Gospel Story Finder

My aunt sent me a crisp one dollar bill for my birthday. It was in a card with an unusual message:
Dear Matt,Please share this dollar with as many people other than your family as you can. Try to do it without them knowing it. I know that you’ll have a happy birthday if you do. Please let me know what happens.
Love,Aunt Maureen
I was very puzzled. How could I share one dollar with many people? When I asked Mom about it, she said it might help if I traded the dollar bill for change. Then I’d have more pieces of money to share. So I gave her the crisp dollar bill and she gave me ten pennies, two quarters, two dimes, and four nickels.
First, I took two of the nickels and put them into a tithing envelope. I knew that my tithing could help a lot of people and that they wouldn’t know who it came from. So I felt good about that. Now I had ninety cents left.
Aunt Maureen wanted me to let her know what happened, so I asked Mom for a card and wrote:
How I spent my birthday dollar
10¢ for tithing
I looked at the rest of the money and thought hard, but I couldn’t figure out what to do with it.
Mom needed to run some errands, so I put the money in my pocket and went with her. I hoped some ideas would come to me while we were out.
We had just gotten on the bus, when the man in front of us tried to give the bus driver a dollar bill. The driver told him, “It’s fifty cents in exact change only, sir.”
I guess the man didn’t have it, because he looked sad and turned to get off the bus. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my two quarters, and gave them to him. “Here’s the money,” I said.
The man looked surprised but then smiled at me and said thank you twice!
I felt great! After Mom and I sat down, I pulled the card out of my pocket and wrote:
50¢ to a nice man for bus fare
Now I had ten pennies, two dimes, and two nickels left. I wondered what I would do with them.
When Mom and I got off the bus, we walked to the market. On the way, one of the parking meters changed from white to red. A woman was frantically searching her purse for change to put into the meter. I heard her mutter, “Why can’t I find that dime—I know I had one!”
I knew just what to do! I gave her one of my dimes. When she protested, Mom explained why she had to take it. She did, and even though I hadn’t done it without her knowing, I still felt good inside.
While mother was shopping, I wrote on my card:
10¢ for a lady at a parking meter
Now I had ten pennies, one dime, and two nickels left.
Since it was my birthday, we stopped at the ice-cream shop on the way home. I ordered a double-scoop of mint chocolate chip. While we were waiting for our cones, I heard a little girl crying. I turned and saw a lady cleaning up spilled ice cream on the floor. “I’m sorry you dropped it, honey,” she was saying to the little girl. “You can have the rest of my cone.”
“How much is a child’s cone?” I asked the man serving ice cream.
“Twenty-five cents,” he said. So I gave him my two nickels, my dime, and five pennies. I asked him to get the little girl another cone and to promise not to tell her who bought it. The little girl was so excited to have another cone, she did a dance. I grinned so hard I thought my face would break.
When we got back on the bus, I wrote on my card:
25¢ for ice-cream cone
Mom leaned over and patted me on the knee. “I’m proud of you! I know that Aunt Maureen will be too. And Heavenly Father is always pleased when you’re kind to others. Has this been a happy day for you?”
“Yes—I didn’t know I could help so many people with just one dollar!” I pulled out the rest of my money. “But what can I do with my last five pennies?”
Mom tapped me on the arm and pointed out the window of the bus. We were coming to our stop, and there on the corner was a lemonade stand. A little girl and boy were sitting behind a sign that said: 5¢ A GLASS.
“Do you think the bus driver likes lemonade?” I asked my mother.
“I’m sure he does.”
She was right. And so was Aunt Maureen. My dollar was gone, but giving it away made it one of my happiest birthdays ever.

The small farmhouse appeared dreamlike in the predawn Florida mist that enveloped it and the surrounding swamplands. A large white ibis resting atop a darkened tree shape started at the sound of a screen door banging closed. A young girl ran from the farmhouse toward an as yet invisible landing on the edge of the swamp. She was crying and carrying a large doll with a broken right leg.
Cassie Gunnerson climbed into one of three wooden boats, untethered the rope that secured it to the pier, and shoved off into the gray silence. Using a long pole, she pushed with angry, tearful grunts against the soggy bottom of the shallow water.
The ibis blinked its eye, and the eleven-year-old girl was gone, swallowed up by the mist.
It wasn’t long before Cassie’s twelve-year-old brother, Nathan, and their parents, were up and searching for her. “We got in a fight, Pa,” Nathan sheepishly admitted as he and his parents scoured the mangrove thickets on the outer edge of the field. No one bothered to call to Cassie because she had been born deaf. “Cassie dropped the spyglass you gave me into the water yesterday while we were fishing, because …” Nathan’s voice trailed.
“Because why?” his father gently but firmly probed.
“Well,” Nathan continued somewhat hesitantly, “I guess because I cut her line. And that’s because,” he added defensively, “she kept splashing her feet in the water and scaring away the fish!”
“You haven’t told us why she ran off,” Nathan’s mother prompted him.
Nathan’s eyes fell, then lifted slowly. “I really liked that spyglass.” His look shifted to his father’s, hoping to find some kind of sympathy. But what he saw was deepening concern. “With it I could see things in the marsh nobody knew were there,” Nathan continued. “Little things like cooties and skater bugs and cucumber beetles and potter wasps and …” Anger festered inside Nathan as he tried to justify what he was about to say. “I broke Cassie’s doll,” he declared, “because of what she did to my spyglass!”
“Do you realize how long your sister saved for that doll?” Nathan’s mother questioned sternly. “How much it meant to her?”
“I guess about as much as my spyglass,” Nathan retorted.
Father rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Do two wrongs make a right?”
Nathan’s mother stared toward the swamp. “Cassie’s boat is gone!”
The swamp was deep, a maze of twisting waterways in a jungle of trees and vines. What made matters worse was Cassie’s being deaf. She couldn’t hear them call for her.
Father rested a calming hand on his wife’s arm. He turned to Nathan. “Son, I’ll take my boat; you take yours. I’ll carry my rifle; you take my Colt Dragoon. Whichever one of us finds Cassie first will fire three shots, is that understood?”
“Yes, Pa.”
Father’s eyes focused on Mother. “You stay near the house, in case Cassie shows up here first. Grandpa Sawyer’s pepperbox pistol is in the root cellar. If she does come here, fire three rounds to let us know.”
Nathan navigated his small boat through the lily-pad-laden backwater with his long pole. His eyes scanned the densely brushed islands and the countless waterways between the huge cypress trees for any sign of his sister’s boat. To his right, on some goldenrod that protruded above a log wrapped with Spanish moss, he observed a tiger swallowtail butterfly. To his left, a harmless rat snake rested in the fold of a dead tree. Directly above him on an old, dilapidated walkway that spanned two small islands, a gray squirrel chattered loudly and shook its bushy tail at him. And less than fifty yards in front of Nathan a sandhill crane waded looking for food. The young boy found himself thinking that he would gladly trade all these wondrous sights for a glimpse of his younger sister.
The boat scraped against hidden roots of cypress trees and groaned like Nathan’s conscience. He gazed into the smooth, glassy water and stared at his reflection. Then he disrupted his image with a swish of the pole—he didn’t like what he saw.
The thrashing of brushwood on one of the nearby small islands caused him to lift his eyes with a start. There, in a little clearing high atop dry ground, Nathan witnessed two male white-tailed deer contending with each other. They pushed against each other with their heads and curved antlers. Finally the fight ended when one of them tired and ran away. “I guess Cassie got tired of fighting and ran away, too,” Nathan muttered. “It was a stupid argument,” he added as he continued on down the winding, watery corridor. “Why do people who love each other fight so much? And what if something’s happened to Cassie and I didn’t tell her I was sorry!” Nathan’s pace quickened, scanning the shadows with unblinking scrutiny.
Nathan searched all day, meandering in and out of a maze of waterways. He was a few miles from home when it started to rain. He steered his little boat under the protection of an overhanging tree limb. His eyes welled up. He hadn’t heard any gunshots. Cassie hadn’t been found, nor had she returned home. He gazed through the gray curtain of falling rain. “Cassie!” he screamed, knowing full well that she couldn’t have heard him even if she was sitting right beside him. He bowed his head and beseeched his Heavenly Father to help him find his sister. He knew that Heavenly Father could hear him even through the pounding rain.
A few moments later the rain stopped as quickly as it had started, and Nathan continued his search. A great horned owl stared out of the mossy shadows with its bright yellow eyes and hooted as the little boat moved quietly by.
A short time later Nathan’s dugout floated into a clearing. He felt prompted to stop and listen. He heard someone whimpering! Rapidly poling toward the sound, he saw a small boat harbored along the shore of an island. Then he saw Cassie. She was sitting in a patch of goldenrod, her face soiled and drawn, her hair tangled. She looked very lost and very frightened. Relief washed over Nathan.
A moment later Nathan was standing before his sister. She was relieved to see him, but her reaction was dulled by leftover hurt. He glanced at the broken doll in Cassie’s boat, then at a paint-root plant in a tuft of grass. He picked some seeds from it and crushed them on a smooth rock. He dabbed his index finger in orange dye from the seeds and wrote “I love you” on Cassie’s arm. After a long look at her arm, then at Nathan, Cassie leaned forward and hugged her brother.
Smiling through his tears, he took his father’s Colt Dragoon from his boat and fired three rounds skyward.

Ivan Lobanovitz was my enemy.
Not only was he my enemy, he was the enemy of my country—the enemy against whom my father was fighting somewhere in the Karelian Isthmus. Oh, I knew it wasn’t Ivan Lobanovitz’s bullets my father was dodging over there—at least not anymore—but somebody just like him. You see, Ivan Lobanovitz was a prisoner of war, a Russian prisoner of war.
The year 1943 was a horrible year for the little spunky country of Finland, which was making a truly valiant effort to fight an enemy 50 times more powerful. The war was dragging on. The years of fighting had left their marks. Even though all school children 15 and older were required to spend most of their summer vacation laboring on farms producing food, it was not enough. They could not replace the experienced farmers, and the situation had become very serious indeed. War is fought within the country as well as on the front lines, because the army that doesn’t eat cannot fight.
But sitting idly in prisoner-of-war camps was a large group of able-bodied men eating up the ever-dwindling food supply. Soon someone came up with the idea of using them as the badly needed farm work force. These prisoners were carefully selected—fanatics and extremists were weeded out—and the men were placed in larger and more productive farms where there was at least one man, however old, who could handle such a person. The plan was desperate, and even dangerous, but so was the situation.
When I first saw Ivan I told myself that he was an enemy. He might have killed many dads like mine and many brothers like my friend Eila’s. I wanted to hate him. The problem was, Ivan didn’t look like an enemy, or what I thought an enemy should look like. He was just an ordinary man. Not handsome, not ugly, just a man like any other. He was large with a nondescript face and sad eyes, and his hair was “any-color” brown. When he came to my grandfather’s household he was 32 years old.
Hating Ivan was difficult, and soon I gave it up. He didn’t know any Finnish, and none of us knew any Russian. Since he was a very quiet person our communication was almost nonexistent. My grandfather had been in Butte, Montana, years before as a mining boss and had learned to give commands without knowing the other person’s language, so he was well qualified to work with Ivan. Ivan did the work as best he could. He never said much. Soon he had blended in with the family and other farm workers so well that we all but forgot his “strangeness.” But he had to wear the hat and jacket of a prisoner, and the big V on his back reminded us that he was a vanki.
Ivan was always hungry. Farm workers are usually hefty eaters, but none of us had ever seen anyone with an appetite like Ivan. As long as it was edible, Ivan ate it. The food was always very simple. In the morning we had a huge pot of mush, often made of rye or barley flour. It tasted very good eaten with fresh milk and butter. There was always some left over, and at supper time that cold mush was given to Ivan. He ate that and then joined with the rest of us and devoured enormous amounts of potatoes and gravy, or thick stew, or whatever. Even today when any of us is very hungry, instead of saying, “I could eat a horse,” we say, “I could eat an Ivan’s portion!”
Ivan loved children and spent much of his limited spare time with my uncle’s little ones. In time he had learned a few Finnish words and was able to communicate to us that he had had a wife and two children of his own, but that they had all died in one horrible night when his small town in the Ukraine had been bombed. That explained the sadness of his eyes. We also learned that he had worked in a shirt factory and had hardly even seen a farm before.
I had long since stopped trying to hate Ivan. It just wasn’t possible to do so. “Faceless” people can be enemies, but once the enemy takes on a face the enmity often ceases to exist. Besides, Ivan himself had no hate in him. He slept in the main house with access to any room at any time of the day. It never occurred to any of us that he could be dangerous.
One day a man paid a surprise visit to check on the prisoners. Ivan was wearing his V jacket, but instead of his prisoners’ hat he was wearing a regular worker’s beanie which my grandfather had given him. The man grabbed that hat from Ivan’s head, threw it on the ground, and jumped on it screaming and hollering. I wanted to kick him, but I witnessed the commotion from the upstairs window too far to do anything about it.
It was a constant wonder to Ivan that the Finns were so “civilized.” His eyes had not been gouged out nor had any other such atrocities been inflicted upon him, as he had been told would happen if he was taken as a prisoner. He had been taught to fight to win or die but never to give himself up.
One evening Ivan found a little children’s book depicting the war. Brave little mice were chasing the cowardly and ugly rats and beating them easily. With the red star insignia on the rat’s helmets they were easily identified as Russians. Ivan studied the book with his normal seriousness, then suddenly burst into a roar of laughter. With his few words of Finnish and familiar gestures, he explained that they, too, had books like that—but, of course, the Finns were depicted as the rats.
In late July we were cutting hay in the fields several miles from Grandpa’s other lands and away from other people. We had worked there late the night before and left a large wagon full of hay in front of the big shed. Ivan was to come in the morning before the rest of the crew and fork it in. In those days the hay was not baled as it is now.
The next morning I was sent with Ivan to work in the shed, to push the hay further as it came in and also tread on it so it would be packed tighter. My family were not thoughtless, uncaring or even stupid; it just never occurred to any of us that we could have been asking for trouble.
We worked hard and fast that morning, because the faster we worked the longer we had before the rest of the crew arrived. After the hay was all in and trampled tight, we found a shady spot to rest and enjoy the food we had brought. I cut and buttered the bread and Ivan poured the milk. We ate in silence mostly. Occasionally I pointed to something and Ivan said it in Russian and I tried to repeat it to his amusement. But when I said it in Finnish and he tried to repeat it, it was my turn to be amused.
When we had finished and I had started to put the food away, Ivan asked for a knife. Without the slightest hesitation I handed the big leather-sheathed knife to him. I do remember the long look he gave me when he held the knife in his hand and slowly unsheathed it. Then he reached for the bread that was still on the cloth between us, cut a large piece, handed the knife back to me, and went to feed the horse.
I will never know what thoughts went through his head at that moment. I certainly didn’t think anything of it—then. But years later, after becoming aware of the harm that human beings are capable of doing to one another, I shudder inwardly at my childish trust.
I was a girl of 15 whose father Ivan knew to be an army officer fighting against his people. He could have killed me, taken the knife and the food basket, and run into the nearby forest. More than 2/3 of Finland is covered by thick forests. That late in summer they would have been full of wild berries so that even a man of Ivan’s appetite could have survived there for some time. By shedding his V jacket he would have looked like any other man. He would have had to be lucky and very clever, but it would not have been impossible for him to make it to the Russian border.
When the time came to exchange the prisoners of war and Ivan had to leave us, he cried like a child. He was afraid that all the prisoners would be shot at the border. We tried to reassure him, and he promised to write. He even said he would send us a boxful of Ukrainian apples, which were “big as human heads.”
I don’t know if he made it home. Maybe he just got busy with his life, because we never heard from him again.
I have often wondered why he didn’t take the chance to escape when he had it that July morning. I have come to the conclusion that Ivan was a truly good man. Having traveled a lot I know there are millions and millions of these quiet “Ivans” all over the world.
I believe that Ivan had that innate goodness that allows a person to embrace eagerly the gospel message. I wish I had known about the gospel then. Maybe someday, when the borders are open to our missionaries, someone will find Ivan and introduce him to the gospel. I hope so.
You see, although he was an enemy, Ivan Lobanovitz, wherever he is, is my friend.

Carolina affirms that the gospel has increased her love for her Heavenly Father and for other people. One Sunday while she was taking a taxi to church, the driver became interested in the books she was carrying—her standard works. Their polite conversation grew cordial, and after arriving at the meetinghouse, Carolina invited him to attend services with her and to meet the missionaries. As he learned about the Church, the taxi driver, Luis Campos, was deeply impressed with the importance given to the law of chastity and with the idea of a living prophet. Two months later he was baptized.

Karen Reynolds does have pioneer ancestors—who settled in Utah and in the colonies of Mexico. “I can remember having Pioneer Day celebrations on July 24, followed by pageants about the journey to Mexico. We recounted the early years there, complete with stories of living in caves dug into the river bank,” she recalls. “But I never knew how much I would benefit from the skills my parents taught me—how to work, how to preserve fruit, how to bake bread, how to sew, how to make do with what you have,” she says.

Recently, Karen’s husband had to give up a job with a good salary so they would be able to relocate and help with a family farm because of her father-in-law’s illness. “We don’t regret our choice, but our pioneering skills have really been put to the test,” she says. “Careful budgeting and wise buying have been an absolute necessity for us, not just an experiment in following a Relief Society lesson on provident living.”

“Making do” is not the only thing Karen has learned from those nineteenth-century pioneers. Last year, she and her husband lost a baby. “I thought my heart would break when we laid him in that cold grave,” she recalls. Days later, confined to bed because of medical problems, Karen was still grieving. A ward member brought her a stack of books—including one of pioneer stories. “As I read through that book, I was reminded how many of those women had left their little ones in shallow graves by the trail. My baby has a coffin and a marker, and I can visit the spot. It wasn’t easy, but I started to count my blessings. They went forward in faith, and I can, too.”

It is Christmastime and again my thoughts turn to Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus, and to the first Christmas.
It was a dream come true for Sister Kimball and me to be in Bethlehem one Christmas Eve some years ago. December 24 was a beautiful Sunday there and early that morning we held a sacrament meeting in Baghdad, Iraq, with a family in whose home we were guests. Afterward we flew to Damascus in Syria and then went on to Jerusalem. People from many lands were gathered there on that sacred night, waiting to be taken over the 18 kilometer winding hill road to Bethlehem.
Arriving in Jerusalem, we found the square so crowded with people that it was easy for our thoughts to go back to that first Christmas when Joseph and Mary were told “There was no room for them in the inn.”
To add to the confusion of the milling throng, Christmas carols blared out from a sound truck, and bells rang from the cupolas of the Church of the Nativity that had been built back in the fourth century. The church is built on the square over a grotto that many believe to be the true site of the manger where the Christ Child was born.
A low door and narrow steps lead into the grotto. With difficulty we made our way there. It was lighted by many candles and hung with rich drapes. With the eager crowd, we tried to meditate and relive, in contemplation, the story of that most important of all births.
Afterwards we were fortunate to find a taxi to take us about 3 km down the hillside to the Shepherd Fields where at last we found a quiet peace on that crisp, clear night. There were only four of us there on the hillside where the shepherds had been watching their flocks on that first Christmas Eve..
The moon shone with unusual brilliance, and the sky was studded with stars. In imagination, we could almost hear the “multitude of heavenly hosts praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’”
We looked up the hill to the twinkling lights of Bethlehem and felt impressed to softly sing,
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie …
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
Afterwards I offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the privilege of that Bethlehem Christmas and for my knowledge of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, the Son of God. My heart was filled with joy to know that He marked for us the plan, the way of life, whereby if we are faithful we may someday see Him and express our gratitude personally for His perfect life and His sacrifice for us.

Shana Canada, a Beehive in the Titusville Ward, Cocoa Florida Stake, took action when the ducks near her home were being hit by passing cars. She headed straight for city hall and requested that a “duck crossing” sign be placed near their pond.

The city council members were so impressed with her concern for the ducks’ safety that they placed signs to warn motorists of the web-footed pedestrians.

When Shana is not out lobbying, she can usually be found working to make the grade at school so she can reach her goal to become a veterinarian.

A nonmember in Wisconsin, with other family members, has been stymied by lack of information on her great-grandfather. She decided to try Ancestral File and, after some searching, discovered her great-grandfather, the very one she had been looking for for many years. Shortly she had transferred to her disk several thousand additional names and over 1,300 marriages on this previously “dead-end” line. She, too, is entering thousands of additional names on other lines to contribute to Ancestral File.

The gospel changed Brother Ng’s life. “My wife tells me I was entirely different after joining the Church,” he says, laughing. “My temper became smooth. My finances were better because I paid tithing. I didn’t worry about food or shelter because I kept the commandments. A happy life followed.”
After seeing the difference the gospel made in her husband’s life, Sister Ng Pang Lai Har also investigated the gospel. Missionaries often visited their home, teaching her husband one of the new member lessons, then teaching her one of the 18 discussions.
Ten months after her husband’s baptism, Sister Ng was baptized. Brother Ng had the privilege of baptizing their seven children as they reached age eight.

While I was on my mission, I missed my best friend’s wedding.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her all day. We’d met as college roommates, and she quickly became like a sister to me. I knew that Heavenly Father had guided me to meet her.
But now, I couldn’t be there to celebrate one of the biggest moments of her life. And I was furious.
Before my mission, my life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. I loved college and had just formed the best friendship I’ve ever had. I was pretty happy.
I knew that serving a mission would be challenging. Still, I had this expectation that serving a mission would be the best 18 months of my life—with minimal hardship.
But six months in, my friend’s wedding became the newest entry in a list of hard things I hadn’t expected. Moving to a foreign country and learning a new language made me lonely and anxious. The rejection I experienced as part of missionary life was mentally exhausting. Honestly, I just wanted to go home.
I was tired and frustrated, and I didn’t feel like God was offering me the hope and happiness that I desperately needed. Only after exhausting every other option did I turn to a promise from my patriarchal blessing: that I would feel Heavenly Father’s love through the scriptures.
I realized that in my anger and loneliness, my perspective had become narrow. I’d been so focused on what I was missing that I’d failed to see what I had gained: a closer relationship with my Savior.
I realized I needed to repent for my poor attitude. It took time, but as I pleaded for my Redeemer’s help, I was reassured that “in this life I shall have joy” (Moses 5:10).
I was still sad that I missed my friend’s wedding, but in time, the Lord answered my prayers. I was so happy for my friend, and I found so much joy in my testimony that Heavenly Father really does see and love every one of His children. I gained so much more than I missed out on.

My father was a professional pilot and also served in the armed forces in World War II instructing pilots. He was well respected for his ability to fly the many different types of planes that were being used at the time. He had many close friends in the aviation field who also respected his flying ability.
On one occasion, a friend of his from California asked him if he would fly his newly built plane back from the East for him. On this particular trip he asked me to accompany him as his copilot. To me, a boy of 12, my father was a hero. I was so elated that he had asked me to be his copilot. I felt that he trusted and had confidence in me.
It was on the second day of our flight that my father, having done all of the flying so far, started to feel the fatigue of the trip. My dad had been giving me flying lessons for quite a while. He decided that I could navigate the plane while he slept for a few minutes. As a wise parent, and one knowing the dangers involved, he gave me some instructions which were plain and easy to understand. He pointed the way along a straight path in which I should fly the plane. He said that I should never vary from that path. Off in the horizon was my goal, a big rugged yet majestic mountain. In addition, he showed me compass and map bearings and even pointed out Omni beacons which aided pilots when they flew at night or in stormy weather. Then before going to sleep, he reassured me that if anything should happen he would be nearby so I wasn’t to hesitate to wake him. As he began to drift asleep, the excitement of being able to navigate the plane equaled the great responsibility that was placed in my hands. I took comfort in the fact that my father wasn’t too far away if I needed his help.
I wanted to do a good job so that he would be proud of me and let me fly again. My eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for other planes and evaluating the many instruments that decorated the front panel of the cockpit. About 30 minutes had gone by, and my father still slept. I felt so sure of my ability to navigate the plane that I decided not to wake him. The mountain that he gave me as a goal had long since passed. I then discovered a roadway some 10,000 feet below. The cars resembled my little brother’s matchbox cars. The road appeared to be going in the same direction so I decided to follow it.
This was fine for a little while, but then I became bored with following the road and decided to do some experimenting. I began by turning the plane from side to side, then moving the rudder back and forth causing the tail of the plane to go from side to side. I was completely engrossed in my experimenting when I began to realize that I did not know where I was or in which direction I should be going. I was anxious to get back on the proper course and feared being caught in my mistake. I tried to use the map and compass but could not find my bearings because of my lack of knowledge of that area. I tried to recollect my father’s instructions, but I couldn’t remember.
While in the dilemma, I was confronted with another problem. Seemingly out of nowhere two United States Air Force jet fighters flew up and positioned themselves on either side of me. The predicament I was in now was so desperate it caused me to lay aside my guilt and embarrassment. I quickly woke my father up to this awful situation feeling a great need for his help. He took immediate control of the plane, quickly got our bearings and guided the plane back to the proper course. He chastised me for not obeying his instructions and told me that I had been flying over a restricted zone, the site of an underground test launch area for missiles. The jets had been sent up to check us and escort us out of the area.

Gose and Arouma decided to serve a senior mission for the Church of Jesus Christ after President Russell M. Nelson visited Australia and spoke about missionary service. They were called to serve in 2020 as welfare and self-reliance missionaries in the Australia Sydney Mission.
Although COVID affected the world during that time, they were able to continue their mission in Sydney. They learned to teach via video calls and taught English Connect as a pilot program.

As Sister Johnson and I were raising our children, we encouraged each of them to learn to play a musical instrument. But we would allow our children to take music lessons only if they did their part and practiced their instrument each day. One Saturday, our daughter Jalynn was excited to go play with friends, but she had not yet practiced the piano. Knowing she had committed to practice for 30 minutes, she intended to set a timer because she did not want to practice even one minute longer than was required.
As she walked by the microwave oven on her way to the piano, she paused and pushed some buttons. But instead of setting the timer, she set the microwave to cook for 30 minutes and pushed start. After about 20 minutes of practice, she walked back to the kitchen to check how much time was remaining and found the microwave oven on fire.
She then ran into the backyard where I was doing yard work, yelling that the house was on fire. I quickly ran into the house, and indeed, I found the microwave oven in flames.
In an effort to save our home from burning, I reached behind the microwave, unplugged it, and used the power cord to lift the burning microwave off of the counter. Hoping to be the hero and to save the day as well as our home, I swung the flaming microwave in circles with the power cord to keep it away from my body, got to the backyard, and with another swinging motion flung the microwave out onto the lawn. There we were able to extinguish the fiery flames with a hose.
What had gone wrong? A microwave oven needs something to absorb its energy, and when nothing is on the inside to absorb the energy, the oven itself absorbs the energy, becomes hot, and may catch on fire, destroying itself in a pile of flames and ashes. Our entire microwave went up in flames and burned because there was nothing on the inside.
Likewise, those who have faith and the word of God deep in their hearts will be able to absorb and overcome the fiery darts that the adversary will surely send to destroy us. Otherwise, our faith, hope, and conviction may not endure, and like the empty microwave oven, we could become a casualty.

A while ago my sister and I went to do baptisms for the dead. I didn’t think I would feel the Spirit because I didn’t read my scriptures or say my prayers a lot. But I went, and when I was there I felt the Spirit and also felt like the people I was being baptized for were with me. I was so happy that I went home and read my scriptures. I’ve been reading them every day since.Sheri GwynnWest Jordan, Utah

Like some of you, I know what it is to face disappointment and youthful humiliation. As a boy, I played team softball in elementary and junior high school. Two captains were chosen, and then they, in turn, selected the players they desired on their respective teams. Of course, the best players were chosen first, then second, and third. To be selected fourth or fifth was not too bad, but to be chosen last and relegated to a remote position in the outfield was downright awful. I know; I was there.
How I hoped the ball would never be hit in my direction, for surely I would drop it, runners would score, and teammates would laugh.
As though it were just yesterday, I remember the very moment when all that changed in my life. The game started out as I have described: I was chosen last. I made my sorrowful way to the deep pocket of right field and watched as the other team filled the bases with runners. Two batters then went down on strikes. Suddenly, the next batter hit a mighty drive. I even heard him say, “This will be a home run.” That was humiliating, since the ball was coming in my direction. Was it beyond my reach? I raced for the spot where I thought the ball would drop, uttered a prayer while running, and stretched forth my cupped hands. I surprised myself. I caught the ball! My team won the game.
This one experience bolstered my confidence, inspired my desire to practice, and led me from that last-to-be-chosen place to become a real contributor to the team.

My seven-year-old son was pedaling furiously and going nowhere. The chain had fallen off his bike. I went over to help him out of his predicament, flipping the bike over so I could access the chain. As I worked, he said, “Dad? When I die, will I be all covered in blood?”
Somewhat shocked, I looked up at him. He was in tears.
“What? No!” I said. “You’re not going to die.” I sat on the curb, and he sat on my lap. He cried and cried. Where had this come from?
“Will my insides fall out?” he asked.
Had my little boy been watching horror movies or something? “No!” I said. Again I told him he wasn’t going to die.
“No, Dad. Everybody is going to die, right?”
I took a deep breath. This was not a conversation I expected to have with such a young child.
When I became a father, I promised myself I would never withhold the truth from my kids, but the thought of telling any of them that they would someday die was a nightmare. I tried to dodge his question. “You don’t need to worry about that right now,” I said. “You just be a happy boy and have fun and don’t worry. You’re going to be alive for a long, long time.”
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
“What do I do here?” I asked myself. Thoughts of saying the wrong thing and forever traumatizing him whirled around in my head. “What do I do?” I offered a silent prayer for help.
I began to tell him about the plan of salvation. I told him that we are all visitors to this world. I told him how each of us is a being made of two parts: a body and a spirit. I told him that when people die—and, yes, we all will someday have to die—it’s just our physical bodies that stop working. Our spirits are eternal and will never die (see Alma 40:11).
I told him that Jesus Christ is our Savior because He made it possible for us to all be together, even though we sometimes have to be apart for a while. I taught him that the Savior died for us and was resurrected and that because He lives, our spirits will someday return to our bodies, and we will never face death again (see Alma 11:43–45).
He asked if I had ever seen a dead person. I told him that I had been able to say good-bye to my grandparents at their funerals. I told him that even though their bodies have died, their spirits are still alive, and we can sometimes feel their presence near.
My son’s fears subsided, and sobs turned into his typical giggles. The idea of relatives visiting even though we couldn’t see them made him smile.
We walked together back to the house, pulling the repaired bike into the garage. I thought about what I had said. I thought about my desire to tell the truth to my children and the answers I had given my son.
In that moment I felt enormously grateful for my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because I already knew that the plan of salvation is real, I was able to speak to my son confidently and honestly and give him the strength to overcome his fears.
My preparation for this moment began long before my son was born. When I was preparing for a mission, I had a goal to gain a testimony of every aspect of the gospel that I might be required to teach. The part I had struggled with the most was the Resurrection of the dead.
I studied, pondered, and prayed. I fasted and asked for a testimony. After a while, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Resurrection is real, that there truly is life after death, and that the promises of the plan of salvation are real. (See 1 Nephi 10:19.)
That testimony became important on my mission, but it became one of my most treasured gifts when my son needed to find peace.
I’m so grateful for that witness, and I testify that the plan of salvation is real. I testify of the importance of strengthening our testimonies so that when we or our loved ones feel fear, we can find peace in our testimonies and understanding of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

In late fall 1838, Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith awaited the birth of their first child in the midst of escalating conflict between old Missouri settlers and large numbers of newly arrived Latter-day Saints. When violence erupted, the governor ordered the Latter-day Saints to leave the state or face “extermination.” Hundreds of Church members lost their property, and a number lost their lives. Several Church leaders—Hyrum, his brother the Prophet Joseph Smith, and others—were unjustly jailed. Years later President Smith would begin a sketch of his life with these words: “I was born in Far West, Caldwell Co. Missouri, 13 days after my Father was taken a prisoner by the mob.”4

During four long months, Hyrum and Joseph and others suffered in Liberty Jail. Mary Fielding Smith, who had just given birth to her “dear little Joseph F.,” struggled to care for her newborn and the five surviving children from Hyrum’s first marriage to Jerusha Barden Smith, who had died in 1837.

While Mary lay bedridden, ruffians attacked the Smith home, ransacking the family’s belongings and nearly smothering the infant Joseph F. with bedding they tossed aside. Mary and the children, aided by Mary’s sister Mercy Fielding Thompson, joined the Saints’ forced exodus from Missouri. Hyrum was finally reunited with his family on 22 April 1839 at Quincy, Illinois, and in June, the family moved up the Mississippi River to settle with other Saints in Nauvoo, Illinois.

My family went to Salt Lake City for a family reunion. Before we left home, we watched the “A Year on Temple Square” videos on children.lds.org, so we knew the best places to visit!
First we went to the Church Office Building to see the observation deck. After that we went to the Lion House to eat rolls. It was Brigham Young’s old house! Later we went to the Church History Museum. The artifacts were so cool! I decided I want sunglasses like Brigham Young’s. At the kid area, I saw some blocks and made two models of Temple Square. One was smaller and had the temple, Tabernacle, office building, and Conference Center. The other had more detailed buildings.
We also went to the family history center to solve a family history mystery (which we did)! Then we came back later to tour the Conference Center (which is a lot more impressive in real life!) and saw lots of the originals of my favorite paintings. We also went to see the Christus in the visitors’ center and took our picture there. And when we came back for a Mormon Tabernacle Choir Pioneer Day concert that night, the temple was all lit up and looked so beautiful!
I really felt the Spirit the entire time because it was almost Pioneer Day, and we were in the land Heavenly Father gave the pioneers. It made me think about how the desert “blossom[ed] as the rose” (Isaiah 35:1) and how the Lord blessed the pioneers tremendously through their hard work so they could live happily. Now I can cross Temple Square off my sightseeing list!

Painting Yourself into a Corner
One day my father assigned me to varnish a wooden floor. I made the choice to begin at the door and work my way into the room. When I was almost finished, I realized I had left myself no way to get out. There was no window or door on the other side. I had literally painted myself into a corner. I had no place to go. I was stuck.
Whenever we disobey, we spiritually paint ourselves into a corner and are captive to our choices. Like repentance, turning around and walking across a newly varnished floor means more work—a lot of re-sanding and refinishing! Returning to the Lord isn’t easy, but it is worth it.
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

Imagine a young man who is home alone and is getting hungry (it’s far-fetched, yes, but just try to imagine it). Now imagine that this young man decides to try to make a grilled cheese sandwich on his own for the first time.1 Imagine that this young man’s parents had never taught him how to make grilled cheese and that he had never observed them very closely when they made it.
Let’s say, though, that this young man gets all of the ingredients just right: bread, cheese, a little butter on the outside of the bread (and a little mayonnaise inside because he’s brilliant). Next, he gets out the pan and puts it on the stove. (We’re also imagining he doesn’t have a special griddle or other appliance for making this treat.)
Now imagine that a certain thought takes hold of his mind—a thought that so many people have been ignorant enough (or temporarily insane enough) to think: “If I turn the heat up high, it’ll be done faster.”
Imagine what happens next. (Or perhaps you don’t have to imagine.)
He’s going to get either perfectly crispy, golden-brown bread or perfectly gooey, melted cheese—but not both. Most likely, he’ll have bread that looks and feels (and probably tastes) like lava rock and half-melted cheese, which is about as appealing as half-told tales.
His problem, as you can see, was a combination of ignorance (which is excusable) and impatience (which, though understandable, is less excusable). If he were to repeat this mistake the next time, it would be even less excusable, since it couldn’t be blamed on ignorance but would result almost entirely from impatience.
To get it right, he would have to discover the miracle of medium heat.
The medium setting on a stove is perfect for grilled cheese and many other dishes because it allows food to be cooked through without being overdone on the outside. The only downside is that it requires more time and attention, which require patience.
It’s not just sticking the grilled cheese sandwich on the pan and forgetting it; it’s watching and flipping it at the right time.