Gospel Story Finder

Third, while you must exercise your agency and bear the responsibility for your decisions, you need not face temptation alone. Just two weeks ago at a stake conference, Elder Charles “Tiny” Grant, one of our fine regional representatives, shared an experience with us. He said that some years ago while he was the football coach at Ricks College, he met a man named Hal Barton, who was famous for his love of fishing. He was warned, however, that “although Hal knows where to find the big fish, he often goes into strong waters to find them.”

Their first opportunity to go fishing together was in February as the ice was breaking up. As they walked together up the river, Hal pointed to an island about fifty yards away and said, “Coach, that is where we will find the big ones.” The day was cold, and now they had to cross a dangerous part of the river. The coach soon discovered that the rocks were round and slick, and the water was only inches from the top of his waders. Since he is six feet five inches tall, that meant it was deep. He was about to tell Hal that he was afraid he couldn’t cross the water, but realized that the football coach could not admit that he was afraid.

Just then Hal said, “Coach, this is how we are going to cross the water. You take a step and get a firm footing while I hold your hand and arm steady. Then I will take a step while you stand firmly and furnish the support. We will work our way through this roiling, swift water over these slippery rocks.” With this mutual support, they crossed the river safely and caught the big ones.

Brother and Sister Perez were sealed in the Arizona Temple in 1965. Wanting their children who remained at home to be sealed to them, Sister Perez prayed to make this blessing possible. In response, her tortilla business increased, helping provide the funds needed for them to make another temple trip three years later. Next, Brother and Sister Perez felt an urgency to have their married children sealed to them as well. She prayed for help again, and again the number of her tortilla customers grew. The money it brought in helped fund a temple trip with the rest of the children, along with spouses and children. In 1975, Brother Perez was called as the patriarch of the newly created Quetzaltenango Stake.

Occasionally I visit nursing homes, where long-suffering is found. While attending Sunday services at one facility, I noticed a young girl who was to play her violin for the comfort of those assembled. She told me she was nervous and hoped she could do her best. As she played, one called out, “Oh, you are so pretty, and you play so beautifully.” The strains of the moving bow across the taut strings and the elegant movement of the young girl’s fingers seemed inspired by the impromptu comment. She played magnificently.
Afterward, I congratulated her and her gifted accompanist. They responded, “We came to cheer the frail, the sick, and the elderly. Our fears vanished as we played. We forgot our own cares and concerns. We may have cheered them, but they truly did inspire us.”

Often our Church assignments place us in ideal situations for developing charity toward others. My father had the same home teaching assignments and the same companion for many years. He and his companion grew to love deeply the families they served, and the families came to rely on their friendship. What had started as a priesthood assignment became a great bond of love.
In his old age, my father had severe arthritis and great difficulty walking. Yet he and his companion, who by then had trouble seeing and could no longer drive, still got together to visit their old friends. The companions would joke that the two of them combined made up a whole person. My father drove and made the phone calls; his companion helped everyone when a more steady step was required.
One evening they stopped the car at the house of a sister, but my father could not get out. He said to his companion, “Why don’t you walk up and have her come out to the door, and then I can wave to her.”
His companion slowly made his way up the steps and asked the sister to come to the door and wave to my father. Although she was disabled and could not walk easily, she said, “I should say not. After all the years you two have been visiting me, this time I will walk down to the car to visit with you.”
The two of them helped each other out the door and down the steps to the car to visit my father. My father opened the door, and the three of them talked together in the twilight until it was too dark to see.
That was the last time my father and his companion went home teaching. By the next month my father had died, followed shortly by his companion and then that sister.
As my father committed himself to serving others, befriending them, respecting them, and staying with them literally to the end, he provided me with a wonderful example of how charity develops through dedicated home teaching.

Just the other night we had the opportunity to attend a baptismal service in the ward meetinghouse where Rachel, a great-granddaughter, was baptized. A few nights before that, Richard, a great-grandson, had been baptized. I had the opportunity to look at them and talk to them and squeeze them and see that sparkle in their eye and of the light of the gospel that seemed to fill their heart and soul. They were so excited about the idea of being baptized to become official members of the Church. Their families had taught them true gospel principles. I remember when I said, “Richard,” as we shook hands, “give me a real missionary handshake.” And with that little eight-year-old hand he almost squeezed my fingers off. As he did it, I said, “Richard, you’ll be a great missionary, just as little Rachel will be a great member of the Church in her right.”
On that same occasion we had an opportunity to stand in the circle and to have young Peter Jr. receive the Aaronic Priesthood and to hear his father give him the blessings of the priesthood. And those of us who were older had the chance to stand in the circle and to sense the meaning of the occasion and to feel of it and to know that all present were part of our family.

I had the same problem. Nothing interesting ever seemed to happen to me. Then I was challenged by my Young Women leader to keep a journal. She gave us a jar of questions to answer whenever we couldn’t think of anything to write. Slowly I found that my life was interesting. Now I write in my journal constantly. I look back and read my old journals, and I’m fascinated at how much I have grown.Katie Grover, 18, Chula Vista Third Ward, Chula Vista California Stake

I didn’t think the dog belonged to anyone as I stooped to pet him. Panting in the noonday heat, he sat in a shady spot afforded by the walls of the Rotterdam train station. My missionary companion and I had stopped for lunch at a food stand outside the station. People were pushing by each other, each frantically trying to catch a train.
“Poor guy has to wear a fur coat in this heat,” I mumbled to the gold-colored dog. His fur was dirty, and the hair around his ears was tangled and matted. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of dusty black shoes stop next to the dog and then a wrinkled, dirty-fingernailed hand join mine in petting the dog.
I looked up into the dirty, bearded face of a street beggar. He smiled. His teeth needed dentistry, and the dirt on his skin collected around the crow’s feet by his eyes. His left temple was scarred.
I was a little taken aback. But I smiled and asked him in English if this was his dog. He answered in French. I tried speaking in Dutch, but to no avail. All I could remember from the French lessons I took in high school was how to say my name. So I introduced myself using the best French accent I could imitate from the movies.
The man’s smile widened with his eyes, which I noticed were a beautiful blue. He started talking French very fast. I didn’t understand him. Sensing my confusion, he pointed to himself and replied, “Jacque.” I offered him my hand. He seemed surprised but shook it while lowering his head.
My companion and I got our lunch order and started off for our appointment, thinking we could save time by eating on the way. Jacque smiled again as we passed him and his dog. A scripture came into my mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25: 40).
Just seeing Jacque smile and feeling for the circumstances he was in, my heart was touched. The Spirit opened my eyes, and for a moment I had thoughts of how much Heavenly Father must love this individual.
So I offered Jacque my lunch. His mouth opened slightly, and he lowered his head again. It was obvious he was very hungry. “Take it. Please,” I prodded, feeling, on the one hand, love for this individual but, on the other, pride for how “giving” I was being.
Then he did something I will never forget. He taught me the full meaning of the scripture I thought I had been demonstrating. He took the sandwich gratefully and broke it in half. Then, while stroking the dog’s head, he gave him one of the halves, talking softly to him. The dog gulped it down and licked his chops repeatedly in trying to catch every last crumb.
Jacque smiled at me, then took a bite. Again the Spirit touched me deeply at seeing this poor man offer half of what he had to his best friend. I never saw Jacque again, but I have never forgotten the example of sharing and love that he set for me that day. I fed him once. But he fed me for a lifetime.

After high school graduation, I worked with a young man who was a recently returned missionary. One day we began talking about religion, and I was amazed by how much he knew about the Savior. “Where did you learn all that?” I asked. A few days later, he presented me with a copy of Jesus the Christ by Elder James E. Talmage of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Not long after that, he changed jobs and I didn’t see him again.
I was almost finished reading the book when I heard that an LDS friend of mine was going on a mission. I called him and told him what I was reading. He was the one who had invited me to church on that Sunday when I showed up in a T-shirt.
So, there I was at the meeting, feeling out of place in my casual clothing. As I looked around, I noticed families sitting together. I had not seen many children in other churches. I also noticed that everyone, not just the choir, sang the hymns. Young men passed the sacrament. Regular members spoke instead of a pastor. I liked what I saw.
I began to feel a greater desire than ever to learn about Jesus. I enjoyed my friend’s talk and his excitement about serving as a missionary. Later I told my friend how jealous I was of him because he was going to be a missionary like Paul in the New Testament. I told him how much I would like to do something like that.
He said, “I have a book that will help you prepare, and I want you to have my copy.” It was a book by another Apostle in the Church called A Marvelous Work and a Wonder.
I studied that book along with the Bible. Through this study, I got answers to many questions, as well as a desire to pray. Based on what I’d read about Joseph Smith (see Joseph Smith—History 1:5–19), I felt sure that God would also answer my prayer.
I knelt by my bedside and called out to God with all my heart and soul. I told Him that I was seeking the truth, and then I waited for my heavenly messenger. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. Finally, I simply asked God if the things I was reading and studying were true.
After my prayer, I began thinking of all I had learned. While reading the two books my LDS friends had given me, I had discovered answers. That felt good. Ever since I went to Israel, I’d wanted to know more about Jesus. Now I did. That felt good, too. Suddenly I realized God was answering my prayer. He loved me enough to send friends and books to tell me about the Restoration of the gospel, and I felt good. How would I feel if the Lord had literally told me the same thing? I would feel the same way. That was my answer.
Full of excitement, I wanted to call my friend, but he was on his mission, so I called his mom instead. I awkwardly explained that I had read the book her son had given me and that I would like to find out how I could join their Church. She was silent for a long time, and then she started to cry. Through her joyful tears she told me how to contact the missionaries.
A few weeks later I called my friend’s mom again. This time it was to invite her and her family to my baptism. Along with the other books I’d read, I had now read the Book of Mormon and gained a testimony of its truthfulness. I invited my own family to attend my baptism as well. My twin brother came into town the night before. He didn’t understand why I wanted to get baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He asked a lot of questions, especially about the Book of Mormon. The only things he’d ever read about the book were false and negative. I stayed up most the night attempting to answer his questions.
The baptism was beautiful. This time I didn’t show up in a T-shirt and cargo pants. This time I was in a white shirt and tie, and I felt totally comfortable and at home. Four months later my twin was still asking questions. I told him that I was happy to talk to him about it but that ultimately he would have to ask God for himself. A few weeks later he came to me and said: “I asked, and now I know the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. How do I get in touch with the missionaries?”
Imagine my joy a month later when I had the opportunity of baptizing my twin brother. We both served missions; I was called to Chile and my brother to Mexico. Like Paul of old, we are trying to give back a little of what we received.

Once there were two brothers, Hasty and Swigley, who lived near the sea. Hasty was a pleasant fellow but very poor. Swigley was cranky and stingy but very rich.
When a holiday feast day came, Hasty had nothing to eat so he went to his brother’s house. “Please give me some food for me and my wife, Brother Swigley,” he said. “You have plenty and I will repay you in work when harvesttime comes.”
Swigley didn’t really want to give Hasty anything, but he was afraid the neighbors would scorn him if he didn’t, so he gave Hasty a piece of ham. “Take it and be off with you. When harvesttime comes, I’ll expect a good day’s labor in payment,” he said ill-naturedly.
Hasty took the ham and started for home. Because he was anxious to get there, he took a shortcut through the woods. As he hurried along, the woods began to look unfamiliar to him. Hasty finally decided he had lost his way. While he was deciding what he must do, Hasty heard the sound of a woodcutter’s axe in the distance. Following the sound of the chopping, he soon came upon a large house where an old man was cutting wood.
“Can you tell me the way to—” he began. But before Hasty could finish the sentence, the axe flew from the old man’s hand and would have cut the woodcutter’s leg had Hasty not jumped quickly and knocked it to the ground.
“You are a good man,” said the old woodcutter, “and you have saved me from being hurt. Now go into the house where there are those who will want your ham. Be sure to take nothing in exchange except the old mill that stands behind the door. Then come back and I’ll teach you how to use it. That mill can grind anything.”
Hasty thought this was strange but he did as the old man directed. Inside the house were several dwarfs. When they smelled the ham, they began clamoring and asked Hasty what they could give him for it.
Hasty said, “I’ll take the old mill behind the door and nothing else.”
They offered several other things in exchange but Hasty refused. Finally, the dwarfs agreed to the trade of the ham for the mill.
The old woodcutter smiled when he saw Hasty coming with the mill under his arm. Quickly, he told Hasty how to start the mill and then how to stop it. Hasty thanked the old man and soon found himself on the right path for home.
When he reached home, Hasty put the mill on the table. “Grind a good dinner,” he said. To his wife’s delight, the mill began to turn and out came the best dinner she and Hasty had ever eaten.
After that, Hasty had the mill grind many good things—food, clothing, silver, gold, and anything else he and his wife needed. They invited all their friends and neighbors to come and share their good fortune. Swigley was invited, too, but when he saw how much Hasty had to enjoy, he was jealous and angry. “Where did you get so much wealth?” he demanded.
When Hasty explained about the mill, Swigley was determined to have it. He begged so hard that Hasty finally agreed to give it to him. However, before he did, Hasty and his wife had the mill grind enough good things to last them for several years. Then he took the mill to his brother.
Swigley could hardly wait to be alone with his new treasure. He was so anxious to use it that he didn’t listen when Hasty explained how to stop the mill. As soon as he was alone with the mill, Swigley commanded, “Mill, grind out porridge! I am hungry for good porridge.”
At once, the mill began to grind. First, it ground a bowlful, then a tubful, a tableful, and soon the room was half full. Porridge was running out the door into the yard. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” cried Swigley, but the mill did not stop and the flood of porridge kept coming from the mill.
Finally, Swigley decided to go see his brother. He slogged through the porridge until he was outside and then ran to Hasty’s house. “Take the mill back,” he cried. “Take it quickly! If it grinds more porridge, we’ll all soon be smothered in it! Take it back! I’ll give you anything you ask if you’ll only take it back!”
Hasty took the mill back, stopped the porridge flow in the way the old woodcutter had told him, and for a long time continued to use the mill to get the things they wanted. Soon he became a rich man, living in a fine home that shone with splendor near the seashore. Many who sailed by stopped to see the wonderful mill.
One day, a skipper of a ship asked, “Can the mill grind salt? I have to travel a long way to fill my ship with a cargo of salt to sell. I’d like a mill that could grind out salt.”
“Of course, it can grind salt,” Hasty answered.
“I’ll give you a thousand coins for it,” the skipper offered.
“No,” Hasty answered. “I don’t want to part with my wonderful mill.”
But the skipper kept begging until Hasty finally decided to sell it. The man hurried off with the mill, boarded his ship, and sailed for deep water.
When he stopped the ship, he set the mill down and commanded, “Grind salt! Grind salt and grind it fast!”
Immediately, the mill began to grind. And just as had been the case with Swigley and the porridge, it didn’t stop. The ship’s hull was soon full. Salt filled every crack and the skipper shouted, and begged, and whimpered, and cried for the mill to stop. However, the salt continued to pour out, piling up on the deck while the boat began sinking lower and lower into the water.
At last, the boat sank completely out of sight and came to rest on the ocean floor. And there it is to this very day, endlessly grinding salt into the sea.

One of the best ways to make friends is to invite them over, right? That’s what the Montreal Ward of the Montreal Mount Royal Quebec Stake did. Their new chapel created so much interest in the surrounding neighborhood of La Salle that ward leaders decided to open it up for tours.
And when they did, the youth of this English-speaking ward played a major role. The Latter-day Saint teens were ushers, served refreshments, directed parking, and greeted guests at the door.
“It was a good experience because it gave other people in the community an opportunity to know more about us, what we believe, and what we do,” explains Melissa Poirier, 15. More than 300 non–Latter-day Saints toured the building.

When I was 13, after eight years of living in a farmhouse with acres of land, my family moved into a suburban neighborhood. Our beautiful golden retriever, Tissue, didn’t exactly like these new conditions. She barked the entire first night we were there. And our neighbors decided to pay us a visit.
Our parents weren’t home at the time, so it was my sister who had the bad luck to answer the door. The neighbors blasted into us with their angry words. They said we’d better get our dog quiet if we knew what was good for us!
I didn’t know what else to do, so I climbed into the doghouse with Tissue. I stayed there for hours with her head on my lap until she finally fell asleep.
When my parents came home, they were upset at what the neighbors had done. But after that night I never heard Mom and Dad complain about it again. So I figured they’d forgotten the whole thing. But I was wrong. A month later my dad asked me if I wanted to help him get even with the neighbors.
I nodded quickly in agreement. Payback! Dad sent me to the garage to grab two shovels. I had no idea what kind of payback he had in mind, but I walked next door with him willingly.
I should’ve known something was fishy right away. I saw our neighbor in his front yard struggling with a wheelbarrow and shovel. All by himself, he was trying to haul a huge pile of dirt to his backyard. With how big that pile was and how slow he was going, it would take him forever to finish.
Without saying a word, Dad walked up to the mound, dug in his shovel, and started filling the wheelbarrow. Our neighbor stared at him in silent confusion. Following Dad’s example, I pitched in and we quickly filled the wheelbarrow. We kept at it until the entire mound was gone.
I’m not sure exactly what the man thought about us helping. For me, though, I felt a healing in my soul as we served our neighbor.
That day my dad taught me a lesson he’s taught me many times since: being kind is much better than getting even.

Last year I was noticing how I didn’t have any “real” talents. Then I received my patriarchal blessing. It said, “You have a special gift to work with people.” When I heard that, I knew what my talent was and decided to do whatever I could to pursue that talent. I was called as the Beehive president and have been striving to do what I can to be a good leader for the Beehives of my ward.
Sherry Olson, 14Sonora, California

Members from Cartagena (above) recently went to the temple in two busloads, a journey of 20 hours each way. Among the travelers were Johny San Juan, elders quorum president; his wife, Everlides, Young Women president; and their three children. Because they had spent time completing four generations of family history, their daughter, Estefanía, age 12, was baptized for some of her ancestors, and Johny and Everlides were endowed and sealed in their behalf.

But computers lack inspiration, and so the Lord has prepared many individual translators for the work. For example, in 1980, a Division supervisor had the assignment of getting Church materials translated into Bengali, a language of India and Bangladesh. Unable at the time to find Church members who knew the language, he turned for help to two non-member teachers. When their translation was completed, the supervisor then hoped to find a member to review the translation for doctrinal and grammatical accuracy.
As if in answer to his need, he read an article about Towhid-ul Alam, a recent convert from Bangladesh who was studying at Brigham Young University—Hawaii. Thanks to the help of Brother Alam, the Bengali Selections from the Book of Mormon was printed in New Delhi, India, in 1985.

I remember the job opportunity that finally came after months of searching during the depression. Unfortunately the work was in an amusement park, and beset with moral hazards. The final decision was mine, but how careful the bishop was to alert me to the problems and obstacles ahead. For the nearly two years I was employed there it was a job requirement to carry a package of cigarettes in my pocket for the convenience of the customers. But not once did I ever forget my bishop’s advice or my parental teaching about the Word of Wisdom. Neither were any of the other temptations able to overpower me.

I offer this as profound conviction born in the fiery crucible of life’s experience. Our second son, Adam, entered our lives when I was far away in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam. I still have the joyful telegram announcing his birth. Adam was a blue-eyed, blond-haired little fellow with an impish personality. As he turned five years old, Adam eagerly looked forward to starting school. Then a common childhood illness blanketed our southern California community, and Adam contracted the disease. Aside from concern for his comfort, we were not worried. He even seemed to have a light case. Suddenly one morning he did not arise from his bed; he was in a deep coma. We rushed him to the hospital, where he was placed in intensive care. A constant cadre of devoted doctors and nurses attended him. His mother and I maintained a ceaseless vigil in the waiting room nearby.

I telephoned our dear stake president, a childhood friend and now a beloved colleague in the Seventy, Elder Douglas L. Callister, and asked if he would come to the hospital and join me in giving Adam a priesthood blessing. Within minutes he was there. As we entered the small, cramped space where Adam’s lifeless little body lay, his bed surrounded by a bewildering maze of monitoring devices and other medical paraphernalia, the kind doctors and nurses reverently stepped back and folded their arms. As the familiar and comforting words of a priesthood blessing were spoken in faith and earnest pleading, I was overcome by a profound sense that Someone else was present. I was overwhelmed by the thought that if I should open my eyes I would see the Savior standing there! I was not the only one in that room who felt that Spirit. We learned quite by chance some months later that one of the nurses who was present that day was so touched that she sought out the missionaries and was baptized.

But notwithstanding, Adam made no improvement. He lingered between this life and the next for several more days as we pleaded with the Lord to return him to us. Finally, one morning after a fitful night, I walked alone down a deserted hospital corridor. I spoke to the Lord and told Him that we wanted our little boy to return so very much, but nevertheless what we wanted most was for His will to be done and that we—Pat and I—would accept that. Adam crossed the threshold into the eternities a short time later.

Frankly, we still grieve for our little boy, although the tender ministering of the Spirit and the passage of the years have softened our sadness. His small picture graces the mantel of our living room beside a more current family portrait of children and grandchildren. But Pat and I know that his path through mortality was intended by a kind Heavenly Father to be shorter and easier than ours and that he has now hurried on ahead to be a welcoming presence when we likewise eventually cross that same fateful threshold.

On her way to school, Meg passed the snow-encrusted vacant lot next door. Spotting a crumpled foil candy wrapper under a scraggly shrub, she stooped to retrieve it. Cut into strips, the foil could be used as icicles for their Christmas tree. “If we have a tree,” she muttered.
Dad had lost his job at the plant and in searching for work had moved the family to this new town. They had left many things behind in storage, including their Christmas tree decorations. “It’ll be a lean Christmas,” Dad had tried to prepare them one night after Jenny had been tucked into bed. “There’ll be no need for decorations because there won’t be a tree. I’m sorry.”
Meg had cried. No tree! It would be especially sad, she knew, for her sister, Jenny, who was in kindergarten.
Now Meg pulled her coat tighter against the cold. Longingly she eyed the big pines in the yard next to the vacant lot, then hurried on to school.
That afternoon when she got home, Meg hung her coat on a hook behind the kitchen door and removed the foil from her pocket. She’d smoothed the wrinkles from it and was cutting it into thin strips when Ryan, her younger brother, came in.
“Sort of short icicles aren’t they?” he said. “Anyway, what are you going to use for a tree?”
“I’ll think of something,” Meg answered.
“Su-u-re!” said Ryan.
“The yard on the other side of the vacant lot has beautiful pine trees,” Meg said slowly, putting the strips into a box with others she had collected.
“So? Are you figuring on cutting one down?” Ryan stirred the soup Mom had put on to simmer before going to get Jenny from kindergarten. He licked the spoon, washed it, and went into the living room.
Meg followed. She bustled about, arranging the white knit lap robe on the couch to hide the worn places. “Since Dad’s temporary job is at night, sometime after Mom goes to bed, we could slip over there and cut a few limbs from one of those trees. If we tied the branches together, they’d make a cute little Christmas tree for Jenny.”
Ryan stared at her. “That would be stealing!”
“What’s wrong with people sharing with you?”
“Sis, it isn’t sharing when people don’t know you’re taking.”
Meg sighed. “I know. I just want a tree for Jenny so bad. …” She was setting the table when Mom came in with Jenny.
“Look what I made at school today.” Jenny proudly held up an angel for them to admire. It was made from a straight wooden clothespin. Its robe, a scrap of white satin, was draped over pipe-cleaner arms. A string of tiny glass beads gathered the robe at the waist.
“See the halo?” Jenny turned the angel to show gold braid against white yarn hair. “Miss Grant said we could bring ours home for our Christmas trees.”
“It’s beautiful!” Meg looked meaningfully at Ryan over Jenny’s head.
She didn’t mention the tree to Ryan again, but Meg thought of it constantly. One day after an art project, she found some fat, fuzzy red and green yarn scraps in the wastebasket. She took them home. A week before Christmas a friend gave her a package of assorted fruit-flavored candies. She saved those too.
Every day Jenny asked why they didn’t have a tree. “All the other kids have told about their trees at Show and Tell,” she complained one day after supper.
“Don’t worry Jenny,” Meg said comfortingly. “We’ll soon have a tree—I promise.”
Mom shook her head sadly as Jenny went to bed early. “I’m going to bed too. Don’t stay up late, you two.”
Meg gathered the dishes from the table while Ryan took care of the food. “I’m getting Jenny a tree tonight, Ryan. Are you coming?”
“Sis, are you sure you want to do this?”
“Jenny needs a Christmas tree, and I promised her one.”
As soon as she was sure that Mom was asleep, Meg got her coat.
Ryan slipped into his jacket, too, and got his Scout knife. “I’ll cut—you carry the limbs.”
Rain turning to sleet stung Meg’s face as they crept past the vacant lot under the dim glow of the streetlights.
They paused outside the yard next to the vacant lot. When Ryan pushed open the gate, the hinges creaked. Meg’s heart thumped painfully in her throat.
Under a thick pine, Ryan reached for a wet branch. The wind was forcing icy rain down Meg’s neck. She suddenly sobbed, “We can’t do this, Ryan! You’re right. It isn’t sharing if people don’t know you’re taking.”
With Ryan following her, she stumbled up the steps to the house and knocked hard on the door. The door opened, and a man stood in the soft light. “What in the world are you kids doing out on a night like this?”
Trembling, Meg told about how Dad had lost his job and how Jenny needed a Christmas tree.
Ryan stammered a request to cut a couple of pine boughs to make a Christmas tree for his little sister.
“I’d be glad to give you some boughs for your sister,” said the man. He grabbed his coat, got some pruning shears from his garage, and went into the yard. Soon both children’s arms were filled with fragrant pine boughs.
With many thanks, Meg and Ryan left.
At home, they wired the branches together. They made a perfect little tree! Meg found a fat green vase for it and set it on a small table. She put Jenny’s angel on the topmost bough, then she and Ryan used snips of green and red yarn to hang the candies Meg had saved. Ryan draped longer lengths of yarn around the tree in splendid garlands, while Meg hung her foil icicles. “I wish we had something to put around the bottom,” she said.
Grinning, Ryan took the lap robe from the couch and handed it to her with a flourish.
Meg draped it gracefully around the bottom of the vase. She and Ryan sat and admired the tree for a while.
Ryan soon yawned and went to bed, but Meg sat still, thinking how the tree, with its angel on top, was a reminder of the birthday of Jesus. Suddenly she had the most wonderful feeling. It was more than the good feeling of having kept her promise to Jenny—it was a feeling that everything would be all right.

The Sunday School class of 14- and 15-year-olds in the McMinnville Second Ward, McMinnville Oregon Stake, did far more than just sit and listen to their lessons each Sunday. They got involved in a class educational service project. Since they were studying about the prophets of the Church, they decided to build a small model of a house that represented their idea of how one of Joseph Smith’s homes might have looked. When it was finished, they asked their bishop to give the house to a needy child for Christmas.

“Brother Lee”—a simple, yet somehow exalted title. Laying aside his title of president of the Church, he chose to represent himself in his most important role—that of a spirit-child of God, a true brother to all of us. His deference to others was continually displayed in the way he courteously assisted his wife at all times, even when it was inconvenient for himself. At one meal, while we were eating fish, President Lee arose from his place—leaving his own meal to cool—and carefully took the bones from her fish.
During their visits to sites where Jesus had lived and taught, both President Lee and Elder Hinckley were occasionally seen sitting in silent meditation, often with tears in their eyes, as they contemplated the mission of the man who had called them into his service. On several occasions, President Lee tried to play down the activities of the noisy crowds of tourists who poured into the holy places.
We found the President both firm in his convictions and willing to listen to the ideas of others. Brother Galbraith drove the car for President and Sister Lee and Elder and Sister Hinckley, explaining to them many things of interest along the way. On one occasion Sister Lee said, “Dear, I haven’t heard you say a word for the past forty minutes.” To this the President replied, “Darling, I learn much more by listening than by talking.”
Such a great lesson it was, and he taught it not by word but by example, as a true disciple of Christ should. He set the example for us in many ways. One evening, after a long tiring day, President Lee was so bothered by an ailment that it was difficult for him to go to sleep. He called upon Elder Hinckley and President Cannon to give him a blessing, which resulted in great relief. Here indeed is a man who takes the priesthood for what it truly is—a blessing from God to be put to use and not merely hidden away until Sunday morning.
Most impressive to us members was our meeting with three presiding brethren in the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem on September 20. Their strong testimony of Jesus, given in this sacred spot from whence he arose from the dead, moved us to a greater determination to do good. And this being one of the essentials of the calling of a prophet, we can thereby further testify that Harold B. Lee is deserving of that title.
At that time the small group of Saints was officially organized as the Jerusalem Branch, President Cannon calling for the sustaining votes. Brother Galbraith was set apart as branch president by President Lee, and Elder Hinckley set me apart as first counselor. I have received numerous blessings in the Church at the hands of the priesthood but none so inspiring as that given to me on this occasion. Elder Hinckley’s words concerning matters that he could not have known without revelation from the Lord, and the subsequent fulfillment of two specific promises given in that blessing, are additional evidence of the Spirit that guides the leaders of the Church.
I made a deliberate attempt to gain some idea of the reaction of the brethren when the call was made for sustaining votes, and hence looked in President Lee’s direction. I have often sat in conferences of the Church and raised my hand to sustain the prophet of the Lord. But this was the first time I had ever witnessed a prophet raising his hand to sustain me. It was something I’ll never forget, something which, embedded in my memory, will remind me of my responsibilities if ever I hesitate to do that which the Lord requires of me.
Words cannot really express my feelings at spending these several precious hours in the presence of God’s chosen spokesman and his close associates. But somehow I have felt the need to try in order that others may profit in some small measure from the Spirit that was and has remained with us since the Prophet of God visited. I hope that all who read these words will come to appreciate the sincere love and concern of President Harold B. Lee for each member of the Church and for all mankind—a love that makes him most fitting as the channel through which God extends to mankind the means whereby salvation and exaltation may be attained.

“My father died when I was two and a half years old. I was the youngest child of seven. A sister died shortly before my father, so three boys and three girls were raised by my mother, a remarkable woman who lived to her eighty-fifth birthday. She was a great, great lady.
“Mother had none of the economic advantages that some people have. She relied on her own resources, the Lord, and her children. When my oldest brother was seventeen, he left high school to go to work to feed us. He and Mother and then each child in turn supported the rest while we went on missions and to school and so forth. Mother was the heart of the family. We loved her, and our lives revolved around hers. We all understood that we needed to help each other. As I look back now, I marvel that there really wasn’t any sense of discouragement or hopelessness or despair about our meager situation.
“Mother was the Relief Society president, first in the ward and then in the stake. At that time, during the Great Depression, food for those in need was delivered to the Relief Society president’s home. I remember that on occasion some day-old vegetables and bread and a five-gallon can of milk were delivered to our door, I don’t know by whom. The milk went into my mother’s canning jars and was parceled out with the other commodities, which I delivered to the poor. I couldn’t help wondering at the time why we weren’t numbered among the poor. Nevertheless, we never tasted any of that food; it went to the poor.
“I remember taking a plate of food each Sunday to the little Scandinavian lady who lived in a basement apartment on the corner of our street. She had no family or friends nearby. The dinner was sent on Mother’s nicest china with a cloth napkin over it.
“People were always coming to my mother for comfort and counsel or food. Somehow it was always there. She was a sweet soul; she was strong and loved the Lord and had great faith. She knew that if we did our part, everything would work out all right. And it always did.
“Once, when I was about seven years old, Mother gave me a dollar bill and asked me to go to Joe Wood’s market to buy a pound of hamburger. As Joe Wood put the hamburger on the counter, I put my hand in my pocket for the money—but the dollar bill was gone! I just panicked. I said to him, ‘I’ll have to come back later,’ then ran out of the store and retraced my steps, looking for the money. I couldn’t find it. I got all the way back home without finding it.
“I couldn’t face Mother and tell her I’d lost the dollar, so I ducked under the kitchen window and went around to the coal shed. I knelt down on the ground and told Heavenly Father that I just had to find that money. Then I crawled back under the window and went down the street again. There in the parking lot I found the dollar! Gratefully, I picked it up and went into the store to pay Joe Wood his money and get the hamburger.
“By the time I was eleven years old, I was working many hours a week. Every night after school until eight or nine o’clock and all day Saturday from seven in the morning until nine at night I worked in a butcher shop. I earned seventy-five cents a week, which I gave to my mother.
“I have had the unusual blessing of living both in England and in Asia with my own family. We have been exposed to the friendship of a great many little children. Here is one thing they all have in common: They really are all children of God. He loves them, and Christ died for them, and they are individually valued.
“There will come to you, no matter where you live or what your circumstances are, opportunities to be useful and constructive and helpful. If you use those opportunities, you will acquire a sense of respect and love for all people.
“You are valuable. You must never permit anyone to think otherwise. And you yourself have to start where you are in life. There is no other place to start. Accept what there is to work with and make something fine of yourself.”