Gospel Story Finder

Francine walked slowly through the deep green alfalfa field, the soft, cool plants brushing her bare legs pleasantly. The summer sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and bees darted here and there among the blossoms. It had been only a month since Francine’s family loaded all their belongings onto the wagon behind her father’s workhorse and had moved up from town to this beautiful valley. She still liked to walk through the fields and just look at everything. But she would like it even better if she had a horse.
Looking out across the field, she saw a man riding a horse up the lane that separated her family’s fields from the neighbor’s fields. The man turned the horse into his alfalfa field and rode to the top of it where the irrigation ditch ran. Francine was startled to see him suddenly tumble off the horse into the alfalfa. Maybe he’s sick, she thought. She ran quickly to the fence, ducked under it, and raced across the field. She could see water splashing where the man had fallen and great drops flying into the air, catching the sunlight. He must have fallen into the ditch, Francine surmised. She ran as fast as she could over the rough ground.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping he wouldn’t give up till she got there. At that moment the man raised his head and looked at her calmly. Francine stopped abruptly, her face hot from running and her breath coming in gasps. She could see that he was not in the ditch at all but beside it. He held the board for damming the ditch in his hands.
“What are you shouting about?” he asked gruffly. His streaked gray hair stood up wildly, and his blue eyes were piercing under his shaggy eyebrows.
“I thought you needed help,” she replied, “and that you had fallen into the ditch.” She suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed and looked at the ground. Only then did she see that the man had no legs. His pants were cut off at the middle of his thighs and pinned securely. Both his pants and flannel shirt were quite wet.
“I definitely don’t need help from a little girl,” he rasped. He turned away from her and began pushing the stopper board into the cement headgate, but it jammed in the slots. Then he pulled himself closer, oblivious of the water spilling around him.
“Could I help you get the board in?” Francine asked, moving closer.
He turned to her, his face red with exertion and anger. “Can’t a man do his irrigating without pesky little girls coming around?” he stormed. “Now go play!”
Francine turned away quickly and found herself face-to-face with the man’s horse. It was a rather short, strongly built horse with a gleaming reddish brown coat and a shiny black mane. Francine looked into the animal’s face and thought it had the kindest, most intelligent eyes she had ever seen. The horse lowered its head to her, sniffed briefly, and then stepped back as though to let her pass. How Francine would love a horse like that for her own.
“You have a beautiful horse,” she said, looking back again at the man. He was just pushing the board securely into its place when he glanced at Francine. She thought she saw the barest flicker of gentleness in his eyes before he said gruffly again, “Go and play, little girl.”
Francine walked past the horse and back across the field to the canal, where large shady cottonwoods grew along the bank. Sitting down in the cool, prickly grass, she watched the man from a distance. She wondered why she wasn’t more afraid of him. He’s been mean to me, she thought. Maybe its because of the odd way he had to get off the horse. She watched as he worked himself away from the ditch. The horse took a few steps toward him, then stood still and stiff, its head lowered while the man grasped the horse’s leg and pulled himself upright. Then he reached up and knotted his hand into its mane. In a quick motion he was on the horse’s back. He rode back through the field and down the lane as Francine watched, fascinated.
That night at dinner she told her family about the experience.
“I’ve heard about our neighbor, Mr. Lewis,” her father said. “He runs his whole farm without any help except from his wife.”
“He certainly didn’t want any help from me,” Francine said.
“They say he’s very proud,” her mother added as she passed the food around. “He won’t let anyone help him.”
“I’ve heard he’s very mean and grouchy,” her little brother, Stephen, put in, looking up from his potatoes.
“I don’t think he’s really mean, just grouchy,” Francine said, remembering how his eyes had softened a little when she mentioned the horse.
“Doesn’t he have a wheelchair or something?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know, but I think he finds his horse the most help for getting around his farm,” his father said.
Francine’s eyes lit up. “His horse is wonderful, Daddy. You should have seen the way it stood so still while he climbed onto it. And it was beautiful, all shiny in the sun.”
Her father looked at her kindly. “You’d really like a horse, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Yes!” Francine said. “And I have five dollars saved for one. How much is it going to take?”
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It depends on what you’re willing to settle for. You might find an old retired workhorse for ten dollars or so. It would give you something to ride around on.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want a good horse … like Mr. Lewis’s.”
“Then you’ll have to wait quite a while, because we don’t have the money for it,” her father said.
“I know that, and I’ll wait.” Francine ate her potatoes resolutely, seeing in her mind Mr. Lewis’s shining red horse standing still and strong in the sunlight.
The next afternoon Francine wandered through the fields again. She came to the top of the small hill that looked down on the Lewis farm. Their house was white and neat, with roses in front and various sheds and coops sprawled out behind it. Francine hesitated and then walked down the hill, skirted around the house, and slipped quietly into the barnyard. She walked past the chicken coops where white hens cackled and pecked behind the wire, and then she saw the horse standing outside a cinder-block milking barn. He was not tied but stood quietly waiting, the reins over his mane. Francine approached very slowly and silently. The horse turned its head and regarded her calmly, so she put out her hand and stroked its neck. The warm coat twitched deliciously under her hand.
She could hear the clanging of milk pails in the barn. The double doors stood open, and she could see the backsides of the large holstein cows, their tails switching and flicking at the files. After petting the horse and talking to it for a few minutes, she stepped quietly through the door so as not to startle the cows.
Mr. Lewis sat on a small wooden platform mounted on what looked to Francine like roller skate wheels. He leaned his head against the cow’s flank as the milk squirted rhythmically into the bucket. When the bucket was full, he put it beside him on the cart and took two thick rubber rings from his pockets with which he pushed himself so that his hands did not touch the floor. As he approached the milk can, he saw Francine standing in the doorway.
“You again,” he said. He raised the bucket of milk above his head and poured it into the can.
“I came to see your horse,” she said.
He peered at her from under his shaggy eyebrows as he placed the empty bucket beside him. “Her name is Pilar,” he said.
“I’m saving my money to buy a horse,” she said. “I have five dollars.”
“That won’t buy much of a horse,” Mr. Lewis snorted.
“I know,” Francine said, a little hurt that he would think her so stupid about what a horse cost. “I’ll have to save a lot more before I can get one.”
“Well, Missy …”
“My name is Francine.”
“Well, Francine, as you can see, I have work to do, so you’d better run along.”
“I could help you,” Francine said. “I could curry Pilar for you.”
Mr. Lewis sighed. “All right,” he said. “The currycomb is there on the wall.” He turned back toward his cows.
Francine got the currycomb quickly. She curried the horse until her coat glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. At first Pilar looked suspiciously at the girl, but then she appeared to relax and enjoy the brushing. Through the open door Francine saw Mr. Lewis return several times to the milk can and lift the bucket to pour the warm milk in.
When she had finished with Pilar, she went back into the dim barn and watched him. “I could do that for you,” she said as he returned again to the milk can. “It would save you a lot of time.”
“Look,” he said impatiently, “I have managed quite well here for five years without your help.” He turned away from her and said gruffly over his shoulder. “You’re a busybody.”
Francine felt crushed. She knew she should go home, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She liked Mr. Lewis somehow, and she liked Pilar even more.
When he came back again, she said, “How about if you paid me so I could save for my horse—say five cents a night? I’d empty all the milk buckets, too, and help you clean up the barn.”
Mr. Lewis looked up at her, and the warmth she had seen before crept into his eyes.
“Francine,” he said, “we have very little cash. We just barely make it on this farm. I don’t think I could afford to pay you even that small amount.”
“I’d really be glad to do it without pay if I could see Pilar … maybe even ride her sometime.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.
Francine turned and went outside. She stopped by Pilar and stroked the horse’s neck again and then started through the barnyard.
“Francine!”
She turned and saw Mr. Lewis framed in the doorway of the barn.
“Come back here a second.” When she reached him he looked at her a minute. “I do get pretty tired emptying those buckets.” He smiled slightly. “Pilar is going to foal in a couple of months. If you turned out to be worth anything as a worker, I might consider her colt as payment.”
Francine’s heart leaped at the thought! “I’d come for morning milking too,” she said.
“You’ll have to ask your folks,” Mr. Lewis said. “And I’ll expect you to go on working after the colt is born.”
“Oh, I will!” Francine promised.
“Well, don’t just stand around, girl,” he directed. “Get the bucket emptied.” Then his face creased into a big smile as Francine rushed past him into the barn.

On 27 February 1977 we began our journey to Santiago for the first area conference in our native country of Chile. My wife Teresa and I and our four children—Oriana, Doris, Mariela, and Mario, Jr.—were especially eager to go because President Spencer W. Kimball would be there. We had not been able to get bus tickets, so we would have to travel the 530 kilometers from our home town of Los Angeles by train.
Our family of six, plus about nine other members of the Los Angeles Second Branch, were traveling together. After making several transfers, our group arrived in Valdivia. From here, the last part of the journey would take ten hours.
At the Valdivia station, about 150 people were waiting to board the train to Santiago. When it arrived, it was announced over the loudspeakers that the engine was broken down. We were to wait another two hours for another engine to arrive. But already the train was so full that people were standing on the steps and hanging out the windows.
Another train from further south was due to arrive later that night. We gathered together to pray and plan. We agreed that each of us should try to get on the next train however we could, making sure that the youngest child, Mario, Jr., was on. Sometime after midnight, we heard a train whistle and people began to shout, “It’s coming! It’s coming!” By now two hundred people were waiting on the platform.
When the new train arrived, we were disappointed to see that it, too, was already full. As it slowed and stopped, we all scrambled to find a place to get on. Looking out for young Mario, I pushed him into one of the cars. But the train was already moving; it had stopped for only a few seconds! As it disappeared into the darkness, Mama asked, “Where is everyone?” All of us were there except ten-year-old Mario. “Where is my son?” Mama asked frantically. I tried to explain what had happened and told her we must trust in the Lord.
Heartsick, we looked at the broken engine from Valdivia. It was our only hope. We managed to climb aboard the back part of the coal bin—fifteen people carrying suitcases and packages, crammed into a space not more than four meters wide. An hour later another engine was hooked to our engine, and we began the ten-hour trip. There we were—men, women, and children—holding onto bars and railings, many standing on one foot with the other foot hanging off into space, some strapped on with belts. We were cold and wind-blown. Sparks from the engine’s smokestack rained down on us.
After two and a half hours of traveling, the relief engine was replaced by a diesel engine. Occasionally, our desperation turned to panic as we wondered what was happening to our little Mario, who was by this time three hours ahead of us.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when our train finally reached our destination. The central station in Santiago was like a sea of people. Shortly after we began searching, we heard a small voice saying, “Mama, mama.” We hugged Mario and each other and wept with joy. The Lord had heard our prayers.
Young Mario told us how frightened he had been. The journey seemed so long that it made him feel like crying. Finally, he had found a space between two seats, where he had slept all night. When he arrived in Santiago, he didn’t know what to do. He told us that only his faith in the Lord and his desire to meet the prophet had sustained him.

The corners were curled from frequent use. The pages were wrinkled and torn in places. The text was thoroughly marked, and notes were added to the margins. The blue cover was nearly separated from the other pages, and the gold lettering was beginning to lose its shimmer.
I couldn’t believe it. My Book of Mormon looked nothing like that. I had had mine since I was 9, and now that I was 18, my book still looked new. The cover, as well as the pages, were crisp and clean. The binding had barely been opened, and the few notes and markings I had made had little significance to me.
I had never seen a Book of Mormon so worn from use. My friend had not abused her book—she had studied the word in a way I simply couldn’t comprehend. I had read the book, and I had prayed about it. I truly felt it to be the word of God. Yet when I saw her Book of Mormon and the light in her eyes, I knew there was something more I could do with the words I had always taken for granted.
I began to pray that I would have the Holy Ghost with me as I read the Book of Mormon, and I began to read several times each day. I pondered the things I read and studied any verses I didn’t understand.
I found a scripture I had seen many times, but it had never before meant so much: “Feast upon the words of Christ; for behold, the words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do” (2 Ne. 32:3). I had always read the word, but I had never before feasted on it.
Somewhere in my efforts I stopped merely glancing at the words and began to see the message. I looked forward to the time I spent with the Book of Mormon. It no longer was a chore; it became a blessing.
My Book of Mormon is still not as worn as my friend’s. The pages are still not as marked, and the cover is not as tattered from repeated use. But someday it will be. Jesus Christ truly does fill those who feast.

I learned a lot about my identity as a child of God while I was on my mission. But after I came home, I realized I still had a lot to learn about the importance of remembering that other people are also children of God.
Soon after I returned home, I was thrown into a difficult calling and put in charge of an important event. I was overwhelmed, and I couldn’t get ahold of the people who were supposed to be helping me. I sent an email that was, truthfully, pretty strongly worded.
I was right that the calling was important and that I needed more support, but I quickly realized that maybe this wasn’t the best way to motivate people. I needed humility; I needed to remember that other people probably had their own things they were stressed about.
As Elder Steven E. Snow taught when he was a member of the Seventy, “If we humble ourselves, our prayers are answered; we enjoy peace of mind; we serve more effectively in our callings; and, if we continue to be faithful, we will ultimately return to the presence of our Heavenly Father.”
Truly, I have felt more joy in my calling and in my life as I’ve learned to be more humble.

How do we develop desires? Few will have the kind of crisis that motivated Aron Ralston, but his experience provides a valuable lesson about developing desires. While Ralston was hiking in a remote canyon in southern Utah, an 800-pound (360 kg) rock shifted suddenly and trapped his right arm. For five lonely days he struggled to free himself. When he was about to give up and accept death, he had a vision of a three-year-old boy running toward him and being scooped up with his left arm. Understanding this as a vision of his future son and an assurance that he could still live, Ralston summoned the courage and took drastic action to save his life before his strength ran out. He broke the two bones in his trapped right arm and then used the knife in his multitool to cut off that arm. He then summoned the strength to hike five miles (8 km) for help. What an example of the power of an overwhelming desire! When we have a vision of what we can become, our desire and our power to act increase enormously.

I met William on the first day of my third year of teaching English in the adult high school program at our local community college. He was small, dark-eyed, with tight blond curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s, when long hair was popular among the young and drugs were beginning to be a major problem. I thought, Here’s another victim of the drug culture, and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day of school, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a stranglehold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I could not read it. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William, and I live off a government pension in my car in an empty garage. I’m 19 years old, and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never before taught a student who could hardly read and write. I had no idea how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said. And after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to see him ever again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was clean. And he was reading and writing with greater confidence. He had progressed so much that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour to talk with me. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them.
His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay, too. There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions—where did we come from, what are we doing here, and what happens to us when we die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge we gain in this life.
“There are two ways most people learn,” I told them. “One way is by experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for two years of English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and a week later learned that he had called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages.” He continued, “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

While serving as a mission president, I had the responsibility to interview any individuals who were studying the gospel who came from Muslim backgrounds. The reason for this was certain countries could persecute and cause severe problems for not only the investigators, but their immediate families. On one occasion, I interviewed a man, his wife, and daughter—we will call him Zara and her Ali and their daughter Sara.

While talking to Zara, I became impressed with his understanding of the doctrines of the gospel and even more impressed with the depth of his spirit. As I explained our concern for his safety while studying the doctrines of the Church and what might be imposed from some of his family or country officials, he made a statement that I'll never forget. He said, “No man, not even you, can keep me from being baptized if this is what God wishes.”

He was right, and I was more than happy to allow him and his family to enter into the gospel of Jesus Christ. They were baptized and lived the gospel for a time in our mission and then moved to Melbourne, Australia.

Zara saw evidence in the lives of the members of the ward and the teachings of the missionaries. He acted boldly on that evidence and was then blessed with a strong assurance from God through the Spirit.

Our Heavenly Father knows us and loves us. He will not forget us. Some years ago my husband was the Athletic director at Kahuku High school and was put on paid leave due to an ineligible player on the Football team and so while they were investigating he had to stay off work. My children and I were very upset that he had to be the one to be punished and so we were very verbal to my husband telling him what he should do to get back at the school but in all this my husband continued to have faith in the Lord and told us that the Lord would take care. Our understanding was that we needed to do something to get Dad back to his job. During this time of being off the job, the Lord blessed my husband. The temple was reopening, after the extensive renovation and he was able to work as a temple worker and learn from Bro Ben Nihipali the correct way of running a shift, setting up for large sessions and just making it comfortable for the patrons who would come. He would not have been able to do this if he had still been working as AD because it is a very time consuming job.

For almost 1 ½ years that he was on leave, my husband was able to enjoy being in the temple and serving others. He did not waiver in his faith and knew the Lord would help him through this trial. He would always say the Lord will provide. We decided that he should just quit his job, since they were taking so long and not doing anything. My husband still wanted to work in the temple and we felt that if he went back to his AD job then he would have to give up being a temple worker. Besides he was getting older. So he put in his papers to return to teach with the DOE. We had decided that he should start subbing while we waited for a position to open up for him. To do this, he was going to go to the West side because they always have subbing jobs over there and this would help us maintain a steady income. His parents lived down that side so he was going to stay there during the week and return home on Fridays. In our understanding, he was going so he could continue to support our family. But while he was there, he was able to spend more time with his mother whom he had had a strained relationship with and also bond with a brother who had been adopted out to his father’s friend. This brother had come over to get some genealogy from his mother and continued to come over while my husband was there so they could bond as brothers do. They were able to have long gospel discussions as he wasn’t a member, although his wife was. My husband was able to baptize his brother’s son and we continued to work on him and be an example to him. As we looked back on this time we knew that although we had our plan, the Lord had something else in mind. We were so grateful to the Lord for giving my husband this time with his family because his mother passed away later that year and it made this time even more precious. Lean not unto thine own understanding.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow probably understood this when he penned the poem “Christmas Bells” that would be set to music and become a favorite Christmas carol—the refrain of which I mentioned earlier.

Mr. Longfellow used church bells ringing on Christmas Day as the setting for a poem he wrote during the Civil War. The fighting had been fierce and touched the lives of the Longfellow family personally. Mr. Longfellow’s son Charles, who had enlisted in the Union Army at 17 years of age, had arrived home about two weeks prior to Christmas 1863 after being critically injured in a battle.6 While Charles eventually recovered from his wounds, his father was likely concerned about the long-term health of his son and of his country. In addition to these concerns, Mr. Longfellow continued to feel the grave loss of his beloved wife, Francis Appleton Longfellow, also known as Fanny. In 1861, the same year the Civil War broke out, Fanny died from injuries she sustained when her light summer dress ignited in their home. The light weight of the fabric and the hoops she wore allowed ample oxygen to feed the flames, and Mrs. Longfellow was quickly engulfed. Mr. Longfellow attempted to extinguish the fire and was himself burned in the process. With her death he was left to raise five children and manage the affairs of his home as a single parent.7 The death of his wife and his son’s critical injuries were not the only tragedies in Mr. Longfellow’s life. Fanny was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s second wife, and together they had a daughter also named Frances who died when she was 17 months old.8 His first wife, Mary Potter Longfellow, died just over a month after she miscarried during her sixth month of pregnancy.9 This was a man who had every reason to pity himself and feel cranky about his condition, and yet he declared in beautiful verse:

How could we have had a precious baby offered to us and not have taken him? After so many months of prayers, pleading, and hoping—how?
Yet a beautiful baby boy had come into the world, and we had decided he was not for us.
As we fought to restrain our emotions, we reflected on the experience that began with a strange telephone call in the middle of a January night one month earlier.
It had been a quiet night in the house, but all our nights were quiet. There was no cooing baby in a crib, no colorful baby toys, no diaper container hanging from the bedroom doorknob. Those happy things were found where children were.
The telephone rang late into that memorable evening. James, my husband, answered and was greeted by a vaguely familiar voice, an acquaintance.
“I understand from a mutual friend that you and your wife are interested in adopting a baby,” she queried.
“Yes,” James said, “we are very anxious to adopt a baby.” I sat up, surprised. The conversation continued, and I listened intently to his replies, wishing I could hear the voice on the other end of the line.
When James hung up the receiver, his hand was shaking, his voice nervous and tense. “That was someone I know through a friend at work,” he began. “She says she has a distant unmarried relative who is going to have a baby soon. The girl is young. She’s unemployed and unable to care for the baby when it’s born. Her family can’t help her. She wants to do what’s best for the baby and thinks she should place the child for adoption.”
That night we relived all the hope and excitement we had felt so many times before when we thought we might get a baby.
But weeks went by without word, and our anxious optimism faded. We talked in the evenings about this unborn child coming to our home. We knew the phone call had brought false hope, but we persisted with prayers and fasting.
“There are agencies that handle adoption placement,” James said. “Surely a social worker from an agency will contact her, or she will go to them. That would probably be best for the expectant mother anyway. Agencies with skilled social workers can help to find the best possible home for adopted children.”
He wasn’t saying anything we both didn’t already know. We had been working with a social worker through an adoption agency for months, and we knew that they provided a very necessary service to couples seeking children, and especially to unmarried young girls thinking about placing their babies for adoption.
The waiting took us into the snows and cold of February, and another quiet night. The ringing of the phone at 2:00 A.M. made my heart pound wildly. Startled, I got up and groped in the darkness for the receiver.
“Is James there?” asked a weary female voice.
“Yes, he’s here. He’s asleep, but I’ll wake him.” Whoever this is must need him now, or she wouldn’t call at this hour.
“Hello,” James mumbled, as he answered the phone, then listened. He was answering questions. “Yes, all right. We didn’t think she was still … Yes, I’ll call you back tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the bed, sleep gone from his eyes. “She’s having the baby. Right now. She’s in labor and will soon deliver. And she’s expecting us to take the baby!”
We both sat silent. Stunned. Someone from somewhere had just called and said we have a baby for you. Right now! James broke the silence. “She didn’t go to an agency, and she didn’t contact a social worker. She told this relative to call us again and tell us that the baby is about to be born and she wants to have it adopted.”
Suddenly, all of the concerns we had both entertained about private adoption, but had never discussed, came flooding into a wee-morning-hour conference. We concluded that in the morning we must talk with our social worker and seek her counsel, backed by thirty years of adoption expertise. We knelt in prayer for the unknown mother in labor, for her peace of mind about the decision she was going to make. We asked our Heavenly Father to bless a baby who was about to be born. We asked him to bless us that we would be guided in our decision concerning the child.
That morning, we sat in council with a very wise, loving woman who had given years in the service of mothers and children. She listened intently to our story of the unexpected phone calls and responded thoughtfully. “I can’t, nor will I even try to make a decision for you,” she said. “I must leave that to your discretion and can only offer you my insight and understanding. I know how anxious you are to have a child, and I also know that agencies often require seemingly unbearable waiting periods for anxious couples. You have a ‘baby in the hand,’ so it seems, and I can promise you nothing. But I must tell you that I would have serious concerns about the fact that James is known by a relative of the baby’s mother.” She paused and thought before she spoke. “Years of experience have taught me that adoptive children generally do better when the identity of the natural parents remains totally anonymous.
“Adoption agencies, as you know, do extensive studies with both child and potential parents to determine which child is best suited for which family,” she continued. “This situation would not allow you that advantage, nor would you know any of the medical history of the child.”
Thoughts, professional views, fears and wisdom were covered in a two-hour exchange.
On the drive home, we were both silent. There was an undeniable tension in the air.
At home, we knelt in prayer, and I knew the answer before James told me what he was feeling. It was not the answer we had begged to receive. This child was not to come to our home. But why? A miracle, it seemed, and we were about to turn it away.
“I know this baby is not meant to come to our home, to be ours,” James said. “I don’t receive that confirmation, that peace of mind that comes with positive answers to prayer. But this mother is expecting me to find a home for the baby. The baby needs a home, a good home, and it needs one today.”
James and I talked at length about what would be best for the child. We made some telephone calls to friends and professionals who could offer the best advice. That evening, James telephoned the woman who had contacted us. He briefly told her why we could not take the child, and he gave her the name of a very experienced social worker who would work closely with the mother. She hung up and made the contact. Two days later, the baby boy, was placed in a special home where he would be loved and well cared for. We knew that somewhere the child was safe, comfortable, and in the arms of parents who desperately wanted a child. Yet we sat on the edge of the bed after receiving the news, wondering, lamenting. But even as we questioned, we knew we had been told by a loving Heavenly Father, with insight and understanding far exceeding our human limitations, that the child was not for us.
The cold winds of March found us home on quiet nights and at work during the day. About 8:00 A.M. on a Monday morning, James awoke singing. I asked him what it was that made Monday so wonderful, when it only meant going back to work after a great weekend. “I don’t know,” he laughed. “I just feel like it’s going to be a good day.”
I left for work at the usual time, and was exceptionally busy when the phone rang at 9:10. “Hello, Mary Ann, this is Carol.” Our social worker! I would have known her voice anywhere.
“Do you think they might let you off work long enough to come and pick up your baby boy?”
Everyone down the hall heard the jubilant exclamation. No one had to ask what the call was about. “A baby boy! That’s fantastic! When? Where? I’ll call James right now. We’re on our way.”
“Don’t hang up yet,” she said. “I need to give you some details and tell you something more about the baby.” I was so excited I could hardly listen, but as her conversation continued, I found it well worth the extra few minutes on the phone.
I contacted James. “Carol just called. You’re a dad! She has a baby boy for us. He’s there right now, waiting for us to pick him up and bring him home.” I was so nervous that I could hardly voice the next sentence.
“Carol told me about the baby just like I’m telling you. You see, that isn’t all, dear. There’s more. This little boy of ours has a brother.”
“What do you mean, a brother?” he asked.
“Twins,” I laughed. “You are the proud father of identical twin boys.”
A frantic drive to the agency, an apprehensive walk up the stairs to the agency’s second floor, and there, lying together in a wooden cradle with room to spare, weighing five pounds each, our beautiful baby boys!
Our twins had been born one day after the baby we had had a chance to adopt was born. On the day we had talked with our social worker, seeking her guidance, our babies were lying in the hospital’s intensive care nursery, weighing four pounds each. It was strict agency policy that prospective adoptive parents never be told about a baby until the infant was released from the hospital and made ready for placement. Carol and the other agency social workers had met and selected us as parents for the twins shortly before they were born, but we couldn’t be told until they were delivered, had gained weight, and could leave the hospital. Our boys were in the hospital, growing and waiting to meet us for seventeen days before we received the agency’s call on that glorious Monday morning.
Carter James and Jefferson Thomas were sealed to us in the temple after a six-month waiting period required by state law. The joy they have brought into our home is beyond my ability to describe. Both James and I feel so intensely that these handsome little straight-haired blonds were intended for us.
Often I look longingly, lovingly, at them and realize that had we not listened to the counsel of our Heavenly Father, they wouldn’t be in our home, and we might have forfeited one of the greatest blessings we have ever received.

A hot, dry wind blew through Maggie’s open window, bringing in dust and the smell of sagebrush. Summer weekends were lonely—Maggie’s father was seeing to business outside Rush Valley, and her older brothers were away rounding up the cattle and hauling ore for the mines nearby. Only Mother and Aunt Laura were there to keep her company in the big adobe house. And since it was the Sabbath, Maggie couldn’t play outside with her colt or her new kittens or run around the yard looking for tiny wildflowers.
Even worse, Mother was sick. She had hardly eaten for days, and worry hung over the house. Maggie wanted more than anything to see Mother well and happy. “Maybe I’ll go see if she’s well enough to eat today,” Maggie thought. She tiptoed across the hall to Mother’s room and peeked inside.
“Mother, you’re awake!” Maggie said, relieved, as she approached Mother’s big bed. “What would you like to eat?”
“Well, dear,” Mother answered, “I don’t have much choice. I’ll have to settle for what we have on hand.”
The nearest store was 10 miles away. With the boys away and Mother sick, no one had gone for groceries in weeks, and there was nothing in the cellar but canned tomatoes. Maggie hesitated to remind her mother of this—she knew Mother found the idea of eating more tomatoes even less appetizing than she did herself.
“Don’t worry, Maggie. I know there’s nothing but tomatoes.” Mother smiled. “If I could have what I really want most, it would be some good, cold peaches fresh from the cellar. But I guess I’ll just imagine the tomatoes are peaches instead!” She laughed, which made Maggie feel better.
Maggie started heading for the cellar, but stopped to kneel and say a quick prayer before going downstairs.
“Heavenly Father,” she said. “I can’t stand to see Mother so sick and sad. I want to bring her peaches for dinner. Please help me find some. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When Maggie stood up, her heart felt lighter. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer. She walked into the cool, dark cellar and lit a candle so she could see. Two identical cases of tomatoes were stacked one on top of the other. The top case was open. Maggie walked around the cellar with her candle, peering in the corners, but there were no peaches to be seen. Other than the tomatoes, the cellar was completely empty.
Maggie lifted up the heavy box of tomatoes and set it on the floor. She took a hammer from the table beside her and pried one board loose from the second case of tomatoes. Out came one can, which Maggie set down on the table. Then she lifted another can out from the bottom layer. That was the one! The picture label was of bright red tomatoes, but Maggie knew there was something else inside.
She ran as fast as she could back up to her mother’s room. “Mother!” she cried, “I’ve got your peaches!”
“Looks very much like tomatoes to me, Maggie,” Aunt Laura said.
“I don’t care what the label says,” Maggie insisted. “These are peaches.”
“Bless your heart,” Mother said kindly. “We’ll imagine they are peaches and eat them anyway.”
Maggie rushed to get the can opener from the kitchen, and ran back to the bedroom at top speed. As her mother jabbed the opener into the can, golden peach juice oozed out. Maggie dipped her finger in and tasted the sweet juice.
“Oh, Mother, the Lord heard my prayer!” Maggie exclaimed. “They are peaches!”
A few minutes later, Mother sat holding a big dish of beautiful orange peaches on a tray. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, my Maggie,” she whispered, “how did you do it?” Maggie told her about her prayer and how she knew exactly where to look.
“Well,” Aunt Laura said, “They just made a mistake when they labeled the cans. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”
Mother looked at Aunt Laura. “All my life I’ve never found peaches in tomato cans, and yet there they were for Maggie when she prayed. I know the Lord answered her prayers and guided her hand to that one can, so don’t try to tell me it was just a coincidence.”
She kissed Maggie on the cheek. “Go along now, dear. I think I’ll get some good rest today.”
Maggie walked back to her room and knelt beside the bed to thank Heavenly Father for His guidance. She knew that answers to prayer were real, and she would never forget it.

I’d like to tell you about the time I and other family members crossed that Canadian-U.S. border with our dad and mom on our way back home, knowing for Dad it would be the last time. As we cleared customs, Dad raised up from his sick bed in the back of the car and commented, “This prairie has never looked so beautiful. It’s at it’s very best for my last inspection.”
During our brief stay in our old hometown, we sauntered haltingly down the gravel road past the tall cottonwood trees where the old school had been. Dad took the lead. “It was the old bell,” he said, and we all looked in the same direction, seeing it clearly in our mind’s eye. “The school bell kept us in line. There were two bells,” he went on. “A fifteen-minute bell would ring six times, giving ample warning before the final five-minute bell sounded a simple dingdong—and you’d better be there.” His weakened voice increased in intensity as he added, “It’s important to listen for the bell.”
As we mused together in silence for a time, I pondered the possibility of my own inner bell being silenced, if only for a moment, just a rest break maybe. In years since, rather than wishing to silence the bell within, I feel myself strain a little that I might hear it more clearly.
After our trip to Canada, Dad talked about going home on that final journey and we talked together of the border crossing. His body was less than 100 pounds, and his mortal journey was coming to a close. Dad talked about the sweetness and sacredness of these times and spoke of the nearness of the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, the gatekeeper. Life had presented plenty of struggles, and he had used them to prove himself worthy and to cleanse the soul. And he was ready for the border crossing.
That last day, Dad spoke of Addison, his younger brother who had gone on before him. I wonder if his brother, and maybe his mother and father, were standing at the window an hour before his expected arrival, anxious for his safe return home.
By midafternoon I had decided to sit with Dad. It seemed his eyes were open, yet he wasn’t seeing me. I took his hand in mine, a hand that had spanked me and blessed me and caressed me throughout my life. “Dad,” I whispered. He didn’t respond. “If you know I’m here, please squeeze my hand.” I wasn’t sure if there was a squeeze, but it didn’t seem like it. I bent over and put my cheek to his very bony cheek, with my hand on the other side of his face. I waited just a second, then straightened up. He looked at me just a moment, and in his eyes I saw complete peace. Joy, trust, confidence, and anticipation all mingled together in that look. He was ready for the border crossing and the gatekeeper, the Holy One of Israel. A tear escaped the corner of his eye. I pressed my cheek to his again. There are things we cannot find words or even sounds to express, but in that moment, I had some sense of what that final crossing might be and the ecstasy that we’ll never fully understand in this life.

When I was a teenager, I had the opportunity to travel with a school group to Germany. One evening, after a long day, a few friends and I asked our teacher if we could take the subway, known in Germany as the U-Bahn, to buy some snacks. He agreed, but not without caution. He gave us very specific instructions: which train to take, where to transfer, and which stop to exit. Then he added one critical warning: the trains would soon stop running for the night, so we needed to follow the plan exactly and not delay.
At first, everything went according to plan. We reached the station, found the convenience store, bought our snacks then headed back in the direction we came from. But a few stops in, we realized that none of the station names looked familiar. We checked the map; nothing matched. We got off, switched trains, rode a few more stops, but we were still on the wrong train.
That’s when the pressure set in.
Every delay mattered. Every wrong decision eliminated options. We knew that missing one correct connection could mean not making it back before the system shut down entirely.
We tried asking a ticket agent for help, but the language barrier was too great. So, we guessed again and got on another train. Within minutes, we realized we were still headed in the wrong direction. The clock was ticking and three young American girls were suddenly very aware of how little margin for error remained.
This was back before cell phones with GPS and international calling plans were a standard staple in a teenager’s pocket. If we didn’t get on the right train soon, we wouldn’t make it back at all.
In that moment of desperation, I quietly said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father for help. Almost immediately, a young man wearing a gray Ohio State sweatshirt stood up, walked straight to me, and said in perfect English, “Do you need help?” I had never been so relieved to hear someone speak English! I quickly explained our situation and showed him on the map where we were trying to go. He looked at it carefully and then said something I’ll never forget: “The trains are about to shut down. You must follow these steps exactly. One mistake, and you won’t make it back in time.”
He then laid out, in precise detail, two specific train changes—no alternates, no shortcuts, no substitutions. Every step depended on the one before it. We followed his instructions exactly, boarded the correct trains, made the exact transfers, and as we pulled into our final stop, the trains shut down for the night.
We made it!

As a skier and a snowboarder myself, I was deeply impressed with the “four-minute” silver medal-winning performance of Australian LDS athlete and snowboarder Torah Bright in the half-pipe competition. She dazzled the world as she finished a virtually flawless run culminating in a backside rodeo 720. However, even more impressive and surprising to the world was the way she reached out and demonstrated Christlike love to her competitors. She noticed that American snowboarder Kelly Clark, who had a bad first run in her final round, appeared to be nervous about her second run. “She gave me a hug,” Clark recalls. “She just held me until I actually calmed down enough and I slowed my breathing. It was good to have a hug from a friend.” Kelly Clark would later join Torah on the winners’ podium as a bronze medalist.
When asked about this unusual act of kindness toward her opponent, which could have put her own silver medal at risk, Torah simply said, “I am a competitor—I want to do my best—but I want my fellow competitors to do their best, too.”13

Having recrossed the river to Nauvoo that last Sunday, June 23, Joseph sent a letter to the governor in Carthage promising to be there the next day. To meet the governor’s deadline they would have to leave very early—a 6:00 a.m. departure at the latest, and they had had no sleep for two nights.

There are little moments in those last hours that are significant and poignantly memorable. I mention only a few.

After the two brothers returned to surrender state arms as ordered by the governor, Leonora Taylor was in the Smith home when the Prophet went again to say goodbye. He pleaded with Emma on that occasion to go with him, even though she did not want to risk getting the ague, chills, and fevers. She was also expecting a child (four months pregnant) and not feeling well. He begged her to come anyway. She said no. And as he turned away, he said, “Well, if they don’t hang me I don’t care how they kill me.”

It seems likely that Willard Richards overheard that statement and that that is why, in the last moments, he offered—and he meant it—to be hanged in the Prophet’s stead. The Prophet’s statement also tells us that he hadn’t yet been made to know exactly how he would die. There had been threats, one of them published in the newspaper, that his enemies would, as the letter said, “make catfish meat of him.”

There was a moment with Daniel H. Wells, not yet a member of the Church, who was on a sickbed. The Prophet, not feeling well himself, stopped to see him. “Squire Wells, I wish you to cherish my memory, and not think me the worst man in the world either.” Daniel H. Wells had to give up his family in order to join the Church later. He could never speak of that last encounter with Joseph without deep feeling, and he became one of our great ones.

Mary Ellen Kimball overheard the Prophet say, as the group stopped to ask for a drink of water on the way to Carthage that morning, “Brother Rosenkranz, if I never see you again, or if I never come back, remember that I love you.” She felt that to her soul, and fled and wept on her bed.

And then there was the pause the group made at the temple, where the Prophet lovingly surveyed that building, the city, the landscape, and then said: “This is the loveliest place and the best people under the heavens; little do they know the trials that await them.”

Last semester in my University 101 class, on day three or four we had a student who didn’t show up for class. I got the attention of our peer mentor and mentioned that we were missing a student. I learned that six students had already reached out to text this student to simply say, “Hey, we miss you.” When we build a community in which we love God and we love all those around us, we are becoming a truly Christ-centered campus where belonging naturally follows.

However, as a young teenager, I began to question whether I would be allowed to serve a mission. World War II had kept my father from serving as a missionary, which he badly wanted to do. In my case, the Vietnam War was raging; only two young men from each ward in the United States were given exemptions from military duty to serve missions. The rest had to rely on high lottery numbers to allow them to serve missions. Though my lottery was a few years away, I still worried about this, wondering if I would actually be able to fulfill my childhood dream.
About this time, I attended a stake conference in which Elder Thomas S. Monson was the visiting General Authority. After one session, my mother and I went to meet him. I shook his hand and we talked. I don’t remember any of the conversation except for one sentence. He looked right into my eyes and said, “You will be going on a mission.” I never worried after that; all my doubts were removed.

“From infancy I had enjoyed the simplified and pictured Bible stories, but the original Bible seemed so interminable in length, so difficult of understanding that I had avoided it until a challenge came to me [as a teenager attending stake conference. The speaker] gave a discourse on the value of reading the Bible. In conclusion she asked for a showing of hands of all who had read it through. The hands that were raised out of the large congregation were so few and so timid! … I was shocked into an unalterable determination to read the great book.
“As soon as I reached home after the meeting I began with the first verse of Genesis and continued faithfully every day with the reading.
“What a satisfaction it was to me [a year later] to realize I had read the Bible through from beginning to end! And what exultation of spirit! …
“I commend it to you” (“What I Read as a Boy,” Children’s Friend, November 1943, 508).

At the solemn assembly during general conference when President Hinckley was sustained as the prophet by the Church membership, all the grandchildren stood at the appropriate times and raised their hands to sustain the new prophet.

“It was an amazing experience,” says Ada Hinckley, 16, “to raise your hand to the square and sustain the prophet, the President of the Church, who is also your grandpa. When they sing, ‘We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,’ you are just kind of taken aback because they are singing about your grandfather.”

But Ada found that the very thing that helped a lot of young women in the Church also helped her gain a testimony of the prophet. She attended the general Young Women meeting before April conference where the theme was gaining a testimony of the prophet. “It helped me a lot to gain a testimony that he is a prophet and that he leads the Church. I know he does.”

Talents are meant to be shared. As you learn to play the piano, you can bless others with your music. As you develop your talent for spirituality, you can use this gift to bless your family. Did you know you have some responsibility for the happiness in your family? It isn’t just your mom’s or dad’s job to keep the family happy. You can help too. Listen to what Brooke did as she shared her talent for spirituality.
“My eight-year-old sister was scared of strangers coming into the house. One night she came into my room, and I tried to explain to her that she wasn’t hearing anyone walking around. I remembered my seminary teacher challenged us to always try to have Heavenly Father’s Spirit with us. So I prayed in my heart that I would get help to not be frustrated. A verse came instantly into my head. I opened the scriptures and told her to read it to me. Then I was bearing testimony to her about the Holy Ghost and how if she wanted peace to get down and pray and the Spirit would come. She gave me a hug and kiss and went off to bed. Then I remembered my 10-year-old sister on the top bunk. She told me she never knew that if you wanted something like that you could pray and the Spirit would bring you peace. I know the Holy Ghost was inspiring me to say that” (letter).
There are lots of ways you can bless your family. Brooke did three important things: she bore her testimony, she prayed for her sister, and she was an example to her other sister on the top bunk. This strengthened her own spirituality as well.