Gospel Story Finder

The war in Europe had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s beautiful city of Vienna, on the River Danube, lay largely in ruin.
Famous public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the opera house, and the great theater were virtually destroyed. It was still a time of digging out and starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food, clothing, and clean drinking water were scarce. Nearly 270,000 citizens of Vienna were homeless. Bombed-out buildings loomed over streets full of holes. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t go out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we drove across the bridge over the River Danube, I saw that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here,” and I did.
He leaned out of the vehicle, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears left me. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was all right.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the street, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we drove our vehicle in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The branch president’s daughter was obviously excited. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in very poor circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
We feasted on love and companionship more than the food. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was many years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s Cathedral and the other famous buildings all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind is filled with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.

There is an old story of a waiter who asked a customer if he had enjoyed the meal. The man said that everything was fine, but it would have been better if they had given him more than two slices of bread.
The next day, when the man came to eat again, the waiter gave him four pieces of bread. The man said he still wished he had more. So the next day, the waiter gave him eight pieces! But the man still wasn’t satisfied.
Finally, on the fourth day, the waiter was really determined to make the man happy. So he took a nine-foot-long (3-m) loaf of bread, cut it in half, and with a smile, served it to the customer. Instead of being grateful, the man looked up and said, “The food was good, as always. But I see you’re back to giving me only two slices of bread.”

Thanks to these stories, the children January will have one day will know a lot about their great-grandmother. They will know, for one thing, that she loved animals. January laughed when her grandma told her about trying to take home a frightened little bat from the woods when she was five years old. “She wrapped it in toilet paper and took it to her parents,” explains January. “Then her parents freaked out and told her to put it back.”
She still loves animals. Though she has never had a pet bat, she now has at least 11 birds.

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our saints. They had placed his body in front of the big house, as they call it, the house where the people come to wail and weep and mourn over the dead, when in rushed the dead man’s brother. He said, “Administer to him.” And the young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that. He’s dead.” “You do it!”

This same old man that I had with me when his niece was so ill was there. The younger native got down on his knees and he anointed this man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to rise. You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter. He sat up and said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.” Of course, all of that was just psychological effect on that dead man. Wonderful, isn’t it—this psychological effect business? We told him he had just been administered to, and he said, “Oh, that was it.” He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.” He outlived the brother that came in and told us to administer to him.

I grew up in Monterrey, Mexico, in the state of Nuevo León. My parents were faithful Latter-day Saints, and I can’t remember a single time when we failed to attend church. When I was five or six years old, my father owned an old dump truck that he used to haul construction materials and garden soil. Each Sunday my sisters and I climbed up into the bed of that truck while my father and mother climbed into the cab. Then we drove to the home of my cousins, where their family climbed up to join us. Next we picked up the Gonzales family, then the Solanos family, and so on. By the time we arrived at the chapel, the dump truck was filled not with soil, but with Saints.
Some people who lived nearby thought it was most entertaining to watch more than 20 men, women, and children in white shirts and ties or Sunday dresses come pouring out of a dusty dump truck. Neighbors came outside each Sunday just to enjoy the spectacle. They laughed at us, but we weren’t a bit embarrassed. We were happy to be going to church. We repeated that performance twice each Sunday all through the 1960s.
When the truck wasn’t available, my family walked. Even if it was raining or cold or sizzling hot, we walked just the same, though it took at least an hour going and an hour coming back. And in those days there were Church services in the morning and the afternoon. We always attended both.
When I returned to Monterrey after many years, every one of my fellow dump truck passengers was still active in the Church. That experience united us and made us strong. I still attend all my meetings. How can I do less now than I did then?

It’s a thrill, brethren, to stand here this evening and see this great audience of priesthood filling this sacred Tabernacle. Having had the privilege of serving as the Presiding Bishop of the Church for fourteen years, and thus, the president of the Aaronic Priesthood, I am thrilled to see all of the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood here tonight, and I imagine that will be true in the other buildings where the priesthood are listening in. We are all thrilled as we go through the Church to find the wonderful attitude that the Saints have toward President Kimball and, particularly, toward the emphasis that he is giving to missionary work. You know that he has indicated that every boy should be a missionary.
I think of when I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings in the little country town where I was raised, and two missionaries reported their missions down in the Southern States. In those days they traveled without purse or scrip, and they had to sleep out many nights when they couldn’t get entertainment. I don’t know whether they said anything unusual that night or not; but if they didn’t, the Lord did something unusual for me, because when I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call. And I went home, went into my little bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station here in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Before I left on that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, who was then a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, talked to us missionaries, and he said, among other things, “The people will love you. Now,” he said, “don’t get lifted up in the pride of your hearts and think that they love you because you are better than other people. They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I did not understand that then, but before I left the little land of Holland, where I spent nearly three years, I knew what President Lund meant. I went around saying good-bye to the Saints and the converts who I had brought into the Church, and I shed a thousand tears, as compared to what I shed when I told my loved ones good-bye.
For instance, in Amsterdam I went into a home where I had been the first missionary there, and the little mother, looking up into my face with tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago, but it’s much harder to see you go.” I had been the first missionary in that home. Then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
I went to tell a man with a little Dutch beard good-bye. He stood erect in the uniform of his country. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. And then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
Now I like a little story that President Grant used to tell about the love that converts have for their missionaries. He told about a couple who came here from one of the Scandinavian countries. They hadn’t been taught much about the gospel. All they knew was that it was true. And so the bishop went to this couple and taught them the law of tithing. They paid their tithing. Then later the bishop went to them and taught them about the fast offering. They paid their fast offering. And then the bishop went to them again to get a donation to help build a ward meetinghouse. They thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with them, they paid their donation on the meetinghouse.
Then the bishop went to the father to get his son to go on a mission. Now I can hear President Grant standing here, saying, “That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” The man said, “He’s our only child. His mother will miss him. We can’t let him go.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, who do you love in this world more than anyone else outside of your own relatives?” And he thought for a few minutes. He said, “I guess I love that young man who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, how would you like someone to love your boy just like that?” The man said, “Bishop, you win again; take him. I’ll pay for his mission.”
Now you fathers, how would you like someone to love your boys just like that man loved that boy who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught him the gospel? I heard a missionary up in Oregon giving the report of his mission. He himself was a convert to the Church, and he came down with his fist on the pulpit, and he said, “I wouldn’t take a check tonight for a million dollars for the experience of my mission.” I sat back of him, and I said to myself, “Would you take a million dollars for your first mission in the little land of Holland?” And I began counting the families that I’d been instrumental in bringing into the Church. What kind of a man would I be if I were to sell them out of the Church for a million dollars? I wouldn’t do that for all the money in the world!
The other night I sat in my little study in my apartment and began reminiscing, and I counted ten families that I’d been instrumental in bringing into the Church, and I’ve lived long enough to see their sons go on missions. I checked with just one of those families here just a few years back when I had to give a talk at a Brigham Young University banquet for the Indians. At that time there were 153 direct descendants of that one family alone. Thirty-five of them had filled full-term missions, and four had done stake missionary work. If you gave them two years apiece, that would be seventy years of missionary service out of that one family, without counting all the converts that their converts had made. And then one family kept two Indian children in their home—one boy they kept for eight years; he was then in the mission field, and they were paying for his mission. When my companion and I brought that family into the Church, we couldn’t look ahead seventy years and see what would become of them.
I checked with another family that I’d been instrumental in bringing into the Church. They couldn’t give me details, but they said that when their grandfather died, there were 150 direct descendants in the Church at that time, and five of them were serving as bishops.
I went over these ten families in my mind the other day, thinking of the words of Jesus when he said: “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” (Matt. 6:19–21.)
What do you suppose I could have done during those few years of my young manhood that would lay away treasures in heaven like the years I spent over there among those Dutch people? Some of them have already passed on, and I love them almost like my own family. I look forward to being able to meet them again when my time comes to join that innumerable group.
Now I have labored so much with the missionaries. I have been on four missions, and presided over two, and I have toured many missions, and love to hear those young men bear their testimonies. For instance, another young man in Oregon in our testimony meeting said that there wasn’t a company in this world that could pay him a large enough salary to get him to leave his missionary work. And he had been in the armed forces and away from home for several years and then out into the mission field. I had a letter here just last week from a missionary from up in Idaho, and I copied a little paragraph from it. I’d like to read it to you. He said this:
“There is no greater work than that of missionary work. My mission has been the most rewarding undertaking in my entire twenty-seven years of life. My life is dedicated to serving the Lord. My heart is overflowing as are the tears of joy that are now coming from my eyes. There is nothing so wonderful—nothing—as tasting the joy and success of missionary labors.”
I had a young missionary come in to visit with me as he returned from the Argentine. I knew his people back in Washington, and he had been kept over to help train some of the other missionaries, until he had been away from home for three years. And I said, “Craig, do you feel like it was a waste of time to be in the mission field, that you ought to have been home getting your education and getting ready to settle down?” He said, “Now listen, bishop, if the Brethren want to make me happy, just let them load me on the plane in the morning and let them send me back to the Argentine.” You can’t put that kind of feeling in the hearts of young people with money. The Lord who creates the feelings of the human breast is the only one who can put that kind of faith into the hearts of his people.
Brethren, after all the missionary service I have had, I wouldn’t want to raise a boy and not have him go on a mission, for his good and because I think we owe it to the world to share with them the truths of the gospel. And one way to make sure that your boys will go on missions is to start a missionary fund for them and let them keep adding to it, and they will be on their missions from the time that they are young boys. For instance, down in California I went to a ward, and the bishop has a program of giving to each boy when he’s ordained a deacon fifteen dollars out of the missionary fund. Then they ask the father to match it, and then every time the boy is interviewed—for instance, when he’s ordained a teacher—they check on his missionary fund. I figured, on a percentage basis, if every ward in the Church had as many missionaries in the field as that ward, we would have 55,500 missionaries. So I provided in my family that every male child who has not been on a mission has a missionary fund so he will know that he is on his mission from the time that he is a boy.
God bless you all, and may we not disappoint our great leader in sending all of our boys on missions, I pray, and I leave you my blessing, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

One of Heavenly Father’s most beloved tools in guiding His children is righteous grandparents. My father’s mother was such a woman. On an occasion that took place when I was too young to remember, my father was disciplining me. Observing this correction, my grandmother said, “Monte, I believe you are correcting him too harshly.”
My father replied, “Mother, I will correct my children as I want.”
And my wise grandmother softly stated, “And so will I.”
I’m pretty sure my father heard the wise guidance of his mother that day.

For several months the next summer, we stayed at our summer home in the mountains. Bimbo loved to go with us so he could run through the woods and chase chipmunks. One day he returned to the cabin with his tail between his legs. His entire face was filled with something that looked like long whiskers; they were porcupine quills. The quills were even inside his mouth. We lovingly wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to a neighboring cabin, where a doctor who treats people was staying. He carefully removed the quills. Again I prayed that our pet would recover without ill effects. We thought Bimbo had learned his lesson, but the very next day he found the porcupine again, and a second trip was made to our good neighbor, the doctor. After that, Bimbo stayed away from porcupines.

A few months ago I got stuck in the elevator of my apartment building without my mom or brother. I was very afraid. The man who cleans the building found me and helped me get back to my mom. Later, Mom told me that while I was lost she said a prayer to Heavenly Father asking that I would get back safely to her. I am still nervous when I get in the elevator, but I’m more careful, and I know I can ask Heavenly Father for help.

Some time ago, I felt impressed to embark on a road trip to visit family in Salt Lake City, an eight-hour drive from our home in Colorado. With little planning, I loaded up our three young daughters and began the trek. We left later in the day than was wise. My husband stayed behind due to prior commitments. It was an unseasonably warm October day both in Denver, where we lived, and in Salt Lake, so I grossly underestimated the wintry roads ahead as Interstate 80 crosses Wyoming.
We started our journey uneventfully, but temperatures dropped quickly as we gained elevation. I became nervous and full of doubt. Our van had new tires but no four-wheel drive. I hadn’t packed warm clothes or blankets. I was terribly unprepared for something to go wrong. I pulled over to check road conditions and decided to press forward, but a few hours later I was white-knuckle driving in the worst snowstorm of my life.
I laughed and sang with my kids so they wouldn’t sense my unease. I knew this stretch of interstate was no stranger to terrible weather-related accidents. Large snowflakes streaked past the windshield in heavy sheets and blurred my vision. I could hardly make out a landmark anywhere on the road.
I dreaded the occasional 18-wheeler throwing snow and slush across the windshield as it passed. I watched several vehicles slide off the road into ever-deepening snowbanks. I knew I was in trouble. The pressure I felt to keep my girls warm and safe weighed on me as we crept slowly along in the dark.
Suddenly, I felt my phone buzz with a notification.
I had been ignoring my messages to focus on the road but glanced down and saw that my brother, who I thought was home in Texas, had texted me: “We are passing through a bad blizzard in the middle of Wyoming.” I was surprised to learn that my brother and his wife were just a few miles ahead in the storm. They were en route to Idaho in a vehicle much safer than mine and well prepared for cold weather. Our intersection was no coincidence. The storm persisted, but I was not alone.
I called them. Relief washed over me as they talked me through the blizzard. At times, they didn’t have good news. At one point, fatigued from the tedious driving, I asked if the roads ahead had cleared up. “It’s pretty bad around mile marker 280,” my brother responded. “Take your time.”
Soon, I completely lost visibility and resorted to keeping my right front tire along the rumble strip on the side of the road. For many long minutes I continued forward, trusting only the sound of those vibrations to keep us safe on the road. Finally, the skies cleared, and I stopped for the night at a hotel, too exhausted to go on.
I never saw my brother and his wife, but I knew they were there. I didn’t realize how panicked I would have felt without their guidance until my kids were safe and warm in our hotel room. My brother’s knowledge of the specific path ahead gave me the perspective I needed to keep moving forward. Without him, my fear of the next snowy mountain pass might have left me highly reactive, and one anxious tap of the brakes could have sent us off the road.
Here I was, trying to make it to the safety and familiarity of my parents’ home, and my older brother showed up to trudge the path before me. How sad it would have been if I had driven this road never knowing that he was ahead and never accessing the peace available to me. Just as our Savior is there for us, my brother was there even when I couldn’t see him.

The highlight of our mission was the visit from the first members in Ukraine. We had prepared ourselves. The mission president’s wife spoke Russian, and even I learned part of one of the ordinances in Russian. These members had such a reverence for the house of the Lord. As they came and left, they bowed in humility. They were so happy they could receive their endowments, and many cried for joy and didn’t want to leave the temple.

Years ago, I learned something of the price paid for trust and worthy recognition. During a summer break, I found a job on an oyster boat in Long Island Sound. Four of us lived together in an area not much larger than the cab of a big semitrailer tractor. At first, I was considered a spy for the owner, then a kid who didn’t have courage to live like a man. They really gave me a bad time. Finally, when they understood I would not abandon my principles, we became friends. Then privately, one by one, they asked for help.

You know what is right and wrong. Be the leader in doing right. At first, you may not be understood. You may not have the friends you want right away, but in time, they will respect you, then admire you. Many will come privately to receive strength from your spiritual flame. You can do it. I know you can do it.

It’s the middle of the night. My eyes snap open as my restless sleep is cut short. “Oh no,” I pray. “Not again.”

But the tremors begin almost immediately. In a terrifying burst of trembling that’s as baffling and foreign as it is debilitating, my entire body begins to jerk up and down as if in a seizure. My hands and feet burn with heat from an unseen source. My wife jerks awake and holds me tightly, reassuring me with her quiet presence.

Happiness, what I had once considered my default state of being, is nowhere in sight.

If I had one question that dark night—other than to wonder what was going on physically (which I later learned)—it would have been to ask why I was feeling so unhappy when I was striving to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.

When it comes to medical conditions like depression and anxiety, happiness becomes a more complex creature. The late-night tremors I mentioned earlier turned out to be symptoms of anxiety brought on by clinical depression.

In my life, when I’ve been in the full throes of darkness and uncertainty that is clinical depression, I could no more “choose to feel happy” than choose my height or eye color.

What I can always choose, however, is to fight back against the darkness. I can reach up to God. I can use all the tools at my disposal, from faith and prayer to modern medicine.

For me, emerging successfully from depressive episodes over the years always involves a multifaceted approach. I must look to my physical health (exercise, nutrition, sleep), my medical health (medication, vitamins, consultations with doctors), my emotional health (counseling, connecting with others), and my spiritual health (prayer, scripture study, serving in the Church, time in the temple) in balanced measures.

Despite some of the painful lows I’ve experienced over the years from depression, I am blessed to experience happiness and positivity most of the time! I feel deeply for those of you more strongly and more persistently affected by mental illness than I, but even for you, I fully believe that the Prince of Peace will heal all your sorrows (see John 14:27).

Depression tells many lies when it comes to happiness. It asserts that things won’t ever improve. One potent antidote to this particular lie—for me, at least—is found in my favorite hymn, “Be Still, My Soul.”

Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.22

Beautiful truths, aren’t they? As I look back over my life, I have no doubt that God has blessed, strengthened, and guided me all along the way. Thus, I know He will be there for me in the future, just as I know God will guide you along your path to happier days.

“Sickness can do a lot of good things,” says Michael, who is suffering from kidney failure. Because his illness has increased his gratitude for the gospel, he says, “it is a good trial.”
I was born in Ethiopia in 1942 and went to Poland to study in 1965. In 1991, I met the missionaries and joined the Church. I have served as a branch president for three and a half years. I served as a counselor in the mission presidency for 12 years. I was a branch president again and then a district president. Then I became sick with kidney failure.
Now I can do only a few things in the Church. I try to attend on Sundays.
At first I was angry.
“Why me?” I prayed. “I have served you, Lord.” After a while, I understood. The scriptures say, “He that hath faith in me to be healed, and is not appointed unto death, shall be healed” (D&C 42:48).
This verse says we will be healed if we’re not meant to die.
Church members keep praying for me, but my health is getting worse. They think their prayers are not heard, but they are heard because they become better people and because I feel the love they show to me.
Even if I was healthy, how much time would be left at my age? Still, a lot is before me.
I like to go to the scriptures and find heroes who help me. When I was healthy and serving, I liked to follow Nephi, but now many times I think of Job. He was a good man, and he suffered too. There is always hope in the gospel.
In a city like Bydgoszcz, if I want to visit the mayor, I’ll not have a chance because I am too small for that. But through the gospel, the door is always open to call on God. That is why I love my church.
I have the Church. I have a way of contacting God through prayer, through fasting, through all the things we do. What else do I need?
Sometimes I say to myself, “Maybe that’s why I am sick—so that I could understand what a great thing I am in, what a great cause this is.”
I see my wife, Renata, become sad because I am sick. I wouldn’t like that to happen, but sorrow is a by-product of love. If she didn’t love, she wouldn’t be sorry. Love helps you feel that you are not alone and that there are people who care.
To die is nothing. Everybody will die. It depends on how we approach death. I know that God lives. He loves us all—me too. That’s what I can say.
Michael’s illness has been a difficult trial for his wife, Renata. “I see my wife become sad because I am sick,” he says. “But sorrow is a by-product of love. Love helps you feel that you are not alone and that there are people who care.”
Despite the limitations caused by his illness, Michael still finds ways to serve and uplift those around him.
Michael finds hope and direction in the scriptures. When he was healthy and serving, he admired Nephi. “But now many times I think of Job,” he says. “He was a good man, and he suffered too.”

After lunch the trail wound up above the tree line and followed a glacial river.
“Gee, the park rangers wouldn’t make a trail this hard! Oh, there’s the trail marker. We’ve got to go back across,” wailed an adviser as her group forded a swift stream unnecessarily.
“There’s a plaque ahead. Let’s read it.”
When we saw an old photo of a woman packing a tin stove up the rugged trail we were following, our packs felt much lighter.

The first principle is to have a feeling of gratitude to Heavenly Father during the sacrament for the Atonement of His Son. The following story is told about passing the sacrament:
“The sacrament never really meant much to me until the Sunday I was ordained a deacon. That afternoon I passed the sacrament for the first time. Prior to the meeting, one of the deacons warned me, ‘Look out for Brother Schmidt. You may have to wake him up!’ Finally the time came for me to participate in the passing of the sacrament. I handled the first six rows quite well. Children and adults partook of the bread with no noticeable thought or problem. Then I got to row seven, the row where Brother Schmidt always sat. But I was surprised. Instead of being asleep he was wide awake. Unlike many of the others I had served, he took the bread with what seemed to be great thought and reverence.
“A few minutes later I found myself again approaching row seven with the water. This time my friend was right. Brother Schmidt sat with his head bowed and his big German eyes shut. He was evidently sound asleep. What could I do or say? I looked for a moment at his brow, wrinkled and worn from years of toil and hardship. He had joined the Church as a teenager and had experienced much persecution in his small German town. I had heard the story many times in testimony meeting. I decided finally to gently nudge his shoulder in hopes of waking him. As I reached to do so, his head slowly lifted. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and as I looked into his eyes I saw love and joy. He quietly reached up and took the water. Even though I was only twelve then, I can still remember vividly the feeling I had as I watched this rugged old man partake of the sacrament. I knew without a doubt that he was feeling something about the sacrament that I had never felt. I determined then that I wanted to feel those same feelings.”
Brother Schmidt had communicated with heaven, and heaven had communicated with him.

Actually, the musical tradition started with Sally’s mother. As a little girl her mother lived in a rural area in Idaho, and she sold milk to earn money for piano lessons. She also managed to earn enough money to buy her first piano. Knowing that her mother had made sacrifices in her life to play the piano, Sally grew to love music as well, and she has passed this love of music on to her own children.
This is why Lindsey can claim a standing ovation not only from a New York audience in Carnegie Hall but also from the Young Women and Young Men in her ward after she performed for an etiquette night activity. To the Brintons, it doesn’t matter how big or small the venue is as long as they can share their talents with others—another tradition passed down from Sally’s mother, who was ward organist for 30 years and never turned down an invitation to perform, including for the ward Christmas party.

When Christian was 19, he decided to go to America, to Zion. He had saved enough money over the years working in the Hotvedtvien Cabinet Shop for the passage. In the spring of 1887, a tall, handsome Christian Mortson said goodbye to his foster parents, the two people who several years before had saved him from a lonely death.
“How can I thank you?” he said, standing on the Oslo dock, holding a large canvas bag full of sturdy new clothes and gifts they had given him for the journey.
“Love is its own reward, Christian,” Sister Hotvedtvien said. A tear fell and hung on her smile, then fell again. Christian turned to hide his own tears and walked up the ramp to the ship.
“Write to us,” he heard her shout. He turned, looked one more time, and saw her standing tall, strong, and noble next to her husband. He felt as if he were leaving an important part of himself standing there. He loved them as much as he loved his own parents, but he knew the step he was taking was right and he took it.

In Australia, when players turn 20, they are old enough to play professionally in an adult league. Even when Will was 18, offers came in left and right. He was a prime recruit. One team offered him a contract worth 1.5 million Australian dollars—an offer not made often to players his age. But that wasn’t what Will saw in his immediate future. Will had decided to serve a mission.
When Will had to announce whether he was going to serve a mission or accept a rugby league contract, the decision was easy for him. “I set a mission in my mind and heart while I was in my youth, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t let the worldly desires take over me,” he says.
The world may ask, What about the money? the contracts? getting to play rugby professionally—his lifelong dream? How would his life have been different had he accepted a professional contract? “It would have helped out my family financially. It would have set my future as well for the next few years,” he admits.
So why didn’t he accept the offer? “A mission is something the Lord requires of me, of young males in the Church,” he says. “It’s a way to say thanks to the Lord for everything He has done for me in my 19 years here on earth. And at the end of the day, I don’t think I would have been as happy if I had stayed. I made the choice to serve a mission because footy will always be there.”

This happened to me when I was serving my mission. For a while, I felt that my prayers were going unnoticed by Him. But with time I searched the scriptures and came across different verses like Doctrine and Covenants 88:63–64:
“Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you; seek me diligently and ye shall find me; ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.
“Whatsoever ye ask the Father in my name it shall be given unto you, that is expedient for you.”
I meditated on those words, studied prophetic counsel, and prayed several times a day. As I tried to trust that He could guide me and provide me with answers, I felt my faith in Him growing, and I started noticing more promptings from the Spirit each day.