Gospel Story Finder

A man I met from northern India had never even heard the name of Jesus Christ until he saw it on a calendar in the shop of a shoemaker. The Spirit led him to conversion in a Protestant church. Later, during a visit to a distant college town, he saw an advertisement for an American group called “The BYU Young Ambassadors.” During their performance, an inner voice told him to go into the lobby after the program and a man in a blue blazer would tell him what to do. In this way he obtained a Book of Mormon, read it, and was converted to the restored gospel. He has since served as a missionary and as a bishop.

Sometimes it’s a well-meaning person who doesn’t understand. Do you remember the story of little Timmy, the slow learner who was taken to an ungraded school? The teacher asked why he was sent to her. He said, “I was sent because I am a moron. Teacher, what is a moron?”

The teacher said, “A moron is one who does not know all the answers.”

“I guess I’m a moron because there are a lot of things I don’t know. My father must be one, too. Just this morning at breakfast my mother told Dad that he would never learn to eat like he ought to. I like my father, though, because he always says, ‘Timmy, what do you think?’”

The teacher inquired, “What do you think, Tim?”

“Just let a bird sing two notes, and I can tell you what kind of a bird it is. I can tell you its color, what the papa looks like, how many eggs the mother lays, the color of the eggs, and how long it will take for them to hatch. I know all the birds that stay here and when and where they go. I even know when the birds are here and when they are going somewhere else.”

The teacher said, “Timmy, you’re a genius.”

Timmy said, “Teacher, you know more about me already than my teacher did last year. She never asked me what I thought; she always told me what I didn’t know. She must be a moron.”

Lala loved to watch ants. “Pelusa,” she would say to her cat, “see those two ants trying to carry a crumb of bread to their hill. One ant is going one way and the other is going a different way. They’ll never get anywhere if they keep that up!”
Pelusa sat in the shade licking himself. Though he never said anything, Lala knew that he always listened.
Lala and her family lived in a small adobe hut in the dry highlands of northern Mexico. It was perfect country for ants. Among the cacti and thorny bushes around Lala’s house there were hundreds of anthills. However, no one ever visited them except Lala and Pelusa.
In her pockets Lala always carried pieces of bread. Finding an anthill, she would crumble the bread several feet away, then sit and wait for the ants to discover their meal. Before long the ants would join into a long, straight line between the crumbled-up bread and their nest. Each ant would carry home a crumb.
Watching the ants work, Lala daydreamed about the ants’ world beneath the ground … Someplace in a big chamber the ant queen must be laying eggs. Somewhere else nurse ants must be taking care of baby ants. And worker ants must be digging new tunnels, while soldier ants guard the colony’s entrance.
“How I would love to go inside the ant’s tunnels,” Lala often said to her cat. But Pelusa would only stretch and yawn.
Late one hot afternoon, something small and white fluttered past the adobe hut’s open door. Pelusa streaked from the door, chasing it, and Lala called, “It’s just a turkey feather, Pelusa, being blown by a whirlwind. Come back!”
However, Pelusa was already far away, so Lala ran after him. Eventually, her pet’s tracks led Lala into Mulehead Valley. Never had Lala been so far from home alone. She was about to turn back when she heard a familiar meow. It was coming from an abandoned mine shaft beneath a big rock balanced at the base of Mulehead Hill.
“Pelusa, come out!” Lala called into the deep hole. But the cat did not come out. Then, even though Lala knew better, she entered the mine. Pelusa was only a little way inside. He was intently staring at a pile of rubble into which he had chased a mouse. “Silly cat.” Lala laughed, and gave him a hug.
And then it happened! Turning around, Lala’s shoulder knocked something loose, and the big rock over the mine’s entrance fell with a thud. Suddenly everything inside the mine shaft was dark and quiet. “Pelusa,” Lala whispered huskily, “I think we’re in trouble!”
When the dust settled and Lala’s eyes became used to the dark, she saw a tiny crack between the rock and the mine’s entrance. She put her eye next to the crack and looked across Mulehead Valley. “They’ll never find us here,” she said to Pelusa. “And if this is what it’s like being in an ant’s tunnel, I don’t like it!”
The next morning, Lala and Pelusa were very hungry. “Pelusa!” Lala cried. “I just remembered! I have some bread in my pocket.”
Lala ate enough to make her stomach feel better. However, Pelusa didn’t like bread.
“Well, I’ll just push a little bread through the crack,” Lala declared. “Maybe the ants will eat breakfast with me then.”
The long morning hours passed. Lala was about to give up hope when she heard an anxious voice calling, “Lala, are you in there?”
“Papa, is that you?” Lala cried. Pelusa meowed for the first time since the rock fell.
Before long the big rock was moved out of the way, and Lala was in her father’s arms outside in the fresh air and sunlight. “Oh, Papa!” Lala whooped. “How did you ever find us?”
“Well, I was walking across Mulehead Valley, looking for you,” he explained, “when I came across a long line of ants. Every ant carried a piece of bread. Now who but you feeds bread to ants? I followed the line right up to the mine entrance. I’m so grateful that you remembered to feed the ants this morning!”
“Papa!” Lala exclaimed. “Tonight we must make a sweet, sweet cake with plenty of icing on it, and it must be so big that we can leave a piece on every anthill for miles around!”
And that is exactly what they did.

If anyone ever had more reason to be bitter, it was the Prophet Joseph Smith. Yet his heart was forgiving. Prior to the dedication of the Kirtland Temple, William Smith, the Prophet’s brother and a member of the Twelve, had been embittered. He had said vicious and vile things against his brother in public. His was a distracted, vengeful heart, and he had even physically attacked his brother Joseph and beat him with his fists. The Smith parents and other children were deeply pained. The Prophet described this time as Satan trying to divide his family and to thwart the work and the building of the Kirtland Temple.

Yet in the midst of all of this, Daniel Tyler, a member of the Church, recorded in his journal this description of the Prophet Joseph:
At the time William Smith and others rebelled against the Prophet at Kirtland, I attended a meeting “on the flats” where Joseph presided. Entering the school house a little before the meeting opened and gazing upon the man of God, I perceived sadness in his countenance and tears trickling down his cheeks. A few moments later a hymn was sung and he opened the meeting by prayer. Instead of facing the audience, however, he turned his back and bowed upon his knees, facing the wall. This, I suppose, was done to hide his sorrow and tears.
I had heard men and women pray—especially the former—from the most ignorant, both as to letters and intellect, to the most learned and eloquent. But never until then had I heard a man address his Maker as though He was present listening as a kind father would listen to the sorrows of a dutiful child. Joseph was at that time unlearned, but that prayer, which was to a considerable extent in behalf of those who accused him of having gone astray and fallen into sin, was that the Lord would forgive them and open their eyes that they might see aright. That prayer, I say, to my humble mind, partook of the learning and eloquence of heaven. There was no ostentation, no raising of the voice as by enthusiasm, but a plain conversational tone, as a man would address a present friend. It appeared to me as though, in case the veil were taken away, I could see the Lord standing facing His humblest of all servants I had ever seen. It was the crowning of all the prayers I ever heard.

On Sunday I noticed that the building his church met in was clean and beautiful. I felt something different there. I was met by a person who shook my hand and even put his arm around me, telling me he was happy to see me. I felt good, even though I was a bit shy and nervous. This brother took me to a class for investigators.
After the lesson two young women introduced themselves as full-time missionaries. They asked if they could visit me at my home. I quickly told them I was busy and started giving them excuses. But they still asked me to tell them when I was available, and I responded that I was available early Monday morning. I said they could come but only if they wanted to come at 4:00 A.M.
To my surprise, they looked at each other and said, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” Then I insisted that it was hard to reach my family’s house, that it was located in the middle of a fishpond, that we had a lot of dogs. I told them they would have a hard time getting there. But they said again, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” After I left, I forgot all about our appointment because I didn’t believe they would be coming.
Early Monday morning I was surprised to hear the dogs barking and a voice calling, “Brother Solomon! Brother Solomon!” I looked out the window, and I started to feel differently about the missionaries. I felt a confirmation that they were true servants of God. I invited them in and listened to their message. After a while I told them to come every day with a lesson, which they did. They taught me until I was prepared for baptism.

I am grateful today for a Church member who got outside himself and talked to a stranger. The stranger was my great-great-grandfather Orville Sutherland Cox, who was relocating from Ohio to Missouri. My ancestor was not well acquainted with the restored gospel of Jesus Christ when he met Brother Sylvester Hulet on a dusty road just outside Far West, Missouri, in 1838. Brother Hulet patiently listened as Mr. Cox harshly criticized the Church based solely on rumors to which he had been exposed. Rather than bristling and walking away, Brother Hulet invited my ancestor to walk with him into the city and witness, firsthand, the industry and goodness of the Mormons. My ancestor was impressed and quickly recognized the false nature of his previous impressions. Learning that Mr. Cox was a newcomer and had no place to stay, Brother Hulet kindly opened his home to this stranger for an extended period. For me this adds much personal meaning to the Savior’s declaration “I was a stranger, and ye took me in” (Matthew 25:35).

That one encounter altered the entire course of my great-great-grandfather’s life and the lives of his descendants. I am a grateful recipient of Brother Sylvester Hulet’s kind fellowshipping that day so long ago. After some time Orville Cox was baptized, and the two men eventually migrated to Utah and remained faithful Latter-day Saints and best friends to the end of their lives. It is only fitting that Orville Sutherland Cox and Sylvester Hulet, who met as strangers on a road in Missouri, are buried next to each other in the pioneer cemetery in Fairview, Utah. What if Brother Hulet would have avoided my ancestor that day? It is quite possible that we would not be having this conversation 175 years later!

When I was at Ricks College, I worked part-time and lived at home so that I could save money to go on a study abroad at the Jerusalem Center in Israel. I worked for years to save up enough money to go on this trip, depriving myself of a lot of things and opportunities that I would otherwise have enjoyed. Finally, the time came...I was accepted to the program and ready to go. Unfortunately, the first Gulf War began on the day we were to have left, in January 1991. I was devastated. I had looked forward to this for years, and now it felt like all of my hard work was for nothing. But things took an interesting turn. Although going to Israel was my main goal, I also had dreams of traveling through Europe and seeing many of the famous cultural sights of the world. As weeks passed by, they said that I could attend Fall semester in Israel, which was less expensive and left me with enough money to also go to Europe on a tour with the Humanities department at Ricks College. Like Tommy by the gumball machine, it had seemed like I was being deprived of something I really wanted, when later I got that plus so much more.

Nearly 25 years ago, our family lived in Massachusetts, where I was enrolled in graduate school. My program of study was very demanding, leaving me little free time. One Sunday in church the ward Primary president approached me and asked if I might substitute as a Primary teacher for two weeks. Primary was then held on a weekday afternoon, and I knew it would be difficult to find room in my schedule to teach the class. But after some hesitation, I agreed.
The appointed day came to teach Primary. That afternoon I was in the university library, absorbed in a book on international politics. The subject I was studying seemed somehow more important than the upcoming Primary class. Consequently, I procrastinated until just 30 minutes before the class was to begin to review the lesson I was to teach. Then I walked from the library down to our ward chapel on the edge of campus. My reluctant attitude must have slowed my steps, for I arrived a few minutes late. As I stepped to the door of the Primary room, the children were just beginning to sing the opening hymn. It was a song I had never heard before, a song whose melody and message touched me deeply:
As I have loved you,
Love one another.
This new commandment:
Love one another.
By this shall men know
Ye are my disciples,
If ye have love
One to another.
(“Love One Another,” Hymns, no. 308)
As I stood there, transfixed in the doorway, the Spirit bore witness that I was looking at the most important class taking place in Cambridge, Massachusetts, that day.
Back at the university in dozens of classrooms and laboratories, dedicated scholars were pursuing answers to the world’s problems. Yet valuable though such efforts may have been, the university did not and could not hold the ultimate answers to the problems of a troubled world. Here before me was the Lord’s answer: the quiet building up of His kingdom on earth by the teaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ. What was taking place in Primary that day was a small part of a divinely revealed plan for the salvation of a fallen world.

Even though it happened 31 years ago, I vividly recall a time on my mission when I was an insensitive, ungrateful clod. I was nursing a bad cold, and my companion and I stayed in for a couple of days while I tried to get better. The sister missionaries were the only other members in our little town in France. They were also feeling sick, but they were worried about me, and brought me some soup one cold, rainy, evening. Instead of showing thanks, I scolded them for being out in the bad weather. The poor sisters were shocked by my attitude. One of them finally said, with much exasperation, “Elder Schlag, we were trying to do something nice for you. What is your problem?” Even now, I can feel the shame I suddenly felt as I realized how rudely I was treating them, while they were just trying to render service.
I have since tried to always look out for kindness sent my way. With heavenly help, I’m developing a sensitivity to service, and an appreciation for even little gifts of graciousness.

When I was president of the Southern States Mission, we converted a lovely schoolteacher down in Florida. And at the close of one of our conferences she came up to me and said, “President Richards, I’m going to get married. What do you think of that?”
“Oh,” I said, “I think it’s wonderful. Do I know him?”
“No.”
I said, “Is he a member of the Church?”
“No.” I didn’t dare tell her that she couldn’t marry out of the Church down there, because I didn’t know where she could find a man in the Church except our Mormon elders, and we had hands-off signs hanging all over them.
I said, “You’re a beautiful, sweet, clean Mormon girl, and you could never be happy with an unclean man. In your association with him you’ll know whether he’s clean or not and whether he’d take advantage of you if you’d permit him. He must be a prayerful man because, as wicked as the world is today, I wouldn’t trust any man to be true to his wife and children if he doesn’t believe that there is a God and that someday he will have to answer to him for his life here upon the earth. Your young man must be willing to let you raise your children in the Church because, knowing as you do that the God of heaven has restored his truth to the earth, you would be a very unhappy woman if you had children and couldn’t teach them the gospel. If he measures up, let me know when he joins the Church.” I didn’t see her for about four months, when we had another conference. Her train was late, and after the meeting she came along the aisle. I could see she was headed for me, so I went down and said, “Name, please?”
“Oh, I’m still Miss So-and-so.”
I said, “What became of the marriage?”
“He didn’t come up to your specifications.” Well, that’s the way you should judge, before you get married, that you’re laying the right kind of foundation.

I sat in an unfamiliar chapel on Sunday while visiting another ward with my dad. What wasn’t unfamiliar, however, was my grumpy 9:00 A.M. attitude. Sacrament meeting began, and the organist played the introduction to the opening hymn. I leafed through the hymnbook pages and found the right hymn about halfway through the first verse.
Rather than using the little energy I had on singing, I began listening to others around me. Right in front of me was a woman that I noticed because her rusty, scratchy, off-tune voice could be heard over the clear voices of the congregation. Not only did she sound terrible, but she sang as loudly as she possibly could. Embarrassed for her, I looked around me to see if anyone else had noticed. No one else seemed to be bothered by her, and so I turned my attention back to my hymnbook and tried to ignore the unpleasant sound.
I found it was impossible to ignore her, however, and I became more and more irritated. “Somebody should just tell her to stop singing,” I thought to myself. “How is the Spirit supposed to be here with that kind of racket going on.” I again tried to focus on the words that were on the page in front of me and began singing, hoping I could drown her out.
“Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee, How great thou art! …” The power and depth of these words suddenly struck me, and I began to feel incredibly guilty as I realized that this woman had more right than I did to be singing this song. I’m sure she could tell that her voice didn’t blend with the congregation. Yet instead of letting that stop her, she was determined to sing her praises to Heavenly Father. The meaning of the words were more important to her than what she sounded like. Rather than keeping the Spirit away, she was actually bringing a spirit into the meeting for those who had the right attitude and could recognize it.
Hymns have a completely different meaning for me now. Whenever I hear unpleasant sounds from a singer somewhere in the congregation, I pay special attention to the words and realize that I shouldn’t be singing hymns just because it’s what I’m expected to do, but that I should be trying to show my Heavenly Father my respect and gratitude towards him.

Allow me to illustrate this: Patricia, my beloved wife, loves to drink coconut water and then to eat the coconut. During our first visit to Puebla, Mexico, we went to a place where we bought a coconut. After drinking the water, my wife asked them to cut the coconut and bring her the flesh to eat. When it came, it was reddish. They had sprinkled it with chili! Sweet coconut with chili! That seemed so strange to us. But later we learned that the strange ones were my wife and I, who did not eat coconut with chili. In Mexico, however, it is not rare; it is very normal.
Now it is not odd for either my wife, Patricia, or for me to eat coconut with chili and avocado with sugar—in fact, we like it. However, exaltation is something much more transcendent than a sense of taste; it is a topic related to eternity.

I loved Christmas because we got to be together as a family. For example, we always went caroling on Christmas Eve. The year I remember best was the year my siblings scattered after we had sung at just a few houses. They had plans and other things they had to do, leaving just my parents, my brother Jeff, and me to finish the caroling. I was upset that we wouldn’t all be together as we had been in years past.
Still, caroling was fun, even with our smaller group. We were heading home when Jeff begged Dad to stop at the home of an older sister who used to be in our ward. But when we saw her dark house, Dad said, “Looks like no one is home.”
“I see a light on downstairs,” said Jeff as he jumped out of the car. Jeff rang the doorbell, pounded on the door, and then started rapping on the downstairs windows. My dad, certain that the neighbors would be suspicious, told Jeff to give up. Just then, the door opened, and there stood Jeff’s friend. Jeff ran up with a plate of goodies and gave her a hug.
The rest of us got out of the car. We hadn’t decided the songs to sing, so we asked her about her holiday plans. She said she was alone, but her youngest daughter was coming the next day. A smile spread across her face and she said, “Will you sing for me?”
“Sure,” we responded. Then my dad’s voice led out with “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” As we sang, I thought about the words, how Christ had saved us, and the comfort and joy of that thought.
“Thank you,” she said with tears in her eyes. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve received yet.” As we walked to the car, we could all feel the warmth of the Spirit. Jeff mentioned that this woman had been struggling lately, and he thanked my dad for picking out that song.
“It just came into my mind that it was the right song to sing,” said Dad. “Even though it’s not one we usually do.”
It was a testimony to me that the Lord knows each one of us and our problems, that we are not forgotten. By acting on the Spirit’s promptings, not only were we able to share the love the Savior has for her, but I was filled with his gift of love for me.

I was sure Heavenly Father had failed me. Or He had at least forgotten I existed.
I sat all alone at an empty table as the lunchroom around me buzzed with laughter and conversation. I was the new girl. And the first day of seventh grade is not an easy time to make friends.
I had prayed about the move to Texas, and I felt it was the right thing. But now here I was, alone with my mashed potatoes. All the comfort and reassurance I felt before were gone.
As the bell rang I remembered I had my peer mentorship class next—my last hope for getting into the “in” crowd. The counselor had told me that a lot of kids take the class to meet people and get involved—exactly what I was looking for. I hurried down the hall with new hope for my social life. I would finally have friends here.
“Welcome to class. Today you will each be assigned to a student with a special need or concern. Your job will be to help him or her throughout the year.” With that Mrs. Watson began running down the class roll, assigning each student to be a tutor or mentor. When she came to me she asked me to see her after class.
“Kevin is a special case. He needs a lot of help. It won’t be easy. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure!” How hard could it be?
The next day I met Kevin Mathison. He had no hands, no feet, and he controlled his electric wheelchair with a lever held in his mouth. I must admit that, when I saw him, I had less than Christlike feelings. I was afraid. Here I was, desperately looking for friends and popularity in this new place, and I was the one to be picked to help Kevin. Why couldn’t they get someone else to do it?
Kevin had a rare disease that was gradually deteriorating his skin and connective tissues. Although the counselor had talked with me briefly about his condition, I was not at all prepared for what I saw when we met. His arms, legs, and neck were bandaged, his hair was gone, and his face was badly scarred. Perhaps more shocking than all the rest, however, was Kevin’s smile—so bright and so genuine that his blue eyes sparkled with it.
I wish I could say that at that moment I put aside my selfish fears and saw Kevin for the incredible spirit he was, but unfortunately it took me most of that year to even feel comfortable with him. Though very lonely and disappointed, I stuck with Kevin. I helped him get to classes, complete assignments, and eat lunch. But, oh, how I dreaded those lunch hours I spent spoon-feeding Kevin while my classmates were chatting and laughing about clothes and guys. I felt I would never belong. And having to help Kevin around everywhere was certainly not helping.
As for Kevin, he was excited simply to have someone to talk to. His warm smile greeted me every morning. Throughout the year he told me all about his family and his favorite sports teams. I eventually found myself laughing and even enjoying our time together. The last day before Christmas break, Kevin came into class and asked me to open his bag for him. When I unzipped his bag, I found a small box wrapped in green paper.
“Open it. It’s for you.” He seemed more serious than usual as he watched me struggle to untie the bow. When I opened the box, a lump came to my throat. It was a small pin—a guardian angel.
“Thanks for being a friend, Jana,” Kevin said softly.
I couldn’t believe it. All this time I had been searching and praying for friends, and here he was right in front of me. Kevin didn’t give me the instant popularity I had wanted, but he did give me a lesson in service, friendship, and unconditional love that has been with me ever since.
Kevin Mathison died one month before he would have graduated. At our high school graduation ceremony, I stood with the rest of my class as an honorary diploma was awarded to his family. Tears streamed down my face as I silently thanked Kevin for the years of friendship and love he gave me. This young man, the sight of whom made me uncomfortable and afraid five years ago, had become beautiful—not because his appearance ever changed, but because he gave me better eyes with which to see.
I know Heavenly Father put Kevin and me together for a reason. I prayed to have friends, and the Lord showed me that first I had to be one. I still have Kevin’s pin in my room. It reminds me that if I look outside myself, I truly can be a guardian angel—or at least a friend.

A General Authority whose personal influence was felt far and wide was the late President Spencer W. Kimball. He really made a difference in the lives of countless individuals.

When I was a bishop, the telephone rang one day, and the caller identified himself as Elder Spencer W. Kimball. He said, “Bishop Monson, in your ward is a trailer court, and in a little trailer in that court—the smallest trailer of all—is a sweet Navajo widow, Margaret Bird. Would you have your Relief Society president visit her and invite her to come to Relief Society and to participate with the sisters?” We did. Margaret Bird came and found a warm welcome.
Elder Kimball called on another occasion. “Bishop Monson,” he said, “I have learned that there are two Samoan boys living in a downtown hotel. They’re going to get in trouble. Will you make them members of your ward?”
I found these two boys at midnight sitting on the steps of the hotel playing ukuleles and singing. They became members of our ward. Eventually each of them married in the temple and served valiantly. Their influence for good was widespread.
When I was first called as a bishop, I discovered that our record for subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine in the Sixth-Seventh Ward had been at a low ebb. Prayerfully we analyzed the names of individuals whom we could call to be magazine representative. The inspiration dictated that Elizabeth Keachie should be given the assignment. As her bishop, I approached her with the task. She responded, “Bishop Monson, I’ll do it.”
Elizabeth Keachie was of Scottish descent, and when she replied, “I’ll do it,” one knew she indeed would. She and her sister-in-law, Helen Ivory—neither more than five feet tall—commenced to walk the ward, house by house, street by street, and block by block. The result was phenomenal. We had more subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine than had been recorded by all the other units of the stake combined.
I congratulated Elizabeth Keachie one Sunday evening and said to her, “Your task is done.”
She replied, “Not yet, Bishop. There are two square blocks we have not yet covered.”
When she told me which blocks they were, I said, “Oh, Sister Keachie, no one lives on those blocks. They are totally industrial.”
“Just the same,” she said, “I’ll feel better if Nell and I go and check them ourselves.”
On a rainy day she and Nell covered those final two blocks. On the first one she found no home, nor did she on the second. She and Sister Ivory paused, however, at a driveway which was muddy from a recent storm. Sister Keachie gazed about 100 feet (30 m) down the driveway, which was adjacent to a machine shop, and there noticed a garage. This was not a normal garage, however, in that there was a curtain at the window.
She turned to her companion and said, “Nell, shall we go and investigate?”
The two sweet sisters then walked down the muddy driveway 40 feet (12 m) to a point where the entire view of the garage could be seen. Now they noticed a door which had been cut into the side of the garage, which door was unseen from the street. They also noticed that there was a chimney with smoke rising from it.
Elizabeth Keachie knocked at the door. A man 68 years of age, William Ringwood, answered. They then presented their story concerning the need of every home having the Relief Society Magazine. William Ringwood replied, “You’d better ask my father.”
Ninety-four-year-old Charles W. Ringwood then came to the door and also listened to the message. He subscribed.
Elizabeth Keachie reported to me the presence of these two men in our ward. When I requested their membership certificates from Church headquarters, I received a call from the Membership Department at the Presiding Bishopric’s Office. The clerk said, “Are you sure you have living in your ward Charles W. Ringwood?”
I replied that I did, whereupon she reported that the membership certificate for him had remained in the “lost and unknown” file of the Presiding Bishopric’s Office for the previous 16 years.
On Sunday morning Elizabeth Keachie and Nell Ivory brought to our priesthood meeting Charles and William Ringwood. This was the first time they had been inside a chapel for many years. Charles Ringwood was the oldest deacon I had ever met. His son was the oldest male member holding no priesthood I had ever met.
It became my opportunity to ordain Brother Charles Ringwood a teacher and then a priest and finally an elder. I shall never forget his interview with respect to seeking a temple recommend. He handed me a silver dollar, which he took from an old, worn leather coin purse, and said, “This is my fast offering.”
I said, “Brother Ringwood, you owe no fast offering. You need it yourself.”
“I want to receive the blessings, not retain the money,” he responded.
It was my opportunity to take Charles Ringwood to the Salt Lake Temple and to attend with him the endowment session.
Within a few months, Charles W. Ringwood passed away. At his funeral service I noticed his family sitting on the front rows in the mortuary chapel, but I noticed also two sweet women sitting near the rear of the chapel, Elizabeth Keachie and Helen Ivory.
As I gazed upon those two faithful and dedicated women and contemplated their personal influence for good, the promise of the Lord filled my very soul: “I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end. Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.”

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.

There was born in France in 1822 a boy described by his teacher as “the meekest, smallest, and least promising pupil in my class.” But he gave to mankind some of its greatest boons because he was helpful. He became a chemist. When a mysterious disease attacked the silkworms of France and threatened the silk business with ruin, he was invited to investigate.
Meantime, tragedy struck his family. One of his children died; then another; then a third. Working 18 hours a day, he drained his strength and suffered a stroke. His powers of speech were paralyzed, but even as he lay there, paralyzed in body but active in mind, the solution to the silkworm disease suddenly came to him.
He fought his way back. He regained his power to speak, learning to talk all over again. Eventually his research saved the silk industry, not only in France, but in all the silk-producing countries. He saved another industry by discovering that heat would kill bacteria without spoiling the product. Thus pasteurization was born, a process in daily use all over the world. Louis Pasteur’s primary objective in life was to serve God through serving mankind. His name is great in agriculture. He developed a vaccine for anthrax—a fatal disease of cattle—and also for chicken cholera. His germ theory revolutionized surgery, which in those days was usually fatal. Pasteur discovered that this was because of microbes getting into the open wounds. Some doctors scoffed, “What does the chemist know about medicine?” But after two years of applying the germ theory in a hospital, postsurgery fatalities dropped from 90 percent to 15 percent.
And he conquered hydrophobia. Once, in order to get material for his experiment, it was necessary for Pasteur to suck saliva through a tube from the threatening jaws of a mad dog. Calmly he faced a possible, horrible death. Then he said, “Well, gentlemen, we can now proceed with the experiment.” What a noble soul and what a truly great example!

Shortly after my father began walking again, I received a letter from my mother. She had returned to Japan and was working in a factory in the city of Fukui. “Come to Japan,” she wrote. “I can get you a job.” I became excited about living in the land of my ancestors and decided to go.
When I arrived in 1992, I was intrigued by the technology and other conveniences available in the country. But I also faced many new challenges. I had a job, and although I looked Japanese, I couldn’t speak Japanese. I struggled to learn the language. My coworkers were not always patient with me.
Despite my Christian background, I had never attended church nor read the Bible regularly. But now, as I faced these obstacles, I remembered how my father’s faith had given him strength. My thoughts turned increasingly to God.
One day I was walking in downtown Fukui when two young men walked up to me. One of them didn’t look Japanese, but he spoke Japanese when he introduced himself.
I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Japanese. Do you speak English?”
He answered, “Of course! I’m American!”
The young man started speaking English, which I had learned in school. He told me he and his companion were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They talked briefly about Jesus Christ and invited me to church. I hesitated but finally agreed to go.
The first meeting I attended was a fast and testimony meeting. I came late, and as I walked into the chapel, a young woman was crying and talking about how the gospel helped her with her problems. After listening to her and to some of the other members, I realized that all of them had problems. They weren’t perfect, and they knew it. But I could also see they had something strong inside them. Their faith in God was helping them. With that kind of faith, I thought, maybe I could overcome my problems, too.
I continued attending church, and I pondered often what I learned there. I also read the Book of Mormon. One day I accepted the invitation to ask God if what I was learning was true. As I prayed, something strong touched my heart, and I thought, This is the right way. I already believe in God. It’s time to follow Him.
As I continued to pray and attend meetings, the Spirit continued to guide me. Finally I told the elders I wanted to hear the discussions. I wanted to follow God and return to His presence one day. I was baptized on 21 June 1993.
As a member of the Church, I found new strength in meeting the challenges of life in Japan. And after preparing earnestly, I was called on a mission. To my surprise, I was called to serve in São Paulo, Brazil. I was very excited about sharing the gospel in my homeland.
When I look back at my old life, I realize how blind I was. We can go through life the right way or the wrong way. At first I chose the wrong way. I knew God existed, but I wasn’t ready to follow Him. Then the gospel touched my life. Now I know that following our Savior is the only way to true happiness.

I sat on the edge of my bed, balancing my thick biology book as I attempted to study for the next day’s test. As I slowly turned the pages of the complicated chapter on cellular respiration, my jaw tightened as I tried to concentrate. But it was useless.
My eyes filled with tears. I had failed miserably that evening trying out for the play. It had been my first attempt at high school theater. Although untrained in the arts of dancing, acting, and singing, I had undertaken the challenging musical tryouts at the urging of my friends. I hadn’t done well. My dancing and my singing audition seemed about average. But tonight had been the final test, the portion I had counted on for success—a memorized humorous monologue, performed before the critical eyes of the director and audition board. I had prepared for my monologue days in advance, writing and memorizing the script carefully until I was certain I could perform it even in my sleep. But when I reached the school, I couldn’t think clearly. I was not only nervous but also tired and worried about my two difficult tests scheduled for the next day. I tried to remember my lines, those words I knew so well, but they slipped from me in fragments and spilled out shaky and uncertain.
Now back at home I felt a hot tear brush my lips, and I tried to muffle a sob. Nothing seemed to be going right the past few weeks. One of my closest friends was acting cold and distant. My schedule was difficult and stressful. I was feeling nagging doubts about applying to college. And now, after the embarrassment of tonight’s audition, I didn’t know how I could study or even sleep. I shut my biology book and placed it on the floor, emotion overpowering me as I buried my head in my pillow.
Then I heard my door open and my mother’s concerned voice. “Do you need a blessing?” she asked softly. I looked up, tempted to send her away. My puffy red face, streaked by tears, held the imprint of my pillow’s seams. As I pulled myself into a sitting position and saw both my parents in the doorway, I knew that a priesthood blessing was what I needed most of all. I nodded wordlessly, sniffing a bit as I stood and followed my parents across the hall into their room.
I had a testimony of the priesthood before that night. I had heard of blessings given by pioneers. And I had heard of blessings given in modern times to fire victims, children in comas, and people who are not expected to survive. I had received my patriarchal blessing two years before and knew the unique truthfulness and love it contained.
But as my father placed his hands on my head that evening, my testimony of the priesthood was strengthened. I could feel divine power in his phrases, in the gentle pressure of his hands. The blessing swept past my superficial wants into what I needed to hear most. And as my father concluded, my heart sang at the power in those words, those simple, healing words that I knew were not his. My father couldn’t remember what he had said, but I could—and my dark tangle of stress and fears had loosened into a soft and gentle peace.
I smiled at my mother, grateful for her inspired suggestion. As I turned around and hugged my father, I could feel in the warmth of his arms an echo of the love of my Heavenly Father and His Son, both watching and caring for me more than anyone else ever could. I felt so grateful for that modest blessing, those quiet, powerful, and comforting words.
That night I slept deeply for the first time in weeks, unworried and sure of my future as a beloved daughter of God.

Elder Wayne S. Peterson shared this story in general conference about the importance of kindness and choosing to act:
Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store. While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me. My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, What have I done to deserve this? Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton. He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back. Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back. The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them. That was a simple experience, but it demonstrated that in most encounters we can determine the kind of experience we are going to have by how we respond. I was grateful that I chose to act in a friendly way rather than react to my young friend's childish behavior. In doing so I avoided the negative feelings I would have felt had I followed my natural instinct.