Gospel Story Finder

If anyone asked Belinda where she was going to live when she grew up, she’d tell them on the moon. She’d explain how she was going to build her house in a big crater and watch the stars all night long. But nobody ever asked her, so she never told anyone.
And if anyone ever asked Belinda what her favorite food in the whole world was, she would tell them raspberries. But no one ever asked her that, either. Instead, they asked her where she got her red hair, or if she was a good girl—simple questions that they already knew the answers to.
No one ever asked her the kind of questions they asked her father, like which team would win the world series. And they didn’t ask her questions like they asked her mother. No, no one ever asked Belinda how to spell encyclopedia.
Belinda was tired of answering simple questions. She wanted people to know that she could guess which team would win the world series as well as anyone else. And maybe she couldn’t spell encyclopedia, but there were lots of other words she could spell.
When Saturday arrived, her mother told her that they were going to Aunt Martha’s for supper. Grandfather and Grandmother would be there, along with Mr. Nibb, a special guest. Mr. Nibb was her aunt’s neighbor. He was an older man who lived by himself. Belinda had never met him before.
When they arrived, Aunt Martha was in the kitchen, rolling out dough for the pie she was making. “What a big girl you’re getting to be,” she said to Belinda. “Are you eating your vegetables?”
“Yes, Aunt Martha,” Belinda answered politely.
Grandfather was standing by the sink. “Are you remembering to brush your teeth after each meal?” Grandfather used to be a dentist.
Just then Grandma came into the kitchen. After everyone said hello, she walked over to Belinda and pinched her cheek. “Are you being a good girl, Belinda?”
Before Belinda had a chance to answer, Mr. Nibb came into the kitchen. He was older than her grandparents, and he had white hair and wore glasses. He walked a little more slowly than Belinda’s grandparents did.
“Are you warm enough?” Grandmother asked as he took off his coat.
“Yes, thank you,” Mr. Nibb answered.
“Did you remember to take your medicine?” Grandfather asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Nibb answered.
Then Aunt Martha took Mr. Nibb into the living room. “Do you like the view?” she asked, once he was seated on the couch in front of the large bay window.
“Yes,” he answered.
Belinda went in and sat beside Mr. Nibb. “What does a young girl like you plan to be when you get older?” Mr. Nibb asked her.
“I want to be an astronaut,” Belinda told him. Mr. Nibb was the first person who had asked her that in a long time.
“Well, that is a fine profession,” Mr. Nibb told her. “I bet you like the stars then.”
Belinda nodded. “Do you?”
“Do I?” Mr. Nibb repeated. “Why, every clear night I sit on my back porch and look at the stars through my telescope!”
Belinda couldn’t believe her ears. “You have a telescope?”
“I sure do. If you want, I’ll let you look through it tonight.”
“Great! Why do you like the stars so much, Mr. Nibb?”
Mr. Nibb smiled. “When I was your age, I looked at the stars every night. I wondered what it was that made them so bright and shiny.”
Belinda was smiling now. Mr. Nibb asked her questions that were special, questions that most grown-ups thought that she was too young to answer. “Do people ask you silly questions just because you’re old?”
“Sometimes,” Mr. Nibb answered slowly. “But they mean well. They think that because I’m old, I can only answer simple questions. And I suspect they do the same thing to you because you’re young. But we both know that that isn’t true, don’t we?” he said, winking at Belinda.
Belinda smiled. “You ask great questions, Mr. Nibb.”
Mr. Nibb smiled back. “So do you, Belinda.”
That night Belinda went over to look at the stars through Mr. Nibb’s telescope. She asked Mr. Nibb all kinds of questions, and Mr. Nibb knew the answers to almost all of them. Then Mr. Nibb asked Belinda where she’d like to live when she grew up, and they looked through books that had pictures of the moon in them, to find a crater that would be perfect for Belinda’s house.

It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go to the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.

I’m not a very good gardener (my husband, Ed, was the one who enjoyed that part of our home), and I recently noticed that a carelessly placed brick had squashed a pansy flat. But part of the pansy was still peeking out from under the edge of the brick; and over the next few weeks, that pansy put its energies into creeping sideways around the edge of the brick, pushing its short shoots into the air and sunlight, and blossoming in its friendly purple and gold. When I moved the brick, the pansy’s stem was crooked; but, oh, its flower was as glorious as those next to it.
This pansy chose life. It experienced adversity, but it chose life. It experienced crippling, but it chose life. It could not have been blamed or faulted for giving up under the brick, but it chose life.

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place [and] was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. … He and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing anyone can do for this boy.”
“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”
President Thomas S. Monson, “Willing and Worthy to Serve,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2012, 67, 68.

One day during an institute class, the teacher presented a video portraying a person much like myself—one who was not sure of his testimony. He sought counsel from his bishop, and the bishop explained that our Father in Heaven looks for moments to answer our prayers, but we must be attentive and receptive to the Holy Ghost. The bishop in the video also said that learning to recognize the voice of the Holy Spirit requires time and a humble heart.

These words touched me deeply. I recognized that I had never listened to the voice of the Spirit regarding the Church because I had been unwilling to do so. From the time I began praying for a testimony of the Church, the answers had come to me quietly, little by little, but I had refused to hear.

During that institute lesson I felt a change in my heart that I could not understand, and the heavy burden of doubt I had carried for nine years left me. I now accepted what I had previously doubted.

But even then I was tempted to fight against the Spirit. I told myself that what I was feeling was just a passing impression, an emotional response to the film. This war continued inside me as I left the classroom, so I found a place to be alone. And there the presence of the Holy Spirit came to me more clearly and finally liberated me from my doubts. I was filled with incomparable joy. A weight was lifted from my shoulders.

Now I can say with full conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true Church, restored in these last days by Jesus Christ through the Prophet Joseph Smith. This testimony is precious to me. With it, I feel spiritually prepared to receive the greater light and knowledge the Lord and His Church have to offer.

Drusilla Hendricks and her family were camped farther down the wagon train when Brigham and his group arrived. While most of the families of Mormon Battalion members were still in Winter Quarters, the Hendrickses and some others had gathered enough resources to join those going west. More than a year had passed since Drusilla watched her son William march away with the battalion, and she was anxious to reunite with him in the valley—or sooner.32
Already Drusilla’s company had encountered returning battalion soldiers along the trail. The faces of many Saints, anxious to see their loved ones, brightened hopefully when they saw the troops. Sadly, William was not among them.
They saw more battalion soldiers a month later. These men captivated the Saints with descriptions of the Great Basin and let them taste salt they had brought with them from the Great Salt Lake. But William was not with this group either.33
Over the next several weeks, Drusilla and her family labored over mountain trails, crossed rivers and streams, climbed steep hills, and navigated canyons. Their hands, hair, and faces became caked with dust and grime. Their clothes, already threadbare and tattered from the long journey, offered little protection from the sun, rain, and dirt. When they reached the valley in early October, some in their company were too ill or exhausted to celebrate.34
More than a week passed after Drusilla and her family arrived in the valley, and still they had no news about William. After the battalion arrived at the California coast, some veterans had stayed behind to work and earn money while others headed east to the Salt Lake Valley or Winter Quarters. For all Drusilla knew, William could be anywhere between the Pacific Ocean and the Missouri River.35
With winter approaching, Drusilla and her family had almost no warm clothing, little food, and no way to build a house. Their situation looked bleak, but she trusted in God that all would work out. One night, Drusilla dreamed of the temple the Saints would build in the valley, as Wilford Woodruff had a few months earlier. Joseph Smith stood on top of it, looking exactly as he had in life. Drusilla called her husband and children to her and said, “There is Joseph.” The prophet spoke with them, and two doves flew down to the family.
Waking from the dream, Drusilla believed the doves represented the Spirit of the Lord, a sign of divine approval of the decisions she and her family had made. She believed that their sacrifices had not gone unnoticed.
Later that day, a group of footsore battalion veterans arrived in the valley. This time, William was among them.36

I Can Still Hobble
I went for a run. Well, let’s be honest and call it what it really is—the tumor hobble. I exercise to keep breathing right and keep my lungs clear. However, it is difficult when my tumors hurt so much. I cried, then prayed for Heavenly Father to help me. The words of a Christmas song came into my mind, and I started singing:
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.2
I must have looked and sounded pretty funny, but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’m just grateful for the words to this song.
Then my cousin called to tell me about her daughter that just went through her second brain surgery. She reminded me that it’s a blessing I can still hobble! Nothing changed. My pain was still there, but I was lifted. I knew I could get through this day.
When things are pressing down on you and you think things are just too hard to bear, sing the third verse of “Away in a Manger,” and our Lord will be with you.

A true story from the USA.
“Can I have the last cookie?” Jack asked.
“Let’s save it for tomorrow,” Mom said. “It’s time for bed.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped. He brushed his teeth. He put on his pajamas. And he kept thinking about the cookie.
He went to the kitchen for a drink of water. The cookie was in a bag by the sink. No one was looking.
Jack snatched it and dashed to his room. He pulled the cookie from the bag and took a bite. Yummy.
Then he heard footsteps. It was his brother! Jack dove under his blanket.
“What are you doing?” Trevor asked.
Jack found a book under the blanket. “Um … reading.”
Trevor pulled the blanket off Jack. “With a cookie?”
“I … I’m using it as a bookmark,” Jack said.
Mom walked in too. “A cookie for a bookmark?”
Jack pulled the blanket back over himself. He hoped Mom and Trevor would go away. They didn’t.
Jack’s face felt hot. He peeked out from the blanket. “I took the cookie so I could eat it.”
“Thanks for being honest,” Mom said.
Jack frowned. “But I don’t feel better.”
Mom sat on the bed. “Praying for forgiveness can help. Jesus Christ can help you feel peace again.”
Mom and Trevor knelt and prayed with Jack. He said sorry for taking the cookie and lying.
When he finished, Jack smiled. “Hey, I do feel better!” He handed the cookie to Mom. “And I bet this will taste even better tomorrow!”
Watch a video of this story at friend.ChurchofJesusChrist.org.

When my Beehive leader told us that we were going to the Ogden Utah Temple to do baptisms for the dead in a few days, I was suddenly both very excited and very nervous.
It would be my first time doing baptisms for the dead, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. For one thing, I couldn’t remember the special way you were supposed to hold the arm of the person baptizing you. It had been over four years since my own baptism. What if I did it wrong? And what if I couldn’t find my recommend that day? There were so many worries going through my head that I couldn’t concentrate on the lesson.
That night at dinner I told my family the news. My brother, who is 14 and has done baptisms for the dead before, told me I would love it. “It’s really cool,” he said.
My brother was right, it was cool, very cool!
There were a lot of things that made it special. The thing that I will always remember about that first time in the temple was feeling the Spirit. I’ve heard that the temple is a sacred place, but now I better understand what that means, because I felt that sacredness through the Spirit.
I loved how friendly the temple workers were. They made me feel welcome and showed me exactly what to do while I was there. I don’t know why I was worried about doing something wrong. They helped me do everything the right way.
While we waited for our turn, we watched the group ahead of us through the windows overlooking the font. I had seen pictures of temple fonts, but seeing one in real life was a lot different. I was surprised how big the 12 oxen figures were.
I had never thought about how the people on the other side of the veil feel when their work is done. The person who spoke to us before we did the baptisms said that those people have been waiting a long time for this day. We were also told that we might get to meet them in the next life because they would appreciate our doing their temple work. That made me want to take each baptism seriously, even if I knew I couldn’t possibly remember the name of every person.
Another thing that was especially memorable that day was that the person performing the baptisms and confirmations for our group was a returned missionary from our ward. He hadn’t even been home a week, and he came to the temple with us. He even provided the names. He had brought them home from France, and he pronounced each name with a perfect French accent.
Later, when I got home and walked through the door, I yelled, “That was so totally awesome!”
I didn’t quite know what to expect when I went to the temple for the first time, but I definitely didn’t expect to be so eager to go back. I now realize that while I was in the temple, I left the world behind. That’s why I could feel the Spirit so strongly. That must be why our bishop was so happy to know we went to the temple. He wants everyone to feel that Spirit.
My brother was right. I loved the temple, and I can’t wait to return!

It was December 23rd. The mall was dead after an exhausting day. My legs ached after walking the aisles all day at the music store where I worked.
My heart was warmed by the true spirit of Christmas evidenced by the light and laughter dancing in people’s eyes as they searched for gifts to show their love to those they adore.
I had also discovered the joy of giving. My only problem was I didn’t like shopping. Why was I working at the mall, then? The employee’s discount helped.
After the metal gate was partway down, signaling that we were closed, I got out the CDs I had selected for my brother and sister. I had tucked away the exact amount. It was the last of my money until my next paycheck. The money, $26 and change, was all I had and all I needed.
Just as I was about to complete my transaction, a little girl walked in. She was so little she had no need to duck under the metal gate.
I put down my CDs and asked, “Can I help you?”
She explained that her little brother wanted a popular cartoon video for Christmas, but all the stores were sold out.
“Well,” I said, “you’re in luck.”
Her face brightened as she exclaimed, “You mean you have one?”
It was always a fulfilling thing for me to take the customer right to the item they had been searching for. Straight to the video we went.
She saw it and ran toward it before I had a chance to get it. “This is the one I’ve looked for!” Carefully she turned the video over, looking at the cartoon figures on the back. It was then that I saw the price: $24.99.
Her eyes also migrated to the price sticker. “Is this enough?” she innocently asked, holding out her mittened hand that clasped some very crumpled dollar bills and change.
I took the warm dollars and smoothed them out slowly, hoping that they would multiply themselves somehow.
“Is it enough?” she asked again. I didn’t say anything. How could I tell her?
Large tears welled up in her eyes as she realized why I kept silent. Discouragement washed over her face. With a sigh she asked, “What can I buy with this much?”
In the store there was no gift that six dollars and some change could buy—trust me; I looked. The only option, if she was to have her video, was for me to help her pay for it. Yet, if I did that, I would then be in her predicament: no presents with only six dollars and change.
A scripture came to my mind: “Knowest thou the condescension of God?” (1 Nephi 11:16). In my mind, I envisioned Christ descending from His heavenly throne, causing the tears of our shortcomings to be turned to tears of joy through His Atonement and payment of our deficit.
For the little girl it may have only been a moment, but for me that time of contemplation was a turning point. I saw a level of the glad tidings of great joy that I had left undiscovered.
I got down on my knees, at her level, and said, “You know, there is a way your brother can have his movie.”
A huge smile banished all sorrow from her face. “How?” she asked.
I took the clean, crisp $20 bill from my wallet and handed it to her. Through my new perception, I happily and thankfully watched her skip to the counter. Already on my knees, I took the opportunity to thank Heavenly Father for my Savior and His gift, which He taught me affectionately that night.
Can you put a price on a great understanding of the Atonement? I think not. I still lacked gifts for my siblings, except for some cheap demo CDs the music store was giving away. Though they weren’t what I had originally wanted to give, what they represented to me made them the best presents I’ve ever given.

For Kelvin Gwala, the opportunity to serve on the Durban South Africa Temple committee was a blessing that initially came with concern.
As a resident of Umlazi, South Africa, Brother Gwala had a roundtrip drive of about sixty kilometers each time he traveled to Berea for committee meetings, which were held for almost a year with increasing frequency. If it wasn’t a temple committee meeting, he needed to attend on a Sunday, he traveled to practice with one of the temple dedication choirs. He made additional midweek trips to attend stake training meetings since he also serves as the Durban Stake clerk.
About the same time, he was asked to serve on the committee, the price of petrol began to rise dramatically, and food prices increased. Each time he needed to drive to Berea for a meeting, he would sit and wonder where he was going to get money for fuel. But, he says, somehow, someway, he would end up in Berea, the small amount of fuel he had in his car lasting longer than he thought it would.
“At first,” he says, “I felt like it was putting a strain on my budget. But at the end of the month, we would be fine. To my amazement, the Lord saw us through.”
Those first worries about his tight budget, Brother Gwala now believes, were just negative thoughts that could have stopped him from serving. Instead, he made a faithful effort and experienced what he calls “my own miracle.”
As he reflected on his experiences, he came to an important conclusion: “The Lord just wants us to start,” he says. “No matter how difficult a situation might look, if you start, then the Lord does meet you halfway. For me, those were the blessings. You were living on a tight budget, then you pay your fast offering and your tithing, but the Lord saw us through, and the family managed well. The Lord did bless us and continues to bless us.”

Years ago, our family purchased some land in beautiful Cache Valley, Utah. We called it the “farm.” We had always lived in large cities, so the thought of spending a part of each summer at the farm seemed very exciting. In a family home evening, we talked about things we wanted to do at the farm. We decided that every family member should have cowboy boots. We agreed, however, that all of the children would earn the money to pay for their own boots by doing chores.
One Saturday morning, our six-year-old son, Paul, happily announced at breakfast that he had completed all of his chores. He had enough money to buy the boots he had seen at the western store. He was the first child to earn enough money, and he was very proud. “Can we go to the store today, Dad?” he asked.
Paul had been taught about tithing as early as he could understand how to count money. I asked if he had paid his tithing on the money he had earned. His hands began to shake, and his face turned white. He had not returned to the Lord His share as tithing. Paul’s disappointment in thinking he might have to wait was very great.
He had often paid tithing. He understood tithing, but it never occurred to him that Heavenly Father would expect him to share his precious boot money. I think I even saw a tear in his eye.
I did not tell Paul what he must do. He already knew what Heavenly Father expected. I simply waited for him to choose the right. After a long pause, he asked for more chores so that he could be honest with the Lord before he bought his boots. It was another week before the new assignments were completed and the boots could be bought.
After deciding to share his boot money with Heavenly Father, Paul had learned forever to pay his tithing.
Some lessons we have to learn only once.

I have learned this truth through a personal experience that, though seemingly insignificant, left a lasting impression on me. At the age of 22, while serving in the French Air Force in Paris, I was thrilled to learn that Elder Neal A. Maxwell, an Apostle of the Lord, would be speaking at a conference on the Champs-Élysées. However, just before the event, I received orders to drive a senior officer to the airport at the exact time the conference was set to take place.
I was disappointed. But determined to attend, I dropped the officer off and rushed to the conference. After finding a parking spot, I sprinted down the Champs-Élysées to the meeting place and arrived breathless with only five minutes left before the meeting ended. Just as I entered, I heard Elder Maxwell say, “I will now give you an apostolic blessing.” In that instant, I had a beautiful, unforgettable spiritual experience. I was overcome by the Spirit, and the words of the blessing seemed to penetrate every fiber of my soul as though they were meant just for me.
What I experienced that day was a small yet powerful manifestation of a comforting aspect of God’s plan for His children: When circumstances beyond our control prevent us from fulfilling the righteous desires of our hearts, the Lord will compensate in ways that allow us to receive His promised blessings.

It was a cold winter day in February when I knocked on Sister Chandler’s door. “Hello,” I called, opening the door a little in case she couldn’t hear me. “Are you sleeping?”
Sister Chandler moved slowly from her kitchen to answer the door. She was small and bent, and walked with a slight limp. Her long cotton dress was stained, as always, from carrying coal to her pot-bellied stove, which demanded constant attention to keep her small home warm. Her white hair, also coal stained, framed a face tired from seventy-nine years of troubles. But it was also a serene face, because as long as she had enough coal to keep her house warm during the winter and a little food she had everything she needed to be happy.
I remembered how I had stared in disbelief when I first learned that she lived on a meager $59 a month. There were only two rooms in the house. The first room contained the temperamental stove, a double bed, a worn-out couch, and a set of broken dresser drawers. The other room, the kitchen, had a small cook-stove, a table and two chairs, and a side shelf for pots and pans and the storage of a little food. When we first met her she had no running water and no bathroom.
During the years my husband had served as her home teacher, we had visited her often. When we visited in the evening the house would invariably be dark. The one bare light globe would turn on when we knocked and turn off immediately when we began to drive away.
Sister Chandler had joined the Church as a new bride—her husband was already a member—and she recalled the days when there was no branch or stake. Their only contact with the Church was an occasional traveling missionary or two. But she had always remained faithful and once told how her testimony had sustained her through the deaths of her two daughters during the influenza epidemic of 1918.
In the few short months I had been Relief Society president I had never heard her complain about her circumstances nor ask for any help from the Church. But we helped her with food when her money ran out, and near the end of the month, a week or so before her Social Security check came, I always tried to visit her to see how she was doing.
Now Sister Chandler’s eyes were sparkling because she had a visitor. “Come in!” she said. “I was just having lunch.” She was shy; she always spoke just above a whisper.
“Please don’t let me stop you. I’ll just talk with you while you eat,” I said.
I took her gently by the elbow and we began to walk slowly toward the kitchen. As we passed the bureau she stopped to get something out of the top drawer. I looked quickly at her lunch. It consisted of a little flour and water that had been made into a kind of white gruel, nothing more.
“Sister Chandler, is that all you have in the house to eat?”
“Yes, that’s all, but it doesn’t matter. My check will be here in a day or two. Please, will you take this to the bishop?” She thrust a wrinkled tithing envelope into my hand. “I didn’t have home teachers this month and I can’t go to church myself anymore. It’s my tithing. Please take it to him.”
I stood staring at the gray envelope. Everything inside of me wanted to cry out, “No, no. The Lord doesn’t expect you to pay tithing!” But one small voice deep inside whispered, “Don’t deny this soul the blessings.”
I struggled not to cry as I quickly said good-bye and ran to the car to arrange for some groceries for her.
Sister Chandler is gone now, but I will always remember the great lesson she taught me about sacrifice and devotion—it was easier for her to go hungry than to neglect her obligations to the Lord.

Tony Wong, reared in the Church with family support, is an exception in Hong Kong. Most Church members are first-generation converts, often with families who don’t understand this “new” religion.
“It was difficult,” acknowledges Camel Lok, who was baptized as a teenager. Her family tolerated her weekly church attendance, but Camel often felt alone in her quest for spiritual growth and learning.
“I couldn’t have done it without my friends in the ward,” she explains. “Meetings on Sunday really strengthened me for the upcoming week.”
Now Camel and her husband, Gary, both returned missionaries, find support from each other and look forward to rearing their daughter with a strong gospel foundation.

When I was about eight years old, I learned a very valuable lesson. It was early spring in the small Utah town where I lived, and some of my eight-year-old friends and I wanted to camp outside one night. My father said, “It’s still very cold at night. You’ll be miserable, and you’ll probably get sick.”
I explained that we thought everything would be fine. My parents let me make my own choice, and my friends and I decided to go ahead with the campout. As it got late the temperature dropped and it became very cold. Instead of having a great time, we were awake and miserable most of the night and, true to my father’s prediction, a day or two later I got sick.
As I was sick at home and missing fun activities, I remembered the advice my father had given me. Every bad consequence he mentioned had happened. I remember thinking, “Wow, my dad is really smart.” I came to realize, even at that young age, that my father had more experience and wisdom than me and if I were more careful in seeking and following his counsel it would make my life happier.

It is also likely that we will all experience some correction from our ecclesiastical leaders, which will be a test of how united we are with them.
I was only 11, but I remember that 44 years ago, the meetinghouse where my family attended church was to experience major remodeling. Before that undertaking began, there was a meeting in which local leaders and area leaders were discussing how the members would participate with labor in that effort. My father, who had previously presided over that unit for years, expressed his very strong opinion that this work should be done by a contractor and not by amateurs.
Not only was his opinion rejected, but we heard that he was severely and publicly rebuked on that occasion. Now, this was a man who was very dedicated to the Church and had been a World War II soldier in Europe, used to resisting and fighting for what he believed in! One wondered what his reaction might be after this incident. Would he persist with his opinion and continue to oppose the decision already made?
We had seen families in our ward who had become weaker in the gospel and had stopped attending meetings because they could not be one with those who were leading. I myself also witnessed many of my friends from Primary not remaining faithful in their youth because their parents were always finding fault with those inside the Church.
My dad, however, decided to remain one with our fellow Saints. Some days later, when ward members were gathering to help in the construction, he “invited” our family to follow him to the meetinghouse, where we would make ourselves available to help in any way.
I was furious. I felt like asking him, “Dad, why in the world are we going to help in the construction if you were against having the members do it?” But the look on his face discouraged me from doing that. I wanted to be well for the rededication. So, fortunately, I decided to be quiet and just go and help in the building!
Father did not get to see the new chapel, as he passed away before the conclusion of this work. But we in the family, led now by my mom, continued doing our part until it was finished, and that kept us united with my father, with the Church members, with our leaders, and, most important, with the Lord!

Seventeen-year-old Charlee Hawkins loved life. A member of the Cullumber Ward, Gilbert Arizona Stake, she could always find something positive in the most difficult situations. Even when she faced her life’s hardest challenge of being diagnosed with cancer, Charlee kept smiling and found things to laugh about.
Charlee’s battle began at age 15, when a small bump appeared on her left index finger. She thought it was simply a result of practicing her golf swing as she prepared to play on the girls’ golf team at Gilbert High School.
When she had the bump removed, test results showed that Charlee had a very rare and very aggressive form of cancer, known as epithelioid sarcoma. The only effective treatment was surgery. Charlee’s finger was quickly removed.
Charlee handled the situation with humor instead of despair. She nicknamed herself “Nine” and never hid the fact that one finger was missing.
Five months later, during a routine test, doctors discovered spots in her lungs—the cancer had spread. They explained that chemotherapy wasn’t usually successful with this type of cancer and that it was impossible to remove the tumors. Charlee decided to give chemotherapy a try anyway.
The treatment made her lose her hair, but she refused to wear a wig and didn’t like hats. She told others that she might be the only “nine-fingered, bald-headed” girl they’d ever meet.
In January 2004 she celebrated what she called her “Handiversary.” It had been one year since her finger was amputated. She and her friends wore matching “Nine” T-shirts. She made hand-shaped sugar cookies with pink frosting and one finger missing.
Charlee attended two weeks of her senior year in the fall of 2004 but was too sick to continue. She had her heart set on graduating from high school, so she got her class assignments by e-mail and continued to work toward her diploma.
Charlee’s health progressively declined. The family set up a Christmas tree in her bedroom and celebrated Christmas around her bedside. Her Young Women class often came to visit her. Despite her trials, her friends and family never heard her complain.
By January 2005, Charlee’s strength was nearly gone. Sister Hawkins recalls a conversation she had with her daughter when Charlee was in excruciating pain. Charlee said, “I’m ready to go.” Her mother says she felt the Spirit guiding her as she explained to her daughter that Heavenly Father has a moment for each of us and that her moment was near. Then she felt the Spirit fill her daughter and ease her pain. Charlee said, “I’m ready to go home.”
“When she added the word ‘home,’ I knew that she knew that this place is only temporary,” says Sister Hawkins. “The veil must have been so thin that she felt safe because she knew that place was her home. It brought me such comfort and peace. I knew then that I had to let her go.”
The next day at school, classmates celebrated Charlee’s second “Handiversary” without her. They lined up for a photo with a sign saying, “We love you, Nine.” Charlee’s family provided the four-fingered cookies.
Four days later, on January 25, an assistant principal from Charlee’s school called to check on her. When she learned that Charlee wasn’t doing well, she asked if the administration could come and present Charlee’s diploma to her that afternoon. At 2:00 p.m., Charlee received recognition for what she had worked so hard to achieve.
Less than 45 minutes after her private graduation ceremony, Charlee died. Her life had touched so many. More than 1,500 people attended her funeral.
“She had an amazing attitude, a spirit that just radiated, and a great sense of humor,” says her mother. “That carried her, and that carried us.”
Charlee’s influence is still being felt. The family continues to hear from those who say her example encourages them to be better and to improve their lives. Some of her friends who are serving missions are using their experiences with Charlee to help teach the plan of salvation to others.
“She lived every day to the fullest,” says her mother. “I believe she did what she was supposed to do. She knew how to live, and she knew how to die.”

Though he was extremely demanding of himself in working hard to pursue excellence, Heber J. Grant was not one to criticize imperfection in others. One day when he was a young man, a speaker in church made some grammatical errors in his opening remarks. Heber was sure he could get ample material for a class at school, for which he had been assigned to bring examples of grammatical mistakes to be corrected. As he began to write, he listened for errors. But instead, he began to feel the Spirit of the Lord in what the man was saying, and he wept as testimony was born of the divinity of the Savior, the mission of Joseph Smith, and the work of the Lord.
“During the years that have passed since then,” President Grant later said, “I have never been shocked or annoyed by grammatical errors or mispronounced words on the part of those preaching the gospel. I have realized that it was like judging a man by the clothing of his language. From that day to this the one thing above all others that has impressed me has been the Spirit, the inspiration of the living God that an individual had when proclaiming the gospel, and not the language; because after all is said and done there are a great many who have never had the opportunity in the financial battle of life to accumulate the means whereby they could be clothed in an attractive manner. I have endeavored, from that day to this, and have been successful in my endeavor, to judge men and women by the spirit they have.”

One Sunday night about three months after I had moved from my native Mexico to the United States to attend school, I flipped through several radio stations trying to find some good Sunday music. As I listened to several local stations, I heard a familiar voice and stopped.
I suspected that the voice was that of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910?2008), who was President of the Church at the time. I realized that it was odd for me to be able to distinguish his voice. I was accustomed to listening to general conference, Church Educational System firesides, and other Church broadcasts through the voice of a Spanish interpreter speaking over the speaker’s voice. Yet somehow I knew the voice on the radio was that of President Hinckley.
I wasn’t yet fluent enough in English to understand what he was saying, but I listened to the talk on the radio anyway. His voice brought a feeling of peace. When the talk ended, the radio announcer said, “We have just heard President Gordon B. Hinckley.”
I knew that the Lord speaks through His servants and that whether the message comes by His voice or that of His prophets, it is the same (see D&C 1:38).
I thought about how unusual it was that I had recognized President Hinckley’s voice. Having done so made me realize that I always want to be able to recognize the voice the Lord uses to communicate with His children—regardless of the source.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me,” the Savior said (John 10:27).
In a world filled with many voices—many “stations”—to flip through, I hope I can always be attuned to recognize the voice of my Shepherd and His servants and to be willing to follow their counsel.