Gospel Story Finder

Jasmine Paris, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints for 23 years, lives on the windward side of the island of St. Vincent in the Grenadines, commonly known as the countryside. The area is known for its farming industry, where most of her neighbors lost their entire crops. Because of its location, Jasmine’s home was spared, but at the beginning of the hurricane, the electricity pole above her house caught fire, and the electricity went out, resulting in food spoilage. However, the most significant impact of losing electricity during the storm was the loss of communication with her family.
Sister Paris has a daughter who lived on another island of the Grenadines that was the most severely impacted by the hurricane. For three days, she had no idea if her daughter was alive or not. She panicked, cried, mourned and prayed. She said, “I would never want to relive that moment!”
When Jasmine was finally able to communicate with her daughter, she realized there was good reason to worry about her. As the hurricane approached the island, the daughter and others gathered in a building to be sheltered from the fierce winds and rain. As the building started to flood, they ran to another shelter. As they settled, the storm shattered the windows, cutting the individuals with the flying glass. As they continued to find refuge elsewhere, they found another room only to have the roof fly off. The only building left was a generator room, 4 ft x 4 ft in size, where 19 individuals, along with the generators and machines, packed themselves on top of one another for about five hours as they waited for the storm to pass. They were all wet from the rain and cut from the shattered windows, and everyone thought they would not make it out alive.
As Jasmine reflects on this experience, she shares, “As I think of how I felt about my daughter, I think about my Savior, Jesus Christ, and how much He loves us. If not for my Savior, I don’t know how I would have coped.”
As the storm raged outside, Jasmin prayed. She felt a deep peace in her heart, knowing that no matter what happened, she wasn’t alone. “I am thankful to Heavenly Father … for sparing our lives. Don’t lose hope! It will take some time for some to heal. It will take some time for others to feel at home again. It will never be the same for those who lost loved ones. But don’t give up! Put your trust in Heavenly Father. He will carry you through!”

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.”

Trials and tests apply to rich and poor alike. Years ago I was asked to perform an operation upon a very wealthy man. A surgical biopsy confirmed that he had an advanced cancer that had spread throughout his body. As I reported this news, his immediate response was to rely upon his wealth. He would go anywhere or do anything to treat his condition. He thought he could buy his way back to health. But he soon passed away. Someone asked, “How much wealth did he leave?” The answer, of course, was, “All of it!”
His priorities were set upon things of the world. His ladder of success had been leaning against the wrong wall. I think of him when I read this scripture: “Behold, your days of probation are past; ye have procrastinated the day of your salvation until it is … too late.”

A musical play written by Pat Davis and Dean Murdock, presented by the service and activities committee, illustrated the problems faced by both youths and advisers when it comes to planning activities.
Bill Harrington, a priests group leader, planned to spend Saturday with his girl friend Leslie Ann until he remembered his assignment to plan an activity for Tuesday night. (“There goes today. My Saturday down the tube. Tomorrow’s Sunday and church, and Monday is school and family night, and zap, it’s Tuesday. Today’s the only day left.”)
But a friend offers an easy way out.
“The solution’s a snap. There’s no need to go bananas. Just turn the whole thing over to the service and activities committee people.”
Bill and his friends decide to assign their three advisers fried chicken, potato salad, and 14 gallons of lemon-lime slush. They consider their planning for Tuesday complete.
When alone Bill admits that “lately I just go around in circles.” He sings of living on a merry-go-round, and wishes “before my life’s through, please can’t I be blessed with nothing to do?”
Meanwhile the advisers have gone to the bishop. They don’t recall any prior plans for a “cook out/ sing out next Tuesday night to be held on the lawn of the State Capitol.” The priests adviser remembers another activity involving a “bowling party at 3:00 A.M., and then the Explorer Bake-off contest, with the smallest cookies being three feet in diameter.”
The advisers feel that young people don’t know how to have fun anymore, and they suggest a return to the “good old days” of 1942 and argyle socks, Ellery Queen, jitter-bugging, the Andrew Sisters, and dances that had “dignity.” One recalls his first roadshow: “I was an onion in the garden of love … or was it an artichoke?”
But the bishop points out that there is room for both the experience of the advisers and the enthusiasm and desires of the youths. He tells the adults: “You people are resource people. It’s through you that these young folks can obtain specialists to assist with their projects. lt’s up to you to subtly and gently lead our youth to the realization that service comes before activity. Your job is twofold—to help carry out plans, but also to help make plans. When working with youth, you people can be partners, equals, and friends, rather than worrying about the importance of your role.”
With the advisers put at ease the bishop turns his attention to Bill, who confesses that “this time I really blew it. I just remembered your saying that the service and activities committee people were there to help us, and I guess I didn’t bother to read the exact points of contact you gave me to follow. I forgot I was supposed to go through my adviser.”
The bishop tells Bill of the examples of other youths who have had to face up to situations that seemed overwhelming—David against Goliath, Joseph and his brothers, Joseph Smith and his New York neighbors. “Bill, we’re not asking you to exceed the best of these brethren. We’re asking you to equal the best of yourself. And if you try, I promise that you will see some of those whose abilities and talents you admire running behind you trying to catch up. But remember, there are no shortcuts.”
Bill meets with the members of the service and activities committee and his adviser. Together they work out a feasible plan for Tuesday’s activity. He presents the idea of a box-lunch supper exchange involving the entire ward to his friends, who agree with his suggestion that they provide the entertainment.
After congratulating Bill on the outcome of the evening, the bishop reminds him that “no one ever achieved true greatness without a few setbacks. The really great ones kept on trying and never gave up.”
“That’s true,” adds a member of the service and activities committee, “men like Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Sebastian Webber.”
“Sebastian Webber?” asked one youth. “I never heard of him.”
“Exactly, he gave up.”

I think of a beautiful experience of Elder Melvin J. Ballard which occurred while he was serving as a mission president in the northwestern states. He had gone over to the Fort Peck Indian Reservation to take care of mission business. He and his counselors had fasted that they might solve some problems that had come into existence on the reservation. After much fasting and prayer, and after making the best decisions they could, Brother Ballard then got on the train to go back to Portland, Oregon. In the dreams of the night, he found himself in what I would assume to be the Salt Lake Temple. He was in conversation with a group of men. After a period of time an individual came over to him and said that it had been requested of him to go to an adjoining room to meet another individual. Brother Ballard said he opened the door to this adjoining room, and as he looked into the room, he saw seated upon a raised platform the most glorious person he had ever seen. As he entered the room this individual arose and smiled and softly spoke his name. Brother Ballard said that this individual came right up to him and put his arms around him and embraced him and kissed him. Brother Ballard at that moment felt a love so intense that he thought the very marrow of his bones would melt. He said he then fell at the feet of this individual, and, seeing the wounds, he knew he was in the presence of Jesus Christ. Throughout the rest of his life he bore powerful witness to the effect that he would be pleased to give all he had and all he could ever hope to have if he could have the privilege of dwelling in the presence of Christ forever. Brothers and sisters, how that touched my heart.

As a youth, Elder Osborn especially enjoyed Scouting. One time when he had gone on a hike into the mountains with his Scout troop, he took a different path from that of the rest of the Scouts, thinking that the two paths would eventually meet. The trail was steep and rocky and did not join the path that the other Scouts had taken, after all. He was lost, and he prayed that the Lord would help him. “A short time later,” he said, “my Scoutmaster, having been prompted by the Spirit to find me, came up the path and helped me back down the trail.”

I’ve never told anyone this (except my wife—she knows everything about me), but I once harbored a secret, passionate desire to be a shot-putter on the U.S. Olympic team. It started in high school. I was a fairly good shot-putter then, and even though I attended BYU on a football scholarship, I still dreamed of someday being an Olympic team member.
Because spring football practice conflicted with track season, it was impossible for me to try out for BYU’s track squad. Besides, I wasn’t a good enough football player to miss spring drills for some other sport.
Nevertheless, I still had my hopes, so one winter afternoon I purchased a 16-pound shot. I spent a few spring and summer days throwing the shot, but my shot spent most of its time gathering dust and rust in the bottom of my locker in the Smith Fieldhouse.
But I enjoyed throwing the shot, and I figured that once my football career was over, I’d focus my efforts on becoming a world-class shot-putter.
Eventually my football eligibility was used up, I graduated, and moved with my wife to Ogden, where I began my first job teaching English and coaching track. My Olympic dream hibernated for a while.
That spring, when track season began, I decided I would have time to train seriously for the shot put. I spent some time in practice throwing the shot with the kids I was coaching, but before long other coaching duties took me away from the throwing area and my shot went back to getting rusty and dusty.
After that school year, we moved to Arizona to take a different teaching position. My dream didn’t die; it just slipped into a coma. Every track season I revived my Olympic aspirations, but by the end of the season, the dream became dormant again. My old shot, by then very rusty and very dusty, was used less and less.
Before I realized it, I was too old, too married, and too out of shape to even fantasize about the Olympics. Now my shot sits in a dark cobwebbed corner of my garage. I doubt if I could even pick it up anymore.
I never realized my Olympic goal, and I’m a little disappointed.

Stephen Norris (here with his dad, Kim) almost backed out of the opportunity of a lifetime. After being chosen as one of three students to live in Germany for a year, a former student casually mentioned that Germany had two religions, Catholic and Protestant.
“If you’re anything else,” she said, “you’re pretty much out of luck.”
Not wanting to miss church attendance for a year, Stephen was ready to decline the honor of being chosen, until the former student told him something else.
“Latter-day Saint kids are different, though. They always seem to find their church by bike or bus or whatever.”
That was the green light Stephen needed. This priest from Birmingham, Alabama, will spend the school year living with a German family and learning about German culture.
He will also have some new gospel experiences, like participating in the German Scouting program and doing a year of home-study seminary. And, of course, he’ll attend church. Even if it means riding his bike.

When I met my wife, Pamela, she was the only member of the Church in her family. When we decided to get married, something seemed an obstacle. I had no money to get all the items listed by her father as requirements for her bride price.
I was a graduate with no job. The little I made from odd jobs here and there was barely enough. I lived in my Father’s house at the time. Faced with these challenges, Pamela and I fasted and prayed to Heavenly Father for help. I knew the Lord through His prophets and apostles have counseled that “young people should follow the Lord’s pattern of marriage in the temple without waiting for the payment of a bride price” (Dallin H. Oaks, “The Gospel Culture, Ensign, March 2012, 45). But Pamela’s father was not a member of the Church and saw this practice as proper traditional rites for marriage. After counseling with the Bishop, I decided to make a move. I love Pamela and wanted to obey the Lord’s commandment to marry in the temple. But I did not want to do that without the consent of her parents.
After a difficult and trying period, with the help of other, I began to get offers to paint buildings. After three painting jobs, I gathered the little I had, called on my family and travelled to Pamela’s village. Still, things seemed difficult and the marriage seemed impossible. Despair, melancholy and anger almost took over my faith, but the encouraging words of the leaders and the scriptures kept me focused and continue to trust in the Lord.
We were married traditionally on 13 February, 2016, wedded on 2 April and Sealed in Aba Nigeria Temple on 5 April in the same year. It felt like a dream to us. The Lord raised people who offered to help us with one thing or the other. The Lord literally made it happen. That experience is etched in our memories as one the many of the Lord’s miracles in our lives, a manifestation of His tender mercies towards us.
We have been joyfully married for almost three years now in the mercies of our Lord Jesus Christ.

A spiritual highlight of Elder and Sister Kearon’s Cebu sojourn was when the couple climbed up a mountain to visit the Secuya family of Busay 2nd Ward, Cebu Stake. From their highland farm, the Secuyas traverse through rocky paths and streams just to reach public transportation that will take them to Church every Sunday.

“We were so happy to see Elder Kearon, he reminded us of Jesus Christ and His love,” said Mitzi Secuya, who with her family heartily welcomed the apostle and his wife. As the Kearons ministered to the family, son Ryle felt strengthened in his commitment to stay active: “We will continue to go to Church, for we know that the Lord loves us.”

“This is a beautiful memory we will have forever,” Elder Kearon imparted to the family at the conclusion of the visit. “You are beautiful, each of you,” Sister Kearon lovingly reassured the Secuya children, who had faced bullying for their situation.

After serving in Vava'u for nearly a year, the elders finally saw the fruit of their labor. Yes, they had their first baptism in the island of Vava'u. Both Elder Jensen and Elder Jones noted this significant event in their journals.

July 12, 1896: "This was one of the happiest day that we had seen for a long time, at 11 am we commenced out meeting as usual but to a larger congregation than usual and some very high chiefs was present. I spoke first and the spirit of God rested upon me, and I spoke with ease and power. After meeting we had the privilege of taking two souls into the water of baptism the first two in the Vava'u group and in the evening confirmed them members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and after having confirmed them they bore a faithful testimony each which caused our souls to rejoice and we instructed them and encouraged them to do the will of God" (Jensen, Journal #2, p. 131).

July 12, 1896: "...May the glory be given to Him for opening the hearts of two of this people that they endure the mockery for the Gospel sake, and may many more will follow their example. I had almost given up in the hopes on even baptizing one while on this mission as my time is getting short and the people seem so indifferent to the Gospel. This evening at 7 o'clock as prearranged Namosi and Toutai came down and after offering up a few words of prayer we confirmed them to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Bro. Jensen confirmed Namosi and I Sione Tania [Tanea] (Toutai is only a nickname)" (Jones, Journal #5, p. 23).

Many of the people in Vava'u mocked Namosi and Toutai for joining the Church. Shortly after their baptism, Toutai returned to his island, Ha'apai, and Namosi remained in Vava'u with the two missionaries. You can only imagine what it was like to be the only Tongan member of the Church in all of Vava'u. Elder Jensen and Elder Jones understood the challenges that Namosi faced. As good shepherds, Elder Jensen and Elder Jones invested time and energy in nurturing and strengthening Namosi's testimony.

Namosi faced many challenges but he remained faithful to the gospel.

Elder Jones wrote about one of the challenges Namosi faced:July 30, 1896: "This evening Namosi came in and spent the evening, he told us that some were talking of putting him up as the mayor (or bulekolo) at his island Huga but because he has joined the Church they would not have him because he would not work hand in hand with the Free Church..." (Jones, Journal #5, p. 31).

In actuality, people refused to give Namosi the chiefly title Fulivai. Namosi did not care about being a chief. All he wanted to do was to remain true to his testimony of the Gospel.

The ambulance bounced and bucked even though we weren’t really going very fast. Its siren kicked on again, screaming to try to clear the way as we brought the woman down off the mountain. I struggled against the movement to hold her head still between the sandbags that cradled it, and I twisted around so I could see out the windshield. The driver in the car ahead showed no sign that he even knew we were there, and I mentally pleaded with him to either turn off his air conditioner and stereo so he could hear us or to look in his rearview mirror for our flashing lights.
The young man sat on the bench beside his mother. Ashen-faced, he stared down at her, saying nothing, doing nothing.
She had been cruelly pinned in the wreckage of their van when we arrived on the scene. A glance told me what had happened. The driver of the van had misjudged his distance and had caught the corner of the rear end of the slowly moving highway department truck—caught it right where she had been sitting.
The jagged metal and glass had folded back around her, trapping her. There had been a small fire, but one of the highway men had worked quickly with an extinguisher and had snuffed it. She had been semiconscious, in sharp pain from the metal biting her body. The first thing I had noticed when I crawled into her twisted prison was the blood and clear fluid coming from her right ear.
While I had stayed inside with her, the others on the scene had worked as quickly and as carefully as they could to tear apart the front of the van to free her. It had taken what seemed like forever. But once freed of the torn van, she was carefully strapped to a backboard and removed. The sandbags were piled beside her head to keep her neck from moving. Straps bound her tightly and uncomfortably to the board and to the stretcher.
She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and she fought the restraining straps as I completed a more thorough examination on the road behind the ambulance. As we loaded her, she managed somehow to pull loose the strap that crossed her forehead. She fought hard as I tried to resecure it, so I decided to leave it loose and cradle her head between my hands.
We were just about to lift the stretcher and its cargo into the back of the ambulance when the young man stepped forward. “Please,” he asked in a quiet voice, “may I ride with her?”
There’s an ironclad rule in ambulance work. Nobody rides unless they’re injured. The last thing you need in the back of an ambulance is a hysterical relative when you’re fighting to keep someone alive.
But for some reason I looked up into his eyes, saw what was there, and said, “Yes. Get in.”
The ride down the mountain was a long one filled with a narrow, twisting road and slow-moving, unheeding tourist traffic. She still fought the head strap, so I still cradled her head in my hands. The blood and fluid still oozed from her right ear. Her level of consciousness seemed to be fading. The words she mumbled no longer seemed to make sense. I looked into her eyes as best I could. The light was bright, yet the pupils seemed dilated. The thought ran through my mind again and again, “This woman’s in trouble. Head hit the windshield. Basal skull fracture. Heavy duty injury. She’s in real trouble!”
We hit the flats at the bottom of the mountain, and the driver stepped hard on the accelerator. The rocking and bucking increased as our speed climbed. I thought of asking him to slow down some and then decided against it, weighing the need for speed against comfort. I could hold her head steady with my hands.
The young man—her son—sat numbly, staring. He had been driving the van.
She pulled against the restraining straps again and mumbled something. Her eyes rolled toward me, and she mumbled it again. I tried to tell her to lie still, but she kept pulling and there was a pleading tone in the mumbled words. I placed my ear next to her mouth and tried to understand.
“Are you Norman?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “My name’s not Norman.”
She tried to shake her head, and I had to hold firmly against her determination. “No!” I heard her say. “Not Norman. Are you Norman?”
I looked up at the young man. “Is your name Norman?” I asked.
He shook his head as she pleaded again, asking for Norman.
“What about your father? Is his name Norman?”
Negative reply.
“Norman’s not here,” I said into her ear, trying to make her hear me above the wailing siren. “You take it easy, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll find Norman for you.”
Her eyes were almost wild with concern as she asked again, “No, no! Not Norman! Mormon! Are you Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormon!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”
“Can you give me a blessing?” she pleaded.
My hands were full, holding her head, and I didn’t want to let go. I looked up at her son. “She wants a blessing,” I said. “What priesthood do you hold?”
“Elder,” came the reply. “We were on our way to Provo and the MTC. I’m going to Norway.”
I nodded. “She wants a blessing. Move up here and help me. My hands are full.”
“Do you have any consecrated oil?” he asked.
“In a little gold canister with the keys on my gunbelt,” I replied.
I could feel him tugging at the keys, and in a moment the key ring with its little aluminum cylinder was in his hand. I nodded to him. “Unscrew the top and anoint her.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he answered, rather plaintively.
“Time you learned,” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just do it.”
He poured the clear oil onto her head. “I don’t know what to say,” he pleaded.
I pronounced the necessary words. “Now, it’s your turn,” I said to him. “Give her a blessing.”
A stricken look passed over his face for a moment, and he closed his eyes. Then he suddenly sat straight up, placed his hands on her head, and said in a loud, strong voice, “Marge Robinson, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stay alive until we can reach the hospital and medical help.”
Then he sagged back onto the bench, covered his face with his hands, and began to weep.
A smile crossed her face and she relaxed, letting her head slide down between the sandbags. There was no more fighting the straps, no more mumbling. I sat up, startled and concerned, and quickly checked her vital signs. Good. Everything was good. In fact, unless it was just my imagination, her signs were even better than before.
She was asleep when we reached the hospital.
I recited what I thought was my diagnosis to the doctor. He checked her ear and the red and clear drainage from it, nodded and looked grim. We wheeled her to the bright room filled with doctor tools, and the hospital team went to work.
I was restocking the ambulance when the doctor called me into the room again. The ear had been cleaned out, and I could see the laceration inside it clearly. “Take a look.” The doctor smiled and handed me the otoscope.
I looked deep inside the ear. There was the eardrum, clear pink. Intact. There was no clear fluid, no cerebral fluid draining from a basal fracture. The X rays hanging on the viewboard confirmed it.
The woman was awake, alert, smiling. She thanked me and my partner for all we had done. The rest of the family was there, standing in the hall. One of them was on the telephone trying to make arrangements for a rental car to finish the trip to Provo. “We’ll keep her overnight,” the doctor was saying. “But the rest of them will make it to the MTC on time.”
I was shaking hands with them all, listening to their thanks, which I certainly didn’t deserve, when my radio started talking, telling me to let my partner take care of the ambulance and to get back to my patrol car. I had another call. Somebody wanted to complain. Neighbor’s dog was in his trash can.
I left the hospital with a strengthened conviction that Heavenly Father watches over and guides his children. Without knowing why, I had let the young elder ride in the ambulance.
I have since found that many events defy explanation except in light of a knowledge of the gospel and priesthood power.

May I share with you how my earthly father taught me to discover my identity and God’s plan in my life?
One Saturday morning when I was 13 years old, I was mowing the grass as part of my weekly chores. When I finished, I heard the door close at the back of our house and looked to see my father calling me to join him. I walked to the back porch, and he invited me to sit with him on the steps. It was a beautiful morning. I still recall him sitting so close to me that our shoulders were touching. He began by telling me he loved me. He asked me what my goals were in life. I thought, “Well, that’s easy.” I knew two things for sure: I wanted to be taller, and I wanted to go camping more often. I was a simple soul. He smiled, paused for a moment, and said: “Steve, I’d like to share something with you that’s very important to me. I’ve prayed that our Heavenly Father will cause what I say now to be indelibly imprinted in your mind and on your soul so that you’ll never forget.”
My father had my full attention in that moment. He turned and looked at me in the eyes and said, “Son, protect the private times of your life.” There was a long pause as he let the meaning sink deep into my heart.
He then continued, “You know, those times when you’re the only one around and no one else knows what you’re doing? Those times when you think, ‘Whatever I do now doesn’t affect anyone else, only me’?”
Then he said, “More than any other time in your life, what you do during the private times of your life will have the greatest impact on how you confront challenges and heartache you will face; and what you do during the private times of your life will also have a greater impact on how you confront the successes and joy you will experience than any other time in your life.”
My father received the wish of his heart. The sound and cadence of his voice, and the love I felt in his words, were indelibly imprinted in my mind and on my soul that day.
I have learned over the years that the greatest miracle of that day on the steps of my childhood home was that, in the private times of my life, I could go to God in prayer to receive revelation. My father was teaching me how I could learn of God’s foreordained blessings. In those private moments, I learned the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I learned God had foreordained me to serve a mission. I learned that God knows me and hears and answers my prayers. I learned that Jesus is the Christ, our Savior and Redeemer.
Though I have made many mistakes since that memorable day with my father, striving to protect the private times of my life has remained an anchor amid the storms of life and has enabled me to seek safe haven and the healing, strengthening blessings of our Savior’s love and atoning sacrifice.

The January night was cold and dark. Six-year-old Brigitte huddled next to her nine-year-old sister, Wanda, both of them trying to stay close to the wood-burning stove. Black paper covered the windows so that not even a bit of light would show through to show enemy planes where to bomb. Papa held out a paper, straining to read it by the light of one tiny candle.
“I am to report to Augsburg (Germany) for military training by February first,” he said. “I have been drafted.”
To be without Papa? It was unthinkable! Papa with his funny stories. Papa, who had always kept the family safe. Brigitte looked at the shadowy faces of Mama, Papa, and Wanda. They were sad faces, but without tears.
Papa’s voice was calm. “Over three-fourths of Nuremberg has already been bombed. We ourselves had to find a new home when a bomb tore the hole in our kitchen. Elizabeth, I think that after I am gone, you and the children should try to find a place to stay away from here. It will be safer in the country.”
Mama nodded her head. “My sister Margarete is already looking for a place for us.”
Shuddering, Brigitte remembered the bombs hitting the top floor of their apartment building before they could escape to the shelter. She remembered burning mattresses being flung out of windows. And she remembered being pulled along to the bunkers by her father’s strong hand as they ran through the street in terror, the upper part of it engulfed in flames. That time there had been no warning.
As though reading her mind, Papa said, “Gitte, remember the time Mama covered you with blankets in the shelter to try to block out the noise and screaming? You had been crying. I know that you were very much afraid. Then you heard one of our neighbors say, ‘I want to sit by Mrs. Baier—she has such strong faith, nothing ever happens to her.’ You pushed the blanket off and looked at Oma (Grandmother), who was sitting quietly. Do you remember what you did then?”
“Yes, Papa. I crawled into Oma’s lap, and I stopped crying.” Brigitte smiled. “I always want to be just like Oma.”
“We must all have faith like Oma,” Papa agreed. “Ever since I was baptized when I was fifteen years old, I have never doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. This war will be over soon, but I will never have peace in my heart until I can move us to America and we are sealed in the temple. I have to leave you for a little while now, but we will be together again, and then, somehow, we will get to America.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, George, I’m sure that your dream will come true when you come back to us. You could have gone there after your mission in 1931. I’m glad you stayed here to marry me, instead.”
Papa grinned back at her. “I thought we could go in 1936, after Wanda was born—we even gave her an American name—but by then the government wouldn’t let us out of the country.”
“You were the branch president, however—perhaps you were needed here for a while. I was really frightened, though, when the police came to our home to search for Church books.”
“I was, too, Elizabeth, but no harm came to us.” Papa looked at his two little girls. “I want to give you each a father’s blessing before I leave. And don’t ever doubt that Heavenly Father will take care of you. He won’t ever leave you.”
Brigitte felt comforted after she was given the blessing. Somehow it made her feel like Papa was always close by, even after he had to go away.
Aunt Margarete found a place for them to stay in the country with a kind farmer and his family. Brigitte started school in the nearby village. There was no word from Papa since he had written that he was being transferred. Every day Mama faithfully wrote to him.
“Mama! Mama!” Wanda cried one day as she hurried home. “The Americans have come. The war is over! Surely Papa will be home soon.”
Mama looked up from the stove where she was cooking potato pancakes, wiped her brow with her apron, and sighed. “I hope so, Wanda. I wish we would have some word of him.”
Although the long war was over and there were no more alarms, no more hurrying through the streets to get to the underground shelter when the bombs came, there was no word yet from Papa. Was he alive? Mama still wrote to him. But it had been two years. …
When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.
The garden wasn’t doing very well, though, and Mama was discouraged. “Throw these plants away, Brigitte. They’re so scraggly and the soil is very poor. I don’t think they’re worth bothering with.”
Brigitte looked at the plants with their drooping leaves. They looked dead already. She started to pull them up, then stopped. Opa always worked hard in his garden, she thought. I can’t give up on these plants. I know he wouldn’t. She carefully loosened the dirt around each one and gave them a drink of water. “Please help them to grow, Heavenly Father,” she prayed. Every day she came to the garden and watered it or pulled weeds or both.
One day after she had worked in the garden, she returned home to find her mother sitting and rocking back and forth with tears chasing each other down her cheeks, clutching a letter. “Papa’s alive! This letter is from him. He is a prisoner of war in France and has been clearing the forests there. He didn’t get any of my letters, so he wrote to our friend Peter Loscher in America to see if he could find out if we were all right. Peter sent him our address.” She started to read from Papa’s letter:
“I am so happy to finally know how to reach you and to find that you are safe and well. I am too. My biggest problem is lack of food. Sometimes I have been so hungry that I have had to eat insects. But my faith remains strong. Once when I was clearing a forest, I climbed to the top of a high mountain, where I was able to be alone for a few minutes. I asked the Lord for renewed strength to endure it here. I haven’t forgotten our dream—surely we will be together soon!”
(To be continued)

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.

“Why do my legs feel like bricks?” I thought anxiously as I jogged slowly around the warm-up field at the high school league track meet, where I was desperately hoping to qualify for the upcoming state championship in my favorite race, the 800 meters. My anxiety was more than just the usual pre-race butterflies. I had been battling a cold all week, and having just finished a race, I was worried that I was too exhausted to compete well in my event, which was within the next half hour. I thought about how defeated I would feel to have worked so hard all season only to fail when it counted most.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hey, how are you feeling?” It was Joe, a local track coach who had come to watch the meet.
“Umm, I’ve been better,” I responded truthfully.
“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you win the 800 today,” Joe smiled encouragingly.
“We’ll see,” I responded, “I haven’t been feeling well, so at this point I just hope I can make it through the race and qualify for State.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Joe said. “Just relax and you’ll do OK!”
I wished I could feel so sure, but waves of doubt continued to wash over me. As the first call for the 800 meters came over the loudspeaker, I tried to mentally prepare myself for the race. Suddenly, I remembered that a prayer before a race always calmed me and helped me focus. I needed that more than ever, so I found a secluded area on the field and silently began to pray.
“Heavenly Father,” I offered quietly, “I feel so weak today and really need Thy help. I am going to try my very best out there on the track, but please meet me halfway.”
I heard the final call for my race and ended my prayer quickly. A warm peace filled my heart, and I knew that Heavenly Father had heard my quiet plea for help. I calmly took my place on the starting line and waited for the starting gun. Suddenly the official yelled, “RUNNERS TAKE YOUR MARK … SET …” and the gun was fired.
I took my first few strides with ease, noting how light my legs were. I felt as though something special was inside of me. I felt strong and swift, despite having felt so terrible only moments before. As I approached the home stretch of the race, I realized I was in the lead, and before I knew it, I was crossing the finish line in first place!
Joe motioned me over to him as I stepped off the track. “Hey, that race was great! I thought you were sick? What got into you?”
I smiled back. “I was sick, and I was praying that I would be able to get through that race!”
Joe chuckled and replied, “That’s great that you prayed, but I don’t think God really cares that much about track and field.”
I paused for a moment and then softly responded, “You’re right! I don’t think He cares very much about track at all, but I know He cares about me.”
As I walked away, I felt the same peace return to my heart that I had felt before my race. I knew Heavenly Father was confirming what I had just told Joe—that He did care about me—and what I had said was true. I thanked Heavenly Father for that assurance. Knowing I was loved by Heavenly Father was the best feeling I had ever felt, even better than winning a race!

“I have a surprise!” Ema (Mom) said when she picked Rasmus up from school. They walked together down the narrow streets lined with colorful buildings.
“Rosolje for dinner?” Rasmus guessed hopefully. They had eaten it just last week for his seventh birthday. But he could always eat more beet-and-potato salad with pickled herring!
Ema shook her head with a smile. “I met two young women on the bus this morning. Missionaries. They’re coming to visit tonight to talk about their church.”
Rasmus looked up curiously. He had never met missionaries before.
He was in his bedroom playing with his fire truck when the missionaries came. “Tere! Tere! Hello!” they greeted Ema as they walked into the apartment. They removed their heavy boots and put on the house slippers Ema kept for visitors. Ema led them to the orange couch. But Rasmus hung back by the door.
The taller woman noticed him and smiled. Her black name tag said Õde Craig (Sister Craig). “Your mother told us you just had a birthday,” she said. “We brought you something.” She held out a small card. Rasmus looked at it closely.
It was a picture of a man. He wore a white robe, and his hand was stretched out.
“Do you know who that is?” Õde Craig asked.
Rasmus didn’t know the man’s name. He had never seen this picture before. But the man looked kind and powerful. “I think he’s a king!” Rasmus said.
Both missionaries smiled. “Yes, He is! He is the King of kings! His name is Jesus Christ.” Õde Craig pulled out a book with a blue cover. “And this is a book that teaches about Him, the Mormoni Raamat. The Book of Mormon.”
He and Ema began reading the Book of Mormon every day before he went to school. During school, Rasmus and his class went on nature walks and then took a nap. After school, he and Ema often met with the missionaries. They talked with the missionaries about what they had read in the Book of Mormon. Sometimes Ema fed everyone kringel, braided cinnamon bread. On weekends he and Ema rode bikes or picnicked on the beach. Sometimes they took long walks in the forest or along their favorite river.
On one of those forest walks, Ema told him she wanted to be baptized. Rasmus grinned. The missionaries had asked Ema to pray about whether or not to get baptized. It sounded like she had gotten her answer!
“And I know just where I’m going to be baptized,” she told him with a smile. “Can you guess?”
Rasmus thought about the missionaries’ lesson on baptism. They had held up a picture showing Jesus with John the Baptist in a river. …
“The river!” he exclaimed. “Our favorite river.”
One week later, Rasmus stood on the riverbank with the missionaries and some other people from church. Ema was ready to be baptized. She went all the way under the water, just like Jesus did. When she came up, she was smiling. Rasmus wanted to remember this moment forever—the blue water, the white wildflowers in the green grass, and his mother’s smile.
“What did getting baptized feel like?” he asked later, when everyone was eating cookies the missionaries had brought.
“Wonderful,” she told him. “I wanted to stay in the river forever. I feel so new!” She hugged him tight.
“For my next birthday, I want to be baptized, just like you and Jesus,” he told her. “I want to feel new too!”

“Mom, my coat’s gone!” Brad said. It was time to go home from church, but Brad couldn’t find his coat on the rack.
“Are you sure that’s where you hung it up?” Mom asked.
“Yes. It was right here.” Brad’s coat was bright blue and red. It was hard to miss.
“Maybe it got moved. Let’s look around the building,” Dad said.
Mom, Dad, and Brad split up to check different rooms. They looked in the lost-and-found box, in the chapel, in Brad’s classroom, in the Primary room, and on every coat rack. They even looked in the bathrooms, but they didn’t find the coat.
“Somebody probably took it by accident. I’m sure they’ll return it next week as soon as they realize it isn’t theirs,” Dad said.
“In the meantime, you can wear your old coat,” Mom said.
Brad frowned. He didn’t like his old coat. It was thin, faded, and too small for him. He loved how his new red-and-blue coat made him look like a superhero.
Someone probably saw how cool my coat is and stole it, Brad thought. How could that happen at church? Everyone there was supposed to be honest. Brad wouldn’t let that robber get away with it. He had a plan. Next Sunday, he would watch carefully to see who was wearing his coat. Then he would snatch it back and yell, “Stop, thief!” They would be sorry they ever took it.
Brad could hardly wait for Sunday to carry out his plan. But the next Sunday was too warm for coats, and so was the next Sunday.
The Sunday after that, Brad looked around suspiciously at all the boys in Primary, wondering who stole his coat. Was it that tall boy? Or maybe it was a girl. He felt like he couldn’t trust anyone. Brad didn’t like that feeling.
After church Brad hurried around the building, watching families put on their coats. But he didn’t see his coat anywhere. He even checked the lost-and-found box again … but no coat. Where could it be?
On the way home, Brad thought of a new plan. He would pray. He knew Heavenly Father could find lost things. That night Brad prayed and said, “Heavenly Father, please tell me who took my coat. I want it back.”
Brad waited for the robber’s name or face to come to mind. But instead he started thinking about his friend Carl. Brad usually sat by Carl in Primary. They joked and laughed together a lot. But Carl hadn’t been to church in a few weeks. Brad missed him.
What if Carl had taken his coat? Maybe Carl was afraid to come to church now because he thought Brad wouldn’t be his friend anymore. Brad wanted Carl to come to church again. If Carl had taken his coat, Brad decided, he wouldn’t yell at him. He would forgive him.
Brad climbed into bed, feeling better.
The next Sunday in Primary, Carl wasn’t there, but a new boy was. He was wearing a red-and-blue-striped tie.
“Cool tie,” Brad said, sitting by the new boy. “It makes you look like a superhero.”
The boy smiled.
Brad smiled too. He wasn’t looking for robbers anymore. He was looking for friends.

Sometimes pioneer children divided into two groups and played dare base. Helen and Loren were the two team captains. Helen’s team’s base was the area around the flagpole. Loren’s team’s base was the area around the seesaw.

Loren felt daring; he thought that he could run around the flagpole without getting caught. He ran his fastest, and he made it! Since Loren’s dare paid off, he got to choose Henry to join his team. Carrie was on Helen’s team, and she felt daring too. She ran her fastest but only made it halfway around the seesaw before she got caught. Her dare failed, and she had to join Loren’s team.

In conclusion, I would like to share a tender story a close friend recounted to me recently.

It is about his son who was discouraged and miserable just after arriving in a foreign mission. No matter how the parents and others pleaded with the young missionary, he said he couldn't take it and wanted to come home. In a reception during a training session with some general authorities, the distraught father just mentioned in passing to President Hinckley about his son's struggle. The parents continued to plead with the son to stay, but his early return home seemed imminent.

The following week an envelope from the First Presidency's office arrived at the parents" home. Inside was a copy of a letter that had been sent to their son. The letter had been hand-typed from a typewriter and very tenderly addressed to the discouraged Elder. It was a several-page letter, full of encouragement and the writer's own missionary experiences about faith and sticking to it. The letter was warm, loving, thoughtful, personal, and signed, "Sincerely, your brother, President Gordon B. Hinckley."

It is little wonder that shortly thereafter, the Elder wrote to his parents and said he was staying. This Elder not only stayed, but flourished and became a mighty power for good among the people of his mission.

Think of it! President Hinckley, in spite of his age, is such a public figure, revered for his extensive speeches, books, and his general leadership in the Church. Yet, he conducts a private, silent ministry as well to bless others individually. Can you imagine how that single unselfish act of a Prophet will be treasured not only in this young man's life but also in his posterity?