Gospel Story Finder

“And please, Heavenly Father, bless me to know what our family can do to help build the temple,” Mama prayed. Phoebe looked at Mama’s face and saw tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto her faded blouse. “Into bed with you now,” Mama instructed.
As she pulled the covers up Phoebe asked, “Why are you crying, Mama? Is it because Papa’s on another mission?”
“I do miss Papa. It will be a glorious day when we’re all together again,” Mama said. She tucked the quilts around Phoebe, tight against the bitter night. “But we have so much to be grateful for—our house here in Nauvoo, and six healthy, beautiful children. The Lord is watching over us, Phoebe.”
“But why are you crying, Mama?”
Mama sighed. “I just want so much to help finish the temple.” Mama stood up. “Good night, sweet Phoebe,” she said, and snuffed out the candle.
Phoebe found it hard to sleep. Her arms ached from scrubbing, wringing, and hanging laundry. Her thumb throbbed from pricking it again and again while mending. Even her back was tired from carrying wood.
All of Nauvoo was busy as the Saints worked to finish the temple. While the men did the heaviest labor of hauling and hammering, carving and cutting, the women and children helped by spinning, weaving, knitting, and embroidering the finest additions for the inside of the temple. They also kept the workers fed. A warm feeling filled Phoebe’s heart as she remembered dishing the soup from the big pot at the temple grounds.
“Over here, little sister,” a worker had called to her.
As she offered the soup to the stonecutter she noticed how he held the steaming cup in both hands, soaking the warmth deep into his freezing fingers. The workers only took a moment to relax, then back they went to the next task. “Thank you, little sister,” the man had called.
And with that memory, Phoebe was sound asleep.
As the sun lightened the sky, Phoebe awakened and began to prepare for church. Sunday was the day she missed Papa most. But there were many things she loved about the Sabbath. She loved how everyone looked their best for church, and she loved how even the babies quieted when the Prophet Joseph Smith stood to speak.
This morning the Prophet thanked the Saints for their hard work on the temple and hoped they would double their efforts. Tears formed in Mama’s eyes again, and Phoebe imagined she could hear her mother praying, “How I wish we had more to give.” But they had given everything. How could Mama’s prayer be answered?
Driving home in the wagon, Mama suddenly yanked back on the reins, jerking the wagon to a stop while straining to see something near the roadside. Phoebe peered over the side of the wagon and saw two brown, furry heaps.
“Why, there’s the answer to our prayer,” Mama said. She pulled her sewing scissors from her bag and asked the older children to help her.
“Buffalo,” said little Sarah, pointing a chubby finger.
Two dead buffalo lay in the underbrush and Phoebe wondered where they possibly had come from.
“Help me, children,” Mama directed. The older children pulled at the long mane hair and Mama cut and snipped until they had a large bundle of brown, coarse hair. It took a long time, but their work had just begun. The next day, they washed the hair squeaky clean with strong lye soap. Next, Phoebe brushed and brushed the hair with the carding comb till it was straight and tangle free. Mama spun the hair on a spindle, making yards of dark brown yarn.
All the while Phoebe held back the question until she couldn’t wait another minute. “What, why … how could we ever use such ugly, coarse yarn for something as beautiful as the temple?”
“You’ll see,” Mama replied.
At last the yarn was ready. As Mama began to knit, Phoebe watched in fascination as it slowly took shape. Suddenly, the image of the stonecutter’s cold, red hands came clearly to Phoebe’s memory.
“Mittens!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Mittens for the stonecutters. Now they won’t have to wait for a bowl of soup to warm their hands.”
By the time Mama finished she had knit eight pairs of brown mittens. “They’re beautiful,” Phoebe sighed as she touched each pair. She felt as if her heart was wrapped up in a warm mitten. Mama’s prayers had been answered and their buffalo mittens would help build the temple.

Every Christmas I learned to expect two kinds of gifts—those I wanted and those my parents wanted me to have.
I remember one Christmas in particular. I was an ordinary 15- or 16-year-old boy. I tried to act casual about my gifts, but inside I was crazy with anticipation. I was hoping for some new music, sports equipment, or maybe a movie. I pulled a small rectangular package from under the tree with my name on it. The size surprised me. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted that was that shape. Of course that didn’t stop me from happily ripping off the paper. Inside was a white box. The label glued to the top indicated a new set of scriptures. I didn’t think much of it. My parents often reused old boxes.
As I lifted the lid, I thought of the possibility that the label might be accurate. I hoped it wasn’t. I hoped against hope. I didn’t want new scriptures. I didn’t need them. I already had the set I received when I was baptized. Sure, they were getting old and the binding was falling apart, but for how much I used them, they worked just fine.
My heart sank. Inside the box was a beautiful compact set of maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. I remember looking up to see my mom watching me. I’m sure she was nervous about my reaction. She said something like, “I know you didn’t ask for them and it isn’t the most exciting gift, but we thought you could use them.” I gave a polite smile, which I’m sure was completely transparent. I looked at the scriptures for a few minutes, trying to show appreciation, but eventually put them back in their box and gave my attention to my other gifts.
I tried not to think about all the things that I wanted more than new scriptures. I tried not to feel disappointed. I tried not to hypothesize about a way I could take them back without my parents knowing, but I didn’t try very hard.
I would love to report that later that Christmas day I opened those new scriptures and felt the great Spirit that comes through reading them. But I didn’t. In fact, I don’t believe I did anything with them other than put them in a corner of my room. I’d love to report that over the following weeks I gained a greater appreciation for my gift. I didn’t. About the only attention I gave them was during sacrament meeting, mindlessly separating the pages that were stuck together.
In all honesty, I don’t think I appreciated that gift for a long time. However, eventually I began to study them. I took them to church and to seminary. I began to read them on my own. They proved crucial to my decisions. At a time when I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to live what I thought was a more exciting lifestyle, like that of some of my school friends, I read Mosiah 2:41. I’m so grateful for that verse. I began to realize that only those who keep the commandments of God are truly happy.
Months later, my youth leaders challenged me to read the entire Book of Mormon before attending a summer camp. I agreed but procrastinated, and I soon fell behind. In a rush to catch up, I began to read for longer periods of time. I can still recall sitting on my porch reading for the better part of an hour. Before this, I was lucky to read for 10 minutes at a time. For the first time in my life, I lost myself in the scriptures. I realized that Alma the Younger was a real person. He wasn’t just a story my leaders taught me. He actually rebelled against his prophet father, and, through faith and the Atonement, was still able to change. I wondered what happened next. I had pieces of the story in my mind, but it hadn’t come together into a whole. I kept reading, watching him grow. For the first time I actually enjoyed what I read.
These experiences and many others began to build my small testimony. Yet, I still questioned. I questioned a lot. I decided to read the Book of Mormon daily and ask for confirmation that it was true. After many nights of reading and many prayers, I felt I received an answer from heaven. It was something I couldn’t create. There was no one else around to lead me to the feeling. I felt a warmth—almost like a light—in me. It somehow seemed to calm and excite me simultaneously. I felt that my Heavenly Father had heard my prayer. He sent a message through my thoughts that the Book of Mormon is true and the Church is His kingdom on earth. I also felt He wanted me to know that He had been answering my prayers continually throughout my life. I just hadn’t realized it. Where would my testimony be without the scriptures?
Later I read the same scriptures to calm my nerves on a plane to the mission field. I read them to inspire and motivate me through my college years. I read them to confirm if I should ask my wife to marry me. I read them for guidance in my career. I read them to find out how to be a better father. Every day I felt I learned and grew more. My testimony became stronger. I found the strength to trust in the Lord more and more.
The majority of my Christmas presents I received growing up were eventually packed in boxes, broken and discarded, or given to secondhand stores. But I still have those maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. They are faded and worn. Some pages are torn, and the margins are filled with notes and quotes.
I cannot think of another Christmas gift that I have used more or one that has affected me more than what was in that little white box. Over time, it changed my life. It helped me come to my Savior Jesus Christ and learn to follow Him. It helped me gain a testimony of His gospel and motivated me to do my part in it. It has helped me become more like Him. What could be a more fitting Christmas gift? I thank my Heavenly Father that my parents gave me a gift I didn’t want.

When I was growing up, each summer my family stayed at our cabin in Utah. One morning my friend Danny and I decided we wanted to clear an area in a nearby field so we could have a campfire. We began to pull at the tall grass, but we knew this would take the entire day.
I said to Danny, “All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!”
I want to make it clear that both Danny and I were forbidden to use matches without adult supervision. Our parents had warned us many times of the dangers of fire. However, I knew where my family kept the matches, and we thought we needed to clear that field. I grabbed a few matchsticks, making certain no one was watching.
Back to Danny I ran. I struck a match and set the grass ablaze. It ignited as though it had been drenched in gasoline. At first Danny and I were thrilled as we watched the weeds disappear, but soon we saw that the fire was not about to go out on its own. We panicked as we realized there was nothing we could do to stop it.
Finally we had no option but to run for help. Soon all available men and women were dashing back and forth with wet burlap bags, beating at the flames to try to put them out. After several hours the last remaining embers were smothered.
Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day—not the least of which was the importance of obedience.

Recently I visited with the family of a young mother who died while giving birth to her fifth child. I expected anguish but found hope and determination. Her husband cherished the time they had together. Their children understood the plan of salvation and knew they could be with their mother again, forever. She had never been too busy for those most dear to her. At her young age, this sister had served as a Relief Society president, always putting her marriage and family first.
As I visited with the mother of the deceased woman, she remarked that her highest priority was to raise her daughters to be righteous women. Even though her daughter’s life was cut short, this daughter created a tapestry of righteous gospel living in her home.

When I was 16 or 17 years old, my father had been out of town and my mother asked me if I could pick him up at the airport. This was before 9/11, so we were allowed to walk out to the gate where the plane docked to meet the passengers. As I was walking down the concourse to meet my father, I noticed that he was talking to an older gentleman in a suit and, as I got closer, I realized it was President Harold B. Lee. In the group I hung out with at that stage of my life, it wasn't very cool to be "churchy," but I wasn't completely clueless, so I knew what President Lee looked like.

I remember having two distinct impressions as I drew closer to them; first, that President Lee was shorter than I thought he was--perhaps seeing him on TV made me think he was larger than life. The second impression was that there was an almost visible spiritual presence that emanated from President Lee. I could not mistake that this man was remarkable, that there was something noble--even holy--about him.

A few years later, as a missionary in the old Language Training Mission at BYU, I watched the solemn assembly session where President Lee was sustained as President of the Church. I was deeply moved as I heard him speak. I learned about 18 months into my mission that he had suddenly passed away. I was shocked and saddened! I hardly knew President Spencer W. Kimball, but I felt that, if I was to testify to those in the mission field that we are led by prophets, I would need to gain a witness of President Kimball's divine calling as I had President Lee's. I prayed fervently for that witness. I can still picture that room in my mind as I prayed, and the strong assurance of the Spirit that President Kimball was the man whom the Lord wanted to lead the Church at that time.

I was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah, and was the oldest of my parents’ three children. My father was drafted into the military during World War II. As a six-year-old, I remember praying with my mother that the war would end and that Dad would come home. Because he had three children, he was one of the first to be discharged when the war was over. There were so many men being discharged at the same time that he couldn’t even get a telephone line to let us know that he was coming home. He just showed up at our door. I think that that was the first time I felt a real answer to prayer. I had complete confidence in the power of prayer from that point forward.

Hsieh’s road to that goal was long and arduous. He attended a Catholic seminary in Wuhan for four years. Then he studied at a Catholic university in the capital city of Beijing [Peking]. A year later, the communists took over the city, and Hsieh escaped to Shanghai, where he attended the Aurora Jesuit University. When the communist forces invaded Shanghai, he moved to the Catholic seminary in Hong Kong. Then, because of the political situation, the seminary was transferred to Macao. While there, Hsieh was ordained a priest in the Catholic church.
Following his ordination, he was assigned to Rome, Italy, where he studied Italian, Latin, and law for four years. Next he moved to Paris, France, where he studied French, Greek, Hebrew, English, Spanish, and German so that he could better understand the original texts and the various translations of the Bible. He wanted to learn all he could about the Savior.
Finally, in 1967, Hsieh’s original desire to teach his people about Jesus Christ became a reality. Cardinal Yu Ping, president of Fu Jen Catholic University in Taipei, invited him to become a member of the faculty as a professor of philosophy and French. In this assignment, Hsieh began to share his growing testimony of Jesus Christ.

One Friday morning I put on my pink flowered dress, made my lunch, and went to activity day. We were going to the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple.
At the visitors’ center at the temple we watched a movie about baptism. After that we heard a talk about how we can live with Heavenly Father someday and be together forever as a family. Later we walked around the temple grounds. I thought they were beautiful.
After that, we had a picture taken while standing in front of the temple. Then we had lunch and fed the ducks and squirrels. Soon we had to leave. I want to live worthily so I can go to the temple someday.Charlotte Widdison, age 9Pocatello, Idaho

When I was baptized at 18 years old, I knew that living the gospel of Jesus Christ would become a way of life. I felt the importance and seriousness of living gospel standards, and doing so has blessed my life in many ways.
One gospel principle that is really important to me is honoring the Sabbath day. It allows me to stop my daily routine and to focus my thoughts on my Heavenly Father.
I work in a tourism business in Costa Rica. In this industry, it is typical for people to work on Sundays. When I started my job, I identified myself as a member of the Church. I requested—and was granted—Sundays off.
Because of my unusual request, my colleagues and my boss were curious. They asked me a lot of questions about my beliefs. Over time I had opportunities to explain to them some of the things that Latter-day Saints believe. In many cases my explanations of gospel doctrines earned their respect.
One day my boss gathered our staff for an announcement. “I need you all to come to work for the next two weekends,” he said. My heart sank. I knew this meant I would need to work on Sunday.
But then my boss continued: “That is, everyone except Juan Carlos. We know that nothing is going to make him come to work on Sunday.”
I was relieved. My boss had honored my request! Because of my behavior and the standards I exhibited at work, I had gained his respect. As a result he was willing to honor my beliefs.
I know that as we make gospel standards a priority in our lives, the Lord will bless us.

It was about 4:00 P.M. on a cheerless February day in 1977, and I was sitting in my office at the university, preparing for a night class, when the phone rang.
“Dad?” the voice came. “Mom said to call and tell you she’s taking John to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I asked. “What for?”
It was Kathryn, and she sounded rather nervous. “Well … see … I was coming home in the wagon, and he wanted me to give him a ride on the fender.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “How many times have I warned you guys about—”
“But it was only about half a block,” she said, “and I was going really slow. He didn’t even get hurt until I stopped, and I told him I didn’t want him to get on in the first—”
“Okay, never mind. Just tell me what happened. How bad is it?”
“Not very bad. I mean, I don’t think so. He just sort of jumped off, and then fell over backward and hit his head.”
My anxiety had suddenly mounted. “Well, what’s his condition? Is he really hurt? Is he in a lot of pain, or what?”
“No,” she replied, “he’s just been acting kind of funny. He can’t remember things, and the fingers on his left hand keep curling in like he’s trying to scratch something.”
Moments later I had phoned the hospital emergency room and was talking to my wife, Sharon. “He’s not in much pain,” she informed me, “and his memory’s pretty well returned. They just want to keep him under observation for a while and maybe take some X rays to make sure his skull isn’t fractured.”
“All right,” I replied and felt better. “I have to prepare for my night class, but call me if he gets any worse; I’ll be right over.”
Darkness had settled in a faint wintry drizzle, and I was halfway through a three-hour class session when my son Tony, a member of the janitorial crew, appeared in the doorway. Just behind him was our good friend and neighbor Dr. Evan Memmott, head of the college audio-visual department. Both of them appeared very solemn. I will never forget, in fact, the expression of tragedy on Evan’s rugged, empathic countenance. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and in that instant I concluded that my son had died.
What occurred during the next few minutes is blurry; I was standing there in the hall, looking into their eyes, hearing the urgent agony of my own voice as though it were spoken by someone else. “What is it? What’s happened?” My thoughts mingled in relief and anxiety over the reply. Johnny was alive, but he had taken a distinct turn for the worse and was having convulsions.
He was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed as we arrived, and was surrounded by his mother; Dr. Grant Way, our pediatrician; and two or three nurses. Johnny’s face was sallow, tinged with grayish green, his hair was in a rooster tail, and he looked terribly frail and vulnerable. They were holding a crescent-shaped pan under his chin, and there was blood in it. My stomach clenched.
“Johnny,” I said quietly and placed my hand on his shoulder with great care. “You okay, pal?”
He actually smiled a little, spit futilely into the pan, and someone wiped his lips with a tissue. “Not too hot,” he managed. “I’d better lie back down.” Pretty courageous, I thought, especially for a kid of 13.
“All right.” I helped lower him to the pillow. “Want us to administer to you?”
He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. “Yeah … I guess … only don’t press too hard.” I glanced at Evan, and we laughed a little. No, we’d try not to be heavy-handed about it.
Later, conferring with Dr. Way in the hall, I learned that John had landed on the back of his head but had sustained a fracture on top, right down the middle, and that he might be suffering from subcranial bleeding, perhaps even a blood clot. Dr. Way glanced toward the bed and its occupant. “Looking better now, though, isn’t he?” I nodded a bit dubiously, still offering silent prayers in hopes of building up some kind of reservoir.
They kept him there for the next 48 hours, but despite the excellent care, his mother stayed on hand during the days, his father during the nights. At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of his scheduled departure, having made “steady improvement,” he suddenly developed intense pains. “My head’s killing me,” he moaned. “It feels like somebody’s cut a cross right down the middle of it.”
The nurses had been making their rounds every 30 minutes at first, now every hour, observing him carefully, shining a light in his eyes to see if the pupils were properly dilated, but I didn’t wait. His description of the pain greatly disturbed me, and even as I left the room, he was tossing about, clasping his head and moaning. I returned moments later, having received approval to give him another mild painkiller. A nurse would be there soon.
Soon, however, was too long. John made no response as I entered the room. “Johnny!” I said, “are you all right?” I bent over him, frowning, clasping his shoulder. “John? Can you hear me?” But his eyes were glazed, losing their color, and a tiny bubble was forming between his lips. He was turning gray again—receding, shriveling before my eyes. Dying! Absolutely incredible … absolutely true. Johnny!
I bolted for the door. “Get the doctor in residence, quick!” I shouted. “He’s in a coma, and he’s fading fast!” A young nurse swished into the room—checked his pulse, his eyes, did other things (I don’t know what), and left, crying. Crying! Undoubtedly she had been trained not to display such emotion, but sometimes emotions take precedence regardless of the circumstances.
I’m not certain of the following sequence, but a call was placed immediately to Dr. Way, and I phoned Sharon moments later. She took the news with what can only be described as beautiful fortitude and asked one question: “Is there someone there who can help you administer to him?”
“I’ll find somebody,” I replied, asking her to phone family and friends and request their prayers.
I have never known doctors to arrive with such speed. Within the first two or three minutes a young intern, Ed Parker—a bearer of the priesthood—appeared, and somehow, before we even had time to perform the administration, Dr. Way was there as well. I don’t recall what l said during that blessing, but I do know that I made some strong, unqualified commitments to the Father of our spirits if only he would spare my son, his son. I do know that despite my failings, I have been a better man since. I do know that almost immediately after our administration, the light returned to John’s eyes, that he emerged from the depths of his coma, speaking a little, communicating all that was required to neurosurgeon J. H. Hauser, who had also arrived with remarkable swiftness.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Hauser explained that a large hematoma (blood clot) was exerting pressure on John’s brain and that it might still be growing. “We have two options,” he said. “One is to use drugs. That may help eliminate the clot, but we can’t really be certain of their effectiveness or the speed with which they will act. The other is to bore some holes in his head and remove the clot directly.”
“Please do exactly what you would do if he were your own son,” I said, and moments later Johnny was on his way to the operating room for surgery that was to last almost two hours.
“We’ll do our best,” they had said. That was all—no promises.
By now we had formed quite a congregation—his mother, Grandfather Allred (who spontaneously offered perhaps the simplest, most fervent and beautiful prayer I have ever heard), various medical personnel, several of our own children, and our neighbors the Memmotts—true Good Samaritans. We sat there together in the main waiting room, conversing quietly, and young Mike Memmott, one of John’s best buddies, was blinking back tears. That fall in the road three days earlier had momentarily knocked John unconscious and left his head bleeding rather profusely. Bending over him in great anxiety, Mike had called John’s name, then actually picked him up and carried him into our home.
During the half hour that followed, we phoned our oldest son, Mark, then at the Language Training Mission in Provo in preparation for his departure to Hamburg, Germany. We also phoned the Ogden Temple to place John’s name on the prayer roll and learned that someone else had done the same thing at the Salt Lake Temple. Shortly thereafter we received a call from the receptionist at the LTM in Provo. “President Pinegar took the liberty of placing your son’s name on the rolls at the temple here,” she said. “We hope you don’t mind.” Hoped we didn’t mind!
Such an incredible interplay of feelings! Such a sense of spirituality, of belonging, of family—not only our immediate kin, but all those others, virtually everyone we talked to, in fact! Friends of our daughters were now on hand also, and various acquaintances passing through the hospital had stopped to visit with us, offering words of concern and consolation. It seemed as though everyone knew our young son personally and truly loved him.
And yet, despite all those things—love, comfort, faith, buoyant warmth—there was the lingering odor of fear, pervasive as the smell of antiseptic, the kind that seems to shrivel one’s innards a little. At one point I encountered a doctor friend on the elevator and explained briefly our son’s condition. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Same thing happened to the Jones boy last week, very same accident. He never made it through the operation.”
Somehow that observation didn’t add much to my spirit, nor had our son Mark’s earlier response to our phone call. “I always thought John was too good for us to keep him very long,” he had said. Pacing the hall outside the operating room, I glanced at the forbidding green doors marked “Surgery—Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted” and reflected upon that other boy, the one who hadn’t made it. I had met his father, and I knew in part his family’s grief, for at one point I had supposed that my own son was dead. At another, I had literally seen the life fade, and who really knew the outcome even now? No assurance of anything, only those final words: “We’ll do our best.”
Leaning against the tiled wall with one hand, I rested my head on my outstretched arm. “Father in Heaven,” I asked, “why did that other son have to die? Why all the pain and sorrow for his loved ones?” I knew full well, of course, that answers are rarely given to such questions. “Is it right,” I inquired, “for me to ask that my own son be spared under the circumstances?” I remembered the blessing, my commitment to rededicate my life if only John could be spared. But who am I, the thought came, to be setting up conditions for the Lord? I should be constantly striving to live a better life regardless of the circumstances.
There was no one in the hall. I closed my eyes and continued. “Father,” I said, “I have no right to bargain or to establish terms. Thy will be done in all things.” Pausing, I struggled for some small particle of wisdom. “On the other hand, if we’re allowed to keep him, well, I can guarantee you this: it will certainly be great motivation.”
The surgery was pronounced a success, and I remember walking with my arm around Sharon out into the sunlit parking lot of that winter morning; we were trying to reassemble ourselves emotionally, breathing deeply the air of mortality, offering our thanks. The morning was very pure and bright, almost transparent.
I remember the night that followed—Johnny in the intensive care unit, head furled in white wrappings like a swami, taking intravenous fluid, moaning occasionally, causing my heart to fibrillate slightly each time it happened. The following afternoon, having improved rapidly, he was returned to the pediatrics ward.
I remained in the hospital each night, Sharon taking the days so that I could continue my classes at the college nearby. And Johnny rapidly grew better, startling everyone—doctors included—with the rate of his recovery. Periodically, however, there were the low points—the time, for example, I was lying with a blanket and pillow on the floor of his private room, and awoke to hear him crying. He was standing in the bathroom and didn’t quite know where he was. “What’s the matter, son?” I called.
“I don’t know,” he lamented, “I don’t know!” Guidid, I hoisted him into it.
“Having pain?” I asked. “Need me to call the nurse?”
“No,” he sighed and turned his head away from me for a moment. “It’s just that I’m still getting headaches, and I keep thinking about those holes and not havin’ no hair or nothin’.” He knew it was atrocious grammar, but he didn’t care and neither did I. “It’s just that … well, for a minute, I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t handle it.”
I paused, and then laid my hand on his brow with utmost care. “I understand, buddy. Just let your old dad handle it for you, okay? Everything’s going to be all right, just great, in fact, and we’ll have you home before you know it. Your hair will grow back in no time.”
He had turned to face me now, and I could see his eyes, big and brown with luminous depths in his pale face, almost like a painting by Keane. “Not like yours,” he smiled. All my own hair had deserted me in one great apostasy a few years earlier.
“No,” I grinned. “Mine will have to await the resurrection. But then, man, watch out because you know what I’ll be sporting?”
“What?”
“An Afro the size of a tumbleweed!”
“Hey, all right!” He began to laugh, but it hurt his head.
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”
“Yeah,” I said, “we can really feel some of these things, can’t we?”
“Yeah,” he said.
My hand was on his wrist now, and I could feel the life there, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, all very steadily. Yes, strong and steady now, and it looked as if we were going to keep him. It looked as if he would go on to become a doctor as he had planned, perhaps even a surgeon. It appeared that he would realize some special calling here on earth, for there had always been a special spirit about him, and at times he seemed to move along in something like a state of grace.
“John the beloved,” I said.
He peered at me inquisitively, not really comprehending.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I replied. “Just rest now. Try to get some sleep.” It was the secret name I had given him that night long ago, the one reserved for very special occasions.

My daughter Kristen returned 8 days ago from serving a full time mission in London. She followed her younger brother who returned a few months ago from serving in Ghana, Africa. Kristen was an amazing missionary. Before her mission, for several years Kristen didn't know if she should serve a mission. She went back and forth. She didn't have a clear witness from the Holy Ghost. Finally, I encouraged her to exercise her faith, to jump in with both feet. So, she prepared herself and sent in her mission papers. Even then, she still did not have a witness. I was with her when she opened her mission call. As she pulled the letter from the envelope, she read out loud: "Kristen Christensen, You are hereby called to serve as a missionary in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in the London England mission." Then, she stopped and her lips began to quiver and a tear ran down her cheek. I knew she knew. And she did. She saw with the Spirit, with new eyes, what was right for her in her life.

In the early days of his mission in Great Britain, a young Elder Gordon B. Hinckley felt considerable discouragement. President Hinckley’s biographer, Sheri Dew, has written:
“After he had taken as much as he felt he could, Elder Hinckley wrote his father that he wasn’t getting anywhere with missionary work, and that he couldn’t see the point in wasting his time and his father’s money. Responding as both father and stake president, Bryant Hinckley sent a reply that was brief and to the point: ‘Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.’
“Earlier that day [Elder Hinckley] and his companion had studied the promise recorded in the Gospels: ‘For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it’ (Mark 8:35).
“That scripture, combined with his father’s counsel, seared his soul. With the letter in hand, he went into his upstairs bedroom at 15 Wadham Road and got on his knees. As he poured out his heart to the Lord, he promised that he would try to forget himself and lose himself in the Lord’s service. Many years later [President Hinckley] indicated the significance of that series of events: ‘That July day in 1933 was my day of decision. A new light came into my life and a new joy into my heart. The fog of England seemed to lift, and I saw the sunlight. Everything good that has happened to me since then I can trace back to the decision I made that day in Preston’” (Go Forward with Faith, 64).
Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, had “decided to decide.”

When my younger siblings are annoying me, I’ve learned to ask them kindly to stop and then I walk away for a few minutes. Then I come back with one of their favorite toys and play with them. Sometimes the most tempting way to handle things is by threat and force. Whenever I want to do this, I silently sing the lyrics to “If the Savior Stood Beside Me” (New Era, Aug. 2007, 8–10). That helps me keep calm and remember to love them. Another good song to sing is “Love One Another” (Hymns, no. 308).
Bria W., 12, Texas, USA

I have seen for myself what faithful priesthood leaders and members can do. In 1955 I became an officer in the United States Air Force. My bishop at home gave me a blessing just before I left for my first station, which was in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

In his blessing he said that my time in the air force would be missionary service. I arrived in church on my first Sunday at the Albuquerque First Branch. A man walked up to me, introduced himself as the district president, and told me that he was going to call me to serve as a district missionary.

I told him that I would be there for training for only a few weeks and then I would be assigned somewhere else in the world. He said, “I don’t know about that, but we are to call you to serve.” In the middle of my military training, by what appeared to be chance, I was chosen from hundreds of officers being trained to take the place in headquarters of an officer who had died suddenly.

So, for the two years I was there, I worked in my office. On most evenings and every weekend, I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to people the members brought to us.

My companions and I averaged more than 40 hours a month in our missionary service without once having to knock on doors to find someone to teach. The members filled our plates so full that we often taught two families in an evening. I saw for myself the power and the blessing in the repeated call of prophets for every member to be a missionary.

On the last Sunday before I left Albuquerque, the first stake was organized in that city. There is now a sacred temple there, a house of the Lord, in a city where we once met in a single chapel with Saints who brought friends to us to be taught and to feel the witness of the Spirit. Those friends felt a welcoming home in the Lord’s true Church.

Amidst the terrible hostilities in Missouri that would put the Prophet in Liberty Jail and see thousands of Latter-day Saints driven from their homes, Sister Drusilla Hendricks and her invalid husband, James, … arrived with their children at a hastily shaped dugout in Quincy, Illinois, to live out the spring of that … year [of great suffering].
Within two weeks the Hendrickses were on the verge of starvation, having only one spoonful of sugar and a saucerful of cornmeal remaining in their possession. In the great tradition of LDS women, Drusilla made mush out of it for James and the children, thus stretching its contents as far as she could make it go. When that small offering was [eaten by them], she washed everything, cleaned their little dugout as thoroughly as she could, and quietly waited to die.
Not long thereafter the sound of a wagon brought Drusilla to her feet. It was their neighbor Reuben Allred. He said he had a feeling they were out of food, so on his way into town he’d had a sack of grain ground into meal for them.
Shortly thereafter Alexander Williams arrived with two bushels of meal on his shoulder. He told Drusilla that he’d been extremely busy but the Spirit had whispered to him that “Brother Hendricks’ family is suffering, so I dropped everything and came [running].”

Linda Bradshaw, living in the West Midlands, has applied creative fingers to the money problem. She has developed a handmade jewellery business, selling to local tourist attractions.

“We have little spare time for out-of-school jobs, even if they are available,” she says. “Homework is heaped on us at every opportunity. We have to study hard to pass our O and A level exams. Jobs and university places are scarce. We need good results to get anywhere. I’ve learnt to manage my time and can fit in jewellery making early morning or other odd hours.”

President Heber J. Grant told the story of two men who had quarreled about business dealings. They came to President John Taylor and asked him to settle the matter. President Taylor consented, but said: “‘Brethren, before I hear your case, I would like very much to sing one of the songs of Zion for you.’
“Now President Taylor was a very capable singer, and interpreted sweetly and with spirit, our sacred hymns. He sang one of our hymns to the two brethren. Seeing its effect, he remarked that he never heard one of the songs of Zion but that he wanted to listen to one more, and so asked them to listen while he sang another. Of course, they consented. They both seemed to enjoy it.”
Then President Taylor sang a third and a fourth hymn. When he finished, the two men “were melted to tears, got up, shook hands, and asked President Taylor to excuse them … for taking up his time. They then departed without his even knowing what their difficulties were” (Improvement Era, September 1940, page 522).

Ephraim Martey grew up in Ghana. When Ephraim was three years old, his father and mother separated, and his mother left the family. Ephraim’s father put him in the care of a family in their village, promising to return. Three years later, when his father had still not returned, this family kicked him out. At the tender age of six, Ephraim found himself a homeless orphan living on the streets around Accra, begging and working odd jobs for food. As a young child, Ephraim was alive in Christ because of the redeeming love of the Savior. Ephraim was not perfect, but as he grew he followed his conscience and tried to avoid anything illegal. And the Lord blessed him. For example, Ephraim loved to learn, and he managed to go to school even though he was not officially enrolled. [16]

One evening when Ephraim was 11 years old he was wandering the streets hoping to find something to eat. The churches in the area would sometimes provide snacks for children, so when he came across a church, he walked in. He found no one there, but he did find a loaf of bread. He ate the whole thing and fell asleep on a couch in the foyer.

Early the next morning, two missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to the meetinghouse to play basketball, and much to their surprise found Ephraim. He was afraid, but they were kind and invited him to come to church. Ephraim started attending and became very active in the branch. He participated in seminary and read the Book of Mormon. The major turning point in his spiritual journey, however, was being present when President Gordon B. Hinckley dedicated the Accra Temple. The Spirit bore witness to him that this man was a prophet of God. Ephraim began needed repentance and sought baptism. When he was 13, a family in the branch agreed to sponsor him and he was baptized, received the Gift of the Holy Ghost and the Aaronic Priesthood, and was ordained a deacon. [17]

“Can Amy come over and tend we?” pleaded my four-year-old daughter.
“Us, tend us,” I responded automatically.
“We’re being real good,” added her twin sister. “Pull-lease.”
“Okay. Tonight after Daddy comes home, Amy can come over.” And with shouts of glee and clapping they returned to their play.
Amy is our babysitter, but she’s so much more. She is my daughters’ best friend. At 15 she stands less than five-feet high, has long dark hair and an infectious smile.
Why do my daughters and I agree that Amy must qualify as one of the world’s number one babysitters? I’ve pondered that question quite frequently lately as I’ve discussed babysitters with many of my young mother friends. And the answer: Amy is more than just a babysitter who comes to watch my three highly energetic daughters while I’m at a meeting or on a date with my husband. She is a wise young woman who is learning the art and joy of being a mother.
While she is at our house, her attention is centered on my children, not a television program, her homework, or a telephone call to her friends. The children are her first concern, and since there are three of them under five, it takes practice to meet their demands, pacify their squabbles, and divide her time fairly among them.
Part of her charm is a surprise grab bag filled with something different each time she comes. The bag is opened after Mom leaves, and its treasures are many: different dolls with blankets and accessories to mix and match, materials for a special craft project, a treat she’s baked for them.
Her grab bag provides countless teaching moments for my children as well as some very fun playtime. Probably without even realizing it, she is reinforcing the gospel principles they learn in Primary and family home evening.
If dolls are part of the grab bag treasures, the girls dress and undress them, matching colors and coordinating outfits. When it’s time for bed, the dolls say their prayers and are placed under the blankets. “Then the ‘mommies’ munch on the special treats Amy brought, and she invents bedtime stories.
Crafts are a favorite with my girls. Gluing, cutting, coloring, and pasting can create some exciting treasures and lasting memories. And Amy’s imagination is loaded with lots of fun stories they draw pictures about. Naturally artistic, Amy has spent hours drawing pictures for my children. The children she creates in her stories usually have the same names as my children, and they are involved in the same activities my children love—from helping Mom to going to Primary. We finally got a large book of used computer paper for our children to draw on. The blank sides of the pages contain many of Amy’s drawings. Now whenever they thumb through to find new pages to draw on, they are delighted again and again by pictures Amy has drawn. Pages and pages are filled with letters of the alphabet where Amy has helped the girls practice writing their names.
She knows dozens of Primary songs and lots of finger plays. I often hear snatches of new songs coming from their bedroom as they play. Many times when the girls quarrel, I say, “Can’t you sing me a pretty song instead?” And they can.
My girls see Amy in other situations, too. Always their eyes light up and their faces beam as they point to their Amy in church, where she helps her mother tend her younger brother and sisters, or at a ward party where she is playing the piano. At night she waves as she rides by delivering newspapers, and the girls come running into the house shouting, “Mommy, Amy waved to me.” “Me, too,” echoes another. “Amy wave me,” and my two-year-old beams. Such a little thing, and yet it means so much.
Amy’s influence is felt in our home long after she is gone. How grateful I am for the Amys of this world who influence the lives of my children so positively and for the mothers of all the Amys, mothers who are preparing their daughters for motherhood. My daughters dream of growing up so they can be like Amy. And I hope they do.
When the neighborhood children get together you often hear, “My Amy is going to tend me tonight.”
“She’s not your Amy; she’s my Amy.”
“She’s my Amy,” whines another quivering voice.
“She’s all our Amy,” answers another who is older and wiser. Happily they all agree and go back to playing.
Yes, she is everybody’s Amy. She’s a mother’s pride and joy, a little girl’s best friend, a frustrated mother’s chance for retreat, a Young Women president’s dependable worker, a father’s little girl, and a future mother who is learning now countless ways to bless the lives of other young children—her own.

Last summer when I was away from home going to school in Manchester, England, I had to ride the bus into town every day. Then I had to walk several blocks through the worst part of the city in order to get to my college. I remember that the most corrupt street of all was right next to my bus stop. The walls of the street shops were covered with obscenities, pornographic posters, rude writing, and vulgar swear words. There were several bars, where loud, questionable music could be heard every time the doors opened.
People inside called out crude things to me as I walked. The first time I went into town to attend school, I got off the bus and walked right down this street. About halfway down, I was so sick, offended, and afraid, that I didn’t think I could make it the rest of the way. I did, with my eyes shut as much as possible, but I decided at that moment that I would never walk down that street again.
Being far away from our home and family, I had plenty of things to worry about and more temptations than I could ever list. I certainly didn’t need to add this street to my worries. So, everyday when I got off the bus to go to school, I would walk an entire block out of my way to avoid that street. Sometimes on rainy mornings when I was late to an eight o’clock class I would want to forget what I had resolved and take the shorter route. But I knew I would feel sick inside if I let myself be exposed to unclean things.
Crossing that street to take the long way around every morning just became a habit. After a while, I didn’t even think of why I was doing it. Then one afternoon a friend of mine, Bob, offered to show me a new music store close to my bus stop. As we left the college together, I automatically crossed the street.
“What are you doing?” Bob asked.
Without thinking, I answered, “I can’t walk on that street.”
“Why not?” he laughed.
Suddenly I heard myself telling the whole story. I was far from home and didn’t want to return to my family with a lot of bad thoughts in my mind that didn’t belong there. I was uncomfortable on that street.
Bob was several years older than I and knew more of the ways of the world. I fully expected him to laugh again, and I felt foolish for even telling him about my feelings.
Waiting for his laughter, I looked up to find a very subdued expression on his face. After a few minutes of silence (very uncomfortable ones for me), he told me he wished he’d had a commitment like mine when he first came to school. “I wish I had crossed a few streets, Vivian,” he said. “I’m ashamed to go home and see my family. I can’t look Mom in the face after some of the things I’ve seen and done.” We stood in silence for a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable one now. Then he took my arm, and we crossed the street together. We found our music store in no time at all, and had a chance for a wonderful conversation because of the route we took. He is now a friend I will always treasure.
I didn’t have to preach a sermon on moral and mental cleanliness. All I did was cross a street when there was something I wasn’t supposed to be exposed to on the other side. He didn’t sneer or criticize or think I was odd. By doing what I knew to be right, I actually earned Bob’s respect and friendship.