later he began a regimen of chemotherapy and then radiation. President Payne said doctors had planned a bone-marrow transplant for September 22, but just after the first of that month, “Brian began having difficulty.”
He was hospitalized the second week of September. By then, because of the cancer’s aggressive nature, doctors determined that it was too late for a transplant. The family brought Brian home from the hospital on September 21. He passed away the next morning.
“September 22 is a special day for my family and me,” said President Payne. “On that day we slow down and think about Brian, his contributions to our family, and how he gave the last two years of his life to the Lord and to the Japanese people, whom he loved. We miss him, and on that day we reflect upon his life and honor his memory.”
For all of us, President Payne said, Sunday is a day to slow down and remember.
“We take time out to attend our Church meetings, partake of the sacrament, sorrow for our sins, and ponder the Savior’s suffering on our behalf,” he said. “We serve, we love, and we try not to be distracted by activities that would prevent us from worshipping Him.”
President Payne said that if Sunday activities are in keeping with that spirit, then we can feel right as we engage in them. But if they distract us from remembering the Savior and ministering on the Sabbath as He would minister, then perhaps we should reconsider our choice.
He then sat down and said no more. He didn’t need to. The Spirit had returned to the classroom, and we were all listening.

Stan Chidester sits in the front room looking at walls covered with his younger brother’s paintings. There are impressionistic watercolors, dramatic abstracts, and intricately executed montages. He looks at the walls, then at his brother sitting calmly in his wheelchair, and says, “Well, he’s 23 and has been into art most of his life. The past few years he’s started to get good. Maybe by the time he’s 24 …” He purposely lets the rest of the sentence trail away.
Brad, the artist, listens to his brother’s humorous critique with a half-smile on his face. Obviously, they know each other very well.
Stan goes on, “I’m his worst critic.” But later the older brother reveals that he has known for a long time how talented his brother truly is. “I have one of the paintings Brad did a long time ago. I was looking at it the other day. I think it’s still my favorite.”
Brad Chidester of Sandy, Utah, has been confined to a wheelchair most of his life with muscular dystrophy. As a child he was the Utah state muscular dystrophy poster child. His artistic abilities were apparent from an early age. Like many little boys, he loved trucks. He was always doodling and vehicles with wheels were his favorite subjects.
His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was 11, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year. Brad’s thoughtfulness as a young boy proved that caring and concern are not limited to the physically able.
In high school, one of Brad’s art teachers introduced him to watercolors. That turned out to be Brad’s medium. “I loved it and just stayed with it,” said Brad. “Then one of the secretaries bought one of my landscapes. That got me really excited. I saw I could do something that could earn a little money.”
Brad went on to be named the Sterling Scholar for Utah (a program for outstanding scholastic achievement) in visual arts. He studied graphic arts and began to have his work accepted for showing in galleries. Although he is still a struggling artist, the demand for his work is growing.
To keep track of ideas and things that interest him, Brad and his family take a camera wherever they go. He has someone take a picture of whatever catches his artistic eye. He has also expanded his style. For a long time, he drew realistically. Over the years, he has branched out. “I always thought anybody could do abstract art,” says Brad. “When you get into it, you realize how hard it is. Now it’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Brad is cared for and supported by his three older brothers and his father. His mother died two years ago. Although he appreciates all his family does for him, when asked what one thing he would change about his life, Brad says, “I’d like to be more independent.” Not an unusual sentiment for someone Brad’s age no matter what their physical condition. Another step Brad is taking for himself is preparing to go to the temple.
Although Brad is a talented artist, he suffers his share of rejection. “I’ve had a lot of rejection letters from galleries,” says Brad. “But you can’t let that bother you. You have to keep going.” It’s obvious that Brad has discovered the secret to developing one’s God-given talents. He says, “If you’re really into something, pursue it to the fullest extent.” For a young man whose physical limitations would give him plenty of excuses not to try, he has taken his own advice. He is a true artist.
Brad remembers his high school days and the things people did for him that helped and the things that hurt. Here are a few of Brad’s suggestions if you meet someone with a handicap.
“Some kids seemed afraid they would hurt my feelings, so they would just avoid me. I liked it when someone tried to get to know me.”
“Some people feel sorry for me and try too hard to be nice. I prefer it when they treat me like a regular person. Don’t be afraid; yet don’t go overboard.”
“It bothers me when kids are asking me questions and their parents shush them. Little kids are great.”
“The best way is when people talk with me. That’s the best way to learn how to act around someone with a handicap. Ask them.”

People generally want to go home for the holidays. We even sing “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Being at home with loved ones and repeating family traditions is what makes Christmas special. A few years ago, however, I learned that when you are with those people you love, you can feel that you are home for Christmas anywhere.
In December of 1981 I was in the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for brain surgery. The operation was scheduled for December 10 so I’d be well enough to go home before Christmas. Things didn’t turn out to be so simple. The operation lasted 14 hours, and within the next two weeks my right lung collapsed twice; so I was obviously in no condition to go home when Christmas rolled around.
Christmas in the hospital? It was not a pleasing thought for me. In fact, I became quite depressed. How could I enjoy Christmas in this situation?
A traditional Christmas at our house starts on Christmas Eve. Last minute tasks have already been taken care of because Christmas Eve is as special as the next day. It’s the time for our Christmas Eve program of songs, stories, and presentations. The last part of the program is always the reading of the Christmas story from the Bible by my mother. Then just before bed, everyone is allowed to open one present from under the tree.
Christmas morning we all get up together to see what Santa Claus has brought. Then one by one we go through the stockings stuffed with surprises. Next, all the presents are passed out, and we take turns opening each gift. These are the basic traditions that make Christmas memorable to me.
But that year in the hospital there were no presents under a tree, no stockings on the fireplace, and no piano to sing songs around. There were just a few decorations strung around the room between the machines and tubes hooked to my body, and the small Christmas tree my grandma had sent. While I was wondering what kind of a Christmas it was going to be, my family was making plans, and they were able to get me excited for the occasion even in my bleak circumstance.
I’ll bet there are few people who can say that they’ve held a family Christmas Eve program in a semi-intensive care hospital room. It may have been the shortest program in history, but we still had one. My sister, who knows three chords on the guitar, even brought her instrument to play some carols. My mother read the Christmas story as beautifully as ever.
Christmas morning Santa Claus not only came, but he awoke me personally with a large box filled with candy, games, and a homemade doll. After my morning routine with the nurses, my family arrived. They hauled all of the family’s presents up to my room, and passed out the gifts. One by one we went around the circle opening all the packages.
Because of my family’s love and our traditions, it turned out to be a wonderful Christmas after all and one of my most memorable as well. Surely, if you can succeed in making yourself feel at home for Christmas in the hospital, you can find a way to be at home for the holidays anywhere.

One summer, I participated in an internship on an island in Bicol, Philippines. The view of the ocean was wonderful, and I looked forward to each morning.

I dreaded the evenings, however. That’s when the people in the camp would start drinking and having parties. Invitations to such parties were frequent, and my fellow interns and I had to attend, since not attending would be disrespectful.

The first party was a welcoming party for new interns. I was afraid to attend, because I was pretty sure that they would offer us drinks and I wasn’t sure how to decline. I called a friend in my home ward, and he gave me some wonderful advice that boosted my confidence.

When the party began, they offered us drinks but, fortunately, did not compel us to drink. Since my fellow interns accepted my stand of not drinking, refusing the next offers to drink was now easy for me—until one night. During one of the parties, the president of the company came. He was carrying a bottle of lambanog (a local wine made from coconut). Soon after his arrival, I saw him pouring some of the wine. He then said, “You must learn how to drink” and gave the glass to one of the interns. She quickly drank it.

My heart began to pound heavily. It would soon be my turn. I was whispering silently to myself, “I will not drink it. I will not drink it.” Then I saw the president extending the glass of wine to me. I didn’t know what to do. My fellow interns were looking at me, waiting to see what I would do. I smiled at the president and humbly said, “Sorry, sir, but I do not drink.”

I knew he was disappointed. He asked why I didn’t drink. I said, “I am a Mormon.”

He said, “I haven’t heard of that religion. It sounds like a type of food.” Everyone laughed.

I smiled too, not because of his joke but because I knew I had done the right thing.

No one ever offered me a drink again. But still the ridicule did not cease, even from my own friends. One even said that I was lying and that it’s unimaginable that members of the Church do not drink. During this time I felt the pressures that come to members of the Church.

My stay on that island taught me a lot of lessons, not just academically but spiritually. I learned that mockery may never cease, but the Spirit of the Lord will always guide you to do what is right.

As anxious European Saints crowded aboard the beautiful sailing ship Olympus, an apostle prophesied that their voyage would be terrible—but successful.
Elder John Taylor, presiding over the French Mission, was in England on Church business in early March 1851. He took time to bid good-bye to friends—converts and missionaries—then leaving Liverpool for America aboard the Olympus. One friend was William Howell, who the previous year had opened up France for the preaching of the gospel, and who was named presiding elder for the 245 Saints taking the trip. Elder Taylor wished the travelers well. Then he prophetically warned that the Olympus would be wracked by storms, that Saints would suffer from evil spirits and from sickness, but “that God would preserve them in the midst of all dangers, and lead them to a harbor of safety.”
Another part of Elder Taylor’s prophecy likewise found quick fulfillment. Hardly had the Olympus entered the terrible Irish Sea when harsh head winds whipped huge waves against the wooden vessel day and night. For three weeks many of the tossed-about passengers were seasick, “suffering intensely from the distressing affliction.” Finally, when a calm day brought relief, the passengers felt the worst part of their voyage was behind them. But Captain Wilson’s trained eyes, making a careful survey of the horizon, spotted a rapidly approaching cloud. At first it was no bigger than a man’s hat, but it swelled and spread at an alarming rate.
Quickly the captain massed both shifts of the crew on deck and ordered all sails immediately shortened. He allowed Brother Nowers and a 20-year-old carpenter from Dover, Edmund Fuller, to stay aloft and help the crew. (Later in the voyage Mr. Fuller fell in love with a Mormon girl, Adelaide Jelley, and he joined the Church and married her in St. Louis.)
Barely were sails hauled in and secured, and passengers herded below deck, when the new storm struck the ship full force. The Olympus trembled and reeled “like a drunkard.” The “regular white squall” snapped the foremast off and carried it overboard. Several men nearly went overboard with the broken mast, which, hanging by the ship’s side, had to be cut loose from its stays with axes. Torrents of wind and water sprang the mainmast at the deck.
Thrown on her beam ends the Olympus became unmanageable. Into a fearfully dark night the ship struggled, battered by hurricane winds. Seams of the vessel cracked, letting water seep into the hold.
Two hours after the storm began, about 8:00 P.M., four feet of water had poured into the hold and the ship’s pumps were started. Above, knee-deep waters rushed over the decks, causing Brother Nowers and Mr. Fuller to lash themselves to the pumps they were manning to keep from being washed overboard. Hour after hour the storm raged. And the Olympus took on more and more water.
By midnight the captain, crew, and men on deck were despondent because the storm showed no signs of abating. Within earshot of Brother Nowers the captain ordered Second Mate Hamilton to go below deck and tell the Mormon’s president, Elder Howell, that “if the God of the Mormons can do anything to save the ship and the people, they had better be calling on him to do so.” The captain confessed that despite the crew’s best efforts the Olympus was sinking at the rate of one foot per hour and that by daylight it would be on the bottom of the sea unless the storm ceased.
The second mate asked Brother Nowers to accompany him below to deliver the message to the Mormons. As soon as the crashing waves allowed, the two messengers unbarred the companionway and ducked below. They found Elder Howell in his bed and told him the captain’s appeal.
“Very well,” answered the Mormon leader calmly. “You may tell Captain Wilson that we are not going to the bottom of the ocean for we embarked from Liverpool on a voyage for New Orleans, and we will arrive safely in that port. Our God will protect us.” Mr. Hamilton returned to the deck and gave Captain Wilson the Mormons’ answer.
Brother Nowers, dripping wet, could not help noticing the absolute chaos below deck. Everywhere unsecured trunks and packages rolled and skidded from one side to the other as the ship swayed and rolled. Some passengers were crying. Others prayed. Still others simply waited.
President Howell quickly arose, dressed, and called about a dozen brethren, including new convert Wilson Nowers, to his side. The leader instructed that each man in the circle take a turn to pray vocally that the Lord would spare the vessel. Elder Howell prayed last.
“While he was still engaged in prayer,” said Brother Nowers, “I noticed a material change in the motion of the ship.” Instead of rolling and pitching, the Olympus “seemed to tremble as one suffering from the effects of a severe cold.” He could not believe the ship was sinking. But he also could not believe that the storm had so suddenly ceased.
After the final hearty “amen” President Howell sent the prayer circle members back to bed. Brother Nowers, however, returned to his pumping duties on deck. There, astonished, he found that “the storm had miraculously ceased; the wind had gone down, and the waves were stilled immediately around the ship, while in the distance the billows were still raging.” The Olympus trembled at so sudden a change.
Pumping continued until daylight. When the Sabbath day finally dawned, clear and bright, Captain Wilson admitted that he had done all he could do before calling on the Mormons and that only God’s hand had saved the sinking ship.

As Carole reached to examine her work more closely, something fell from within the scarf. She withdrew her hand for a moment, then grasped a well-worn Book of Mormon. On the cover was printed, “NAOMI STEWART SWEET.” Carole opened the book to the inside cover and read,
“To Sweetie,
“This is a copy of the book I was telling you about. I hope you’ll read it even though you think it’s all fairy tales and wishes. Daddy says that you should read it and then pray to Heavenly Father and ask him if it’s true.
“I’ve already read it with my family, and even though I don’t understand everything, I know I can understand more each time I read it. I think the stories have good messages, and I love the prophets that wrote them. I also love Jesus, and I want to be like him. I love you, and I want you to know Jesus like I know him.
“With love from Carole.”
Carole clutched the book and looked out the window at fluffy snowflakes falling in glistening crescents along the corners of the windowpanes. How could it be that she had known Jesus so much more when she was only eleven years old? Where had her love of the Savior gone? She again thumbed through the book and looked at its color-streaked pages. Sweetie had read it and read it countless times. It was not age that made the book look like an antique, but its use. Carole had brought Sweetie the gospel message, and now she felt she was letting her down by wavering in her own testimony.
Carole began reading the marked verses and the notes written in the margins. One verse marked in yellow caught her eye, “O … the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise, and they hearken not unto the counsel of God, … wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not” (2 Ne. 9:28).
Images of her professors and their accusations of the irrational nature of religion and of the Church flashed through her mind. Yet she felt triumphant that she had been defending what she knew deep inside was right. She continued to read, “But to be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God” (2 Ne. 9:29).
Carole felt a flicker of hope. She was doing something good by learning at college. She just needed to keep up her study of the gospel. All at once, her guilt fled, and she realized she had a lot of work to do to get her testimony to the height it had been during her Primary days. For the first time in months, she felt happy.
Carole quickly put everything back into the trunk and came down the stairs. Sweetie was waiting with eager anticipation.
“Well, do you like it? Did you find the ring? I was sure you’d want it,” she smiled.
“Oh, Sweetie, thank you. Thank you for the best present anyone has ever given me!”
As Carole hugged Sweetie, she smelled cinnamon and ginger, and she smiled as a new feeling of hope grew inside of her.
“Come on, Sweetie,” she said. “You’ve got a tree that needs trimming.”

During her campaign to be elected as the student president, Sue introduced a theme, “Seek for the highest that is in you.” As high school students will do, some started making fun of the theme. But Sue persevered, using the theme for all the school activities throughout the year, and the ridicule died down. The school principal said, “There are always those who will take something positive and try to make fun of it. Sue was able to overcome that just by her pleasant attitude and by not taking herself too seriously or getting defensive when people would make fun of the theme. The theme became the accepted motto for the students that year.”

The record is clear that he was profoundly concerned about his family. He embodied the Abrahamic desire for children, honorable, loyal, faithful children, and certainly he would be leaving his own children in tender years and in critical circumstances. There is some evidence that the Prophet had a premonition of his eldest son’s leading away a portion of the Latter-day Saints and thus creating a division in the family as well as in the kingdom he was living and dying to establish.74 That must have pierced the Prophet deeply. He might well have chosen to live on for the sake of his family. That choice was denied him.

“Emma,” he said on that last morning, according to one account, “can you train my sons to walk in their father’s footsteps?” She replied, “Oh, Joseph, you are coming back.” She couldn’t believe he was not: he always had before. “Emma”—he repeated the same question. “Joseph, you are coming back.” And the third time.75 He left with such reticence that reportedly he went all the way back a third time to say good-bye to his children.

Elder Carl B. Cook has also taught us well about Looking Up:

“At the end of a particularly tiring day toward the end of my first week as a General Authority, my briefcase was overloaded and my mind was preoccupied with the question ‘How can I possibly do this?’ I left the office of the Seventy and entered the elevator of the Church Administration Building. As the elevator descended, my head was down and I stared blankly at the floor.

“The door opened and someone entered, but I didn’t look up. As the door closed, I heard someone ask, ‘What are you looking at down there?’ I recognized that voice—it was President Thomas S. Monson.

“I quickly looked up and responded, ‘Oh, nothing.’ (I’m sure that clever response inspired confidence in my abilities!)

“But he had seen my subdued countenance and my heavy briefcase. He smiled and lovingly suggested, while pointing heavenward, ‘It is better to look up!’ As we traveled down one more level, he cheerfully explained that he was on his way to the temple. When he bid me farewell, his parting glance spoke again to my heart, ‘Now, remember, it is better to look up.’

“As we parted, the words of a scripture came to mind: ‘Believe in God; believe that he is … ; believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth.’ As I thought of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ’s power, my heart found the comfort I had sought in vain from the floor of that descending elevator.

“Since then I have pondered this experience and the role of prophets. I was burdened and my head was down. As the prophet spoke, I looked to him. He redirected my focus to look up to God, where I could be healed and strengthened through Christ’s Atonement. That is what prophets do for us.”

Then an older, graying couple came in. They had paid a full tithe and had given generously to the fast offering and missionary funds. As we visited, the husband said, “We would also like to contribute another check to the ward missionary fund. We’ll leave it up to you to credit this money to whichever missionary needs it most.” (At that time, fifteen missionaries were serving from our ward.)
When he handed me the check, I was astonished at how much additional money they were contributing. “But you gave that same amount a couple of weeks ago, with the same instructions,” I said. “Are you sure you can give that much again—and so soon?”
He and his wife assured me they could. And they reminded me that their gifts were to remain anonymous.
Then a young couple with several young children came into my office. Earlier that day in sacrament meeting, we had read a letter from the First Presidency, announcing that an additional category of voluntary contributions was now available to Church members—a “humanitarian fund.” Money donated to this category would be sent to Church headquarters and used for projects benefiting people worldwide, regardless of religious affiliation. This couple had lived in a developing nation and had witnessed the great needs there. Now they were donating a substantial sum to that fund, trusting that it would be put to the best possible use. I looked at their little children and then back at the parents. And I thought, “How can you do without this money at Christmastime?” But I had an idea that perhaps their Christmas would be even more fulfilling as a result.
Then there were the people who had contributed freely to the ward missionary fund, even though they had no missionary sons or daughters. There were those who had given to the general missionary fund and to the general Book of Mormon fund. And there were those who had contributed toward the yet-to-be-built Bountiful Utah Temple—even though they knew that the Church now pays for building projects through tithing, rather than through a separate building fund.
Later, another couple came in. They, too, had contributed liberally throughout the year. As we were about to conclude our visit, the husband said, “Bishop, is there anyone in the ward who has special needs this Christmas? We don’t have a lot of extra money, but we would like to give what we do have to someone who needs it.”
Immediately I thought of a single mother in our ward. She was doing her best to be self-reliant and certainly wasn’t looking for a handout. But money was tight. She was going back to school, and there were medical bills to pay. Surely she would be a worthy recipient of this couple’s generosity.
I accepted their offer in her behalf. They told me they weren’t interested in knowing the name of the receiver. And they, too, wanted to remain anonymous.
The husband pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stacked several twenty-dollar bills on my desk. As he was doing so, his wife said, somewhat apologetically, “It’s not much. But now that our children are grown, we don’t feel that we’re doing as much in the ward as we used to. This is the least we can do.”
I protested at her apology, knowing they were doing much in their Church callings and in their quiet service to neighbors and to an elderly parent. And I thanked them for being so generous.
The next day, while taking the money to the recipient, I became a little uneasy. How would she receive this gift? Would she be offended? Would she hesitate to accept it?
When I handed the money to her, I described the spirit in which the gift had been given and encouraged her to receive it in that same spirit.
She accepted the money gratefully.
“I can accept this,” she said, “because when times were better for me, I often gave anonymously, just like this.” Then she told me about the secret projects her family had done over the years. She told me about times when she had purchased a frozen turkey and left it, with all the trimmings, on someone’s doorstep. She told me about anonymously mailing money to people who needed it, and about purchasing a coat and boots for the child of a needy friend. Now, in her time of need, she was a gracious receiver.
As I reviewed the monetary contributions so many ward members had made during the year, I couldn’t help remembering, too, their year’s worth of donated labor: The people who, week after week, had provided lessons and leadership—wherever they had been called to serve. The young men and young women who had cleaned the yards of elderly members, both in spring and in autumn. The sisters who had helped a member with wall-papering and painting. The elders and high priests who had done heavy yard work and repairs for those who were unable to do it alone. The young women and Relief Society sisters who had visited a homeless shelter several times—taking food, supplies, and encouragement. The young men who, without needing to be reminded, had gone out in teams and shoveled elderly members’ walks and driveways each time it snowed. The Scouts who had collected toys and books for the Primary Children’s Medical Center. The sisters who had taken meals and reassurance to the sick, the grieving, and the homebound. The priesthood brethren who had given countless blessings of health and comfort. The members who had donated time at the Church cannery to fill the shelves at the bishops’ storehouse. The many people who had quietly listened—and cared—and lifted. And the ones who had served in many ways without anyone else knowing anything about it.
And I thought of the many thank-yous from gracious receivers.
One was from a nine-year-old boy. Following is the letter he sent our Relief Society president and me after his family had received a load of food from the bishops’ storehouse (I have changed his brother’s name in order to preserve anonymity):
“Dear Bishop Gardner and Sister Thomas,
“I just got home from school. Ricky walked in first and said, ‘What in the … ?!’ Then I saw what he just saw. Food … Food! Food all over the place! Boxes, bags, cans, and even cartons of milk and eggs! Ricky said, ‘Look! There must be a million oranges!’
“We wanted to thank you, Sister Thomas, and the whole Church (especially our ward) for all the help you’re giving us right now, especially all this nice food donated from the bishops’ storehouse. It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel so loved, so cared for, and thought about.
“Gratefully.” (And he signed his full name.)
Then it was Christmas Eve. My own family of young children and teenagers were just finishing our annual Christmas pageant—complete with scriptures, carols, costumes, a real-live baby playing the part of the Christ child, a three-year-old Mary, a six-year-old Joseph, an angel, a shepherd, and a Wise Man. (I always somehow end up with the role of the donkey.)
There was a knock at the door. It was Santa Claus! In living color! He ho-ho-hoed himself into the living room, made a big fuss over each child, reached into his enormous sack, and pulled out a gift for each member of the family. As he did so, I noticed a vague resemblance between Santa and a member of our ward.
Then he wished us all a Merry Christmas and was off. Two of the youngest children were determined to see the reindeer for themselves, and they raced out to the front porch. But Santa must have parked his sleigh down the street somewhere. We watched and listened to his sleigh bells jingle as he trotted merrily through the neighborhood and disappeared into the snowy darkness.
What a Christmas it was—my first Christmastime as bishop! How could I ever express my gratitude for the many ward members who had made it a joyful time of giving and receiving—and for all who carry that spirit with them throughout the year?
And how could I ever express my gratitude and love for the Savior, Jesus Christ, who had set the pattern and had given the greatest gift of all?
Certainly, my nine-year-old friend is right: “It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel so loved, so cared for, and thought about.”

But I add one experience to make the point.

During his missionary service, Brother Pierce was called in to administer to the infant child of a branch president whom he knew and loved. Unfortunately, the wife of the branch president had become embittered and now seriously objected to any religious activity within the home, including a blessing for this dying child. With the mother refusing to leave the bedside and the child too ill to move, this humble branch president with his missionary friend retired to a small upper room in the house to pray for the baby’s life. The mother, suspecting just such an act, sent one of the older children to observe and report back.

There in that secluded chamber the two knelt and prayed fervently until, in Brother Pierce’s own words, “we felt that the child would live and knew that our prayers had been heard.” Arising from their knees, they turned slowly only to see the young girl standing in the partially open doorway gazing intently into the room. She seemed, however, quite oblivious to the movements of the two men. She stood entranced for some seconds, her eyes immovable. Then she said, “Papa, who was that . . . man in there?”

Her father said, “That is Brother Pierce. You know him.”

“No,” she said, matter-of-factly, “I mean the other man.”

“There was no other, darling, except Brother Pierce and myself. We were praying for baby.”

“Oh, there was another man,” the child insisted, “for I saw him standing [above] you and Brother Pierce and he was dressed [all] in white.”

Now if God in his heavens will do that for a repentant old cigar-smoking, inactive, swearing pool player, don’t you think he’ll do it for you? He will if your resolve is as deep and permanent as Eli Pierce’s.

“She can’t see! The fever has left Sister Stratton completely blind!” The news swept rapidly through the little pioneer town of Virgin, Utah. Sister Emily Amanda Gardner Stratton, beloved Primary president in the Virgin Ward, had lost her sight following a sudden illness. She had lovingly and faithfully served the children in this southern Utah town for 15 years, and she had helped many of the ward members in times of trouble. Now she needed help. But what could the children and ward members do?
The local doctor had done everything he could for her and had advised her family to take her to the nearest hospital, which was in St. George, Utah. He said her only hope of seeing again was to receive the help available at the hospital.
For weeks, the doctors in St. George tried every treatment they knew, but nothing worked. When their last treatment failed, Sister Stratton sent word that she wanted to come home.
The children and Primary workers in Virgin had prayed diligently for her recovery. When they learned the doctors had given up, they were even more determined to do whatever they could to help their dedicated Primary president.
Someone suggested they hold a special fast for her. The children knew that if they fasted and prayed with faith, Heavenly Father would help Sister Stratton in ways they could not. Heavenly Father would hear their prayers and answer them according to His will.
It was difficult to go all day without food, but even the youngest Primary children fasted and prayed for their beloved leader.
That evening, they all met at the tiny meetinghouse to close their fast with prayer. Afterward, they felt great peace and joy and knew that Heavenly Father had heard their prayers. The sunset was glorious, casting rays of red and gold throughout the western sky as they went to their homes.
A few days later, Sister Stratton’s wagon creaked as it rolled along the dusty road toward Virgin. The children and Primary leaders hurried to greet her and tell her of their special fast.
“What time was your fast meeting, children?” Sister Stratton asked.
“It was at sunset!” one child exclaimed.
Sister Stratton sat back. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “At sunset on that day, I was sitting in a chair by the west window of my hospital room. As I looked up, I saw the sunset for the first time since the fever stole my sight. Yes, children, I can see!”
The loving prayers and faithful fasting of the Virgin Ward Primary had been answered with a miracle. For the rest of Sister Stratton’s life, she was blessed with perfect eyesight.

Our membership in the Church has blessed our lives so much. When we first joined the Church we could not understand, speak, or read English. We would come to church each week and we enjoyed being there, even though we did not understand English. The branch president would invite us into his office after church was over and explain to us the teachings. We were nurtured by the leaders and other Church members.
Soon we were introduced to the Church’s literacy program. The senior missionary couples were our teachers. I especially wanted to learn to read, to write, and to speak English so that I could do God’s work and also teach my family. Through the Gospel Literacy program, we can now understand, speak, read, and write English. I do not know what we would do without the couples who contributed so much to our learning, serving as our teachers, and helping us to develop self-reliance skills. Our couples were Elder and Sister Brinks, Elder and Sister Renfroe, and Elder and Sister Wight. Without these couples we would not have been able to accomplish so much, but with their help and with God’s power, we are better now!
We love serving in our branch where Abraham is the elders quorum president and I am the Relief Society president. I can give lessons now and read from the scriptures.
We love holding family home evenings with our children. We are learning from the Come, Follow Me manual and we also pray together. I read scriptures stories to them from the Book of Mormon and the Bible.
We are so happy that our family is sealed together in the temple. It made my heart happy when I read, on the outside of the temple, those holy words! When I went inside, I thought, “This is a small heaven”. I loved it!
Ministering is a big part of what we do as members. We visit and support our other members. We have many members of our branch now. They are coming!
God has blessed us too much! We are so happy to be members of the Church and as we look back at our lives and how they have changed and been blessed because of our membership in the Church, we are so grateful. Our progress has been small but now we have strong testimonies and we will never leave the Church, not ever! If you ever come to Tamale, we hope that you will visit our branch.

On the word poison, indulge me for a brief visit to the Holy Land.

Here was a group of BYU students sent out to have a "kibbutz" experience, which meant cutting back certain trees. They were warned when they went into this grove. "Somewhere out there you may run onto a thing—, black. They are known as vipers. Don't touch them! As soon as you see one, call us; and we will take care of it." We had an older student who'd had some experience with snakes. He came onto one. He took hold of it right up by the top of the neck. Instantly the viper turned and bit him, and his arm began to swell almost visibly. They ran. They ran for what they thought was the antidote. They gave him a shot. It wasn't the antidote. It was a tetanus shot. And by the time he realized he had not been given the antidote, he was already in critical condition. They took him to the hospital. Ann and I both visited. He barely survived after a priesthood blessing. The pain, the anguish, the swelling, the almost black-looking hand were unspeakably horrible. You live, as the Master said you would, in a generation of vipers. And I won't dwell on it except to tell you that the use of drugs is addictive; the use of pornography is addictive; the use of other substances that are now being called date drugs are not only poison, they will kill you. They will burn your brain ultimately. They will destroy your conscience. And you get to the point where you care about only one thing—own habit. And you will hurt your loved ones, and you will be unworthy of serving the Lord in His kingdom. Now there is always through Christ a way of starting back, but preventive medicine is better than medicine. I plead with you. If you don't start, you never have to stop.

When we watch television, we probably don’t think about what a “fool” idea TV was once thought to be. We just take it for granted that it pulls pictures out of the air and then converts them into images that we can see on our TV sets. Little thought is given to how marvelous this means of communication is.
But the way it was invented is marvelous indeed.
Not widely known is the fact that television was actually invented by a fifteen-year-old boy, and if it were not for the urging of his high school teacher, the boy might never have gotten the patent for it.
It all began in the early 1920s in Rigby, Idaho, when a teacher, Justin Tolman, recognized a student’s genius. He saw a very rare potential in young Philo Farnsworth and did all he could as a teacher to encourage and develop the youth’s scientific talent.
Although Phil, as he was called by his family and friends, was busy with school and other activities—he played the violin in the school orchestra and taught himself how to play the piano—his inventive mind traveled far beyond the limits of the classroom and his community.
Most people who listened to Phil’s ideas weren’t able to understand the boy’s advanced concepts. And they didn’t put much faith in his theory that pictures could be sent through the air and instantly received and seen on screens hundreds, even thousands of miles away.
Phil’s teacher, Justin Tolman, was truly amazed at the youngster’s grasp of electronics and his ability to solve problems with innovative solutions. He watched for hours after school as Phil expertly drew diagrams on the blackboard, illustrating his television theory. Tolman was sure that, given the equipment to conduct experiments, the boy could produce this wonderful invention. But where could such elaborate equipment be found? Certainly not in the high school lab!
It wasn’t until several years later, when Phil was married and attending college, that he was able to get the financial backing he needed to perfect his television. Then, when he applied for a patent on his invention in 1927, he discovered that a man named Vladimir Zworykin, who worked for RCA, was applying for a similar patent. Which of these inventors should the patent be awarded to was a real problem for the United States Patent Office. From the documents his backers provided, it appeared that Vladimir had had the idea first.
But if Phil’s high school teacher, Justin Tolman, could be found, it was possible that the teacher could vouch for Phil’s claim of having had the concept for television first. Tolman was found, and the patent office asked him to appear before them. Assured that Tolman had no chance to talk to Phil beforehand, the patent authorities questioned Tolman at great length, and his memory proved to be excellent. He described in detail all the diagrams that Phil had drawn on the school blackboard as a student so many years before.
Impressed with Tolman’s clear description of Phil’s television, the patent office awarded the patent to the young inventor.
Philo Farnsworth, who died in 1971, had lived a very productive life and had been awarded a great number of patents in the field of electronics.

I felt like a genius! This year I had a no-fail system for my New Year’s resolutions. In the past, after floundering around with about fifty resolutions, I’d give up the whole list as hopeless. But I had finally realized that the secret was to limit my efforts. This year I had only three resolutions.
I listed them on my pale blue stationery with the cuddly Teddy bears in the corner. Number one was “Bring up semester spelling grade from D to A. This would require serious studying.
My second resolution was “Learn to make fancy cakes.” I’ve always wished that I could make one of those cakes that you cut into pieces and reassemble into a creative shape like a clown or a cat. I was determined to learn to do this.
For my third resolution, I wrote, “Don’t make nasty remarks to Barbara.” Barbara is my younger sister, and I often wonder how she really feels about me, because she’s always pestering me, seemingly on purpose! Well, I’d make every effort to be nice, no matter how annoying she was.
I could hardly wait to start. It was nine o’clock on the night of December 31, and I was ready.
“What are you doing?” asked a shrill voice.
I hadn’t heard Barbara come up behind me. I hastily shoved my paper out of sight and whirled around. “Get out of my room!” I snapped. She ran out giggling, and I sighed. Oh, well—it wasn’t New Year’s yet.
The next morning I clenched my teeth as I crawled out of bed, to prevent thoughtless words from erupting at Barbara before I had a chance to stop them.
While I stood in the kitchen, waiting for my toast to pop, she came up behind me and tickled me in the ribs. I opened my mouth to yell, then exhaled slowly and turned around. When I saw her grinning, freckled face, I almost lost it but caught myself in time. I forced a smile and said through tight lips, “You got me that time!”
You should have seen the expression on her face. She looked stricken as she left the kitchen, head hanging, feet dragging. She had clearly been hoping for an explosion. I have to admit that I enjoyed a certain amount of glee at her disappointment.
She stayed out of my way for the rest of the morning. That made it easier for me to tackle my cake project.
Mom has a book about making fancy cakes. I leafed through it and finally chose a cake that looked like a fairy-tale house. It required two rectangular cakes.
I followed the directions on the cake-mix boxes to bake the cakes. When I took them out of the oven, one was higher than the other. I could only hope that everything would fit together.
A diagram in the book showed how to cut the two rectangles to make the pieces for the house. I followed the directions, but the house wouldn’t stand up—the front kept falling. Finally, by using gobs of frosting as glue, I had my house assembled.
I stood back to survey my creation. It looked like a cake that had been cut apart and sloppily reassembled. It didn’t look like a house. On second thought, maybe it did—a house that had suffered major damage in an earthquake.
Barbara bounced in. “What’s that mess supposed to be?” She poked a finger at my cake.
I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. “It does look like a mess, doesn’t it?” I managed to say half sincerely.
She looked at me as if I’d gone crazy, then avoided me the rest of the day.
I went to my room and pulled out all my spelling papers for the semester. I’m good at math, and after two hours of juggling test scores, I had to admit defeat. Even if I got perfect scores on all the remaining tests, it was a mathematical impossibility to raise my grade to an A this semester. The best I could hope for was a C.
I crawled into bed that night and thought about my resolutions. I had already struck out with my spelling A and my cake project, and I didn’t think I could go much longer without saying something very unpleasant to Barbara. It was still only January first, and I felt like a failure again.
Just as I was drifting off to sleep, Barbara popped into my room and said, “How come you’ve been acting so weird today?”
“Barbara!” I screamed. “You were supposed to be asleep hours ago! Go away and leave me alone!”
She looked both sad and relieved as she ran out of my room. I guess to her, things were back to normal.
I tossed and turned all night, dreaming about a spelling list of words related to baking. I couldn’t spell any of them. All through the dream, Barbara’s face grinned at me from the background. By morning I was exhausted.
I reconsidered my resolutions. Obviously even three were too many for me to handle. I decided to forget about the resolution to get an A in spelling for this semester. I would study hard and just do the best I could. I could still get a C.
I would postpone the cake project. During summer vacation I would enroll in a cake-decorating class.
As for my dealings with Barbara, I would never be perfect. I would just try to do better.
So much for my original three resolutions. But I decided to start today, January 2, with a new one. I would try to do one nice thing for Barbara every day. That was it—no more and no less. Maybe I could manage that much.
“Barbara,” I said when she got up, “how would you like for me to read to you?”
She looked astonished. Then she looked suspicious. Then she smiled.
We settled into the big chair in the family room with her favorite book. It was a good book. We both enjoyed it.