Gospel Story Finder

It was on a summer day early in the morning. I was standing near the window. The curtains obstructed me from two little creatures out on the lawn. One was a large bird and the other a little bird, obviously just out of the nest. I saw the larger bird hop out on the lawn, then thump his feet and cock his head. He drew a big fat worm out of the lawn and came hopping back. The little bird opened its bill wide, but the big bird swallowed the worm.

Then I saw the big bird fly up into a tree. He pecked at the bark for a little while and came back with a big bug in his mouth. The little bird opened his beak wide, but the big bird swallowed the bug. There was squawking in protest.

The big bird flew away, and I didn’t see it again, but I watched the little bird. After a while, the little bird hopped out on the lawn, thumped its feet, cocked its head, and pulled a big worm out of the lawn.

God bless the good people who teach our children and our youth, I humbly pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.Elder Howard W. HunterOf the Council of the Twelve

Sitting on the steps of the weathered frame house, Pualani added a seashell to the strand she was stringing. She spoke to the dog stretched out in the shade of the trumpet vine that climbed over the porch. “This will be the most beautiful collar I’ve ever made, Kulolo.” Measuring the collar around his neck, Pualani murmured, “It fits.”
“Lani,” her father appeared in the doorway—“I’m taking a load of pineapples to the cannery.” He stopped and frowned, then grumbled, “Always wasting time on that no-good mongrel.”
“I don’t care if he’s a mongrel, Papa.” Pualani gently scratched the back of her pet’s ear.
Swinging his long tail back and forth, the dog looked up into the girl’s face.
“See, Papa!” exclaimed Pualani with delight. “His eyes talk to me, and his tail is smiling.”
Her father shrugged his strong, broad shoulders. “Once a tramp dog, always a tramp dog.”
That’s what Mama said the day I brought Kulolo home, thought Pualani. She remembered how Mama had stared at the scruffy dog.
“This is the ilio (dog) you want to keep, Lani?”
Mama’s dark eyes had narrowed as she took stock of the dog—floppy ears, long tail, spindly legs that buckled at the knobby joints when the trembling creature shifted his weight. “Auwe (oh, dear)! So skinny!”
“I want to keep him, Mama,” Pualani had pleaded, her words tumbling out. “I want him for my own. I’ll call him Kulolo, and I’ll get him a collar—leather, maybe.”
“Leather collars cost money,” her mother had declared firmly. “Papa’s wages must be spent on food and clothing. But a few scraps of food we can spare if it means so much to you. But don’t get all huhu (upset) when he wanders away. And he will, as sure as he’s a tramp dog.”
That was months ago, thought Pualani, and Kulolo has never strayed far from our house. She tied the seashells around the dog’s neck.
For a moment her father studied her in silence. “Lani”—he paused to clear his throat the way he always did when broaching an unpleasant subject—“yesterday the mayor said that there are too many stray dogs on the island. From now on every dog must have a license. Licenses cost money, Lani.”
“I’ll earn it,” Pualani said. “Everyone trusts me with their children, Papa.”
“Plantation workers can’t afford to pay you.”
“A job at the cannery, then.”
“You’re too young.” Papa’s shoulders slumped. “Try to understand, Lani.”
Pualani felt a cold numbness creeping through her body, but she forced herself to ask, “What will become of him?”
Again her father cleared his throat. “If nobody pays his fee, they’ll destroy him. Painlessly,” he added quickly.
The following morning, news of the threat to Kulolo traveled among the neighbor children. Keoni, Manuela, Satoshi, Ana, and little Joe all came, determined to save Kulolo.
Manuela said, “My father told me that a license costs five dollars. Maybe if we put our money together, we’ll have enough to buy one.”
Manuela counted their money, then shook his head glumly. “Three dollars and twenty-eight cents.”
Keoni broke the silence that settled over the group. “Maybe we could keep Kulolo from running loose until we can earn enough money. But where could we keep him?”
Ana piped up, “At the end of the island there are some caves in the cliff above the tide line. We could build a fence across the entrance to one of them and keep him there.”
Pualani nodded. “I’ve been there with Kulolo. He likes to run out on the reef and sniff the coral heads.”
“There’s no school tomorrow,” little Joe reminded them. “Let’s take Kulolo then.”
“All right,” everyone agreed, “tomorrow.”
Manuela planned aloud: “Everybody should bring something—some food for Kulolo and old pineapple crates, tools, and nails for building the fence.”
Late the following morning they started out. When they reached the seashore, they cooled their hot, tired feet in the white ruffled edges of the waves. Soon they reached the far end of the island. Trudging along the winding seaside road, little Joe pointed to the wind-lashed trees. “Why is it so blowy and so noisy?”
“There’s always a wind whistling through the trees here, and it makes the sea rough and noisy.”
Soon the children could communicate only by shouts and gestures. Clambering up the craggy rise, they followed Pualani into one of the caves.
Soon the cave echoed with the staccato beat of hammers. The children were so busy that they failed to notice Kulolo’s running back and forth between them and the edge of the cliff. Finally, when he nuzzled Pualani’s hand, looked up into her face, and whimpered, Pualani called to the others. “Kulolo’s bored. I’ll take him for a run on the reef now.”
Outside the cave Kulolo leaped down the craggy cliff and bounded toward the shore road. Then he raced back and leaped against Pualani. Turning, he again bounded toward the road. Near the shore he stopped and barked frantically. Never had Kulolo acted so strangely. As Pualani picked her way over the jagged rocks toward him, he ran along the shore road, then stopped and waited for her to follow.
When she reached the road, Pualani heard it—the tsunami (tidal wave) siren! A terrible fear gripped her. Her fear turned to horror as she remembered that the other children couldn’t hear the tsunami warning.
“Kulolo!” she cried. “Go home!”
Kulolo hesitated only an instant. Then he took off. He was still picking up speed as he rounded the bend in the road.
Stumbling, slipping, Pualani made her way back over the rough terrain and flung herself into the cave. “Tsunami!” she cried.
The children had heard tales of monstrous tidal waves that could travel over four hundred miles an hour, rise fifty feet into the air, and suck everything into the sea. Paralyzed with fear, they stared at Pualani.
Frantically Pualani roused them to action. “Manuela, you’re strong enough to carry little Joe when he tires. Come on. Let’s go.”
Too frightened to cry, the children scrambled down the cliff and made their way toward the road. Half-carrying Ana, and tugging Satoshi by the hand, Pualani urged them on. Suddenly Satoshi clutched her arm. “Why is it so spooky, Lani?”
A dead calm had settled over everything. The frothing white foam had disappeared from the lifeless sea. Only the distant wailing of the siren broke the silence.
“There’s no high ground around here,” Keoni spluttered, “and we don’t know how long the siren has been sounding.”
“We have to stay on the shore road,” Pualani said. “That’s where the searchers will look for us first.”
Pualani urged the weary band along the twisting road. Slowly she became aware of a pounding, pulsating sound. Is it the tsunami? she wondered, knowing they could not escape if it was. The noise grew closer and louder. Then the plantation truck labored into view! In front of it ran Kulolo, panting heavily.
Papa slammed on the brakes and leaped from the cab to hoist the children—and Kulolo—into the truck. Within seconds they were headed back down the road.
Pualani’s father was grimly silent as he swerved to avoid the deep ruts in the tortuous road.
Ana’s voice rose above the clatter of the truck. “Where’s the sea going?”
The sea, now dark and murky, was drawing away from the land.
Pualani’s father took one glance at the awesome sight and jammed the accelerator to the floor as he shouted, “Hang on!”
The shore road lay perilously close to the beach. They had to reach—and climb—the dirt road that wound through the pineapple fields up to the plantation.
“Almost to the dirt road!” Father shouted.
Two minutes more. One minute. With a screech the truck swung sharply from the shore road and started its climb toward safety.
A cry of relief rose from the islanders who had flocked to the plantation. While parents rushed to their children, a murmur rippled through the crowd. Trembling fingers pointed toward the horizon, where a dark strip approached. It grew into a towering, raging, thundering wall of water rushing at them.
When it struck, a shudder shook the whole island. Fierce white foam licked at the lower slopes of the plantation. With a great roar, the wave receded, carrying with it trees, shelters, boats, and docks. Again and again it struck, but with less strength each time. As the wave slowly sank into the sea, it left behind huge mounds of dredged-up sand, and torn-up plants and buildings and boats.
For a long time no one spoke. Then Pualani’s father broke the silence. “Let us thank Heavenly Father that there has been no loss of life.”
That evening Papa told Pualani, “Our neighbors have given us the money for a license for Kulolo. He isn’t a tramp dog anymore. You must make him a sturdy collar, Lani, so that he will never lose it.”
Pualani smiled. “I will, Papa,” she said.

They started to raise their family from a very humble single attic-room apartment in the heart of Amsterdam. After several years of washing their clothes by hand, they had finally saved up enough money to purchase a washing machine. Just before they would make the purchase, the bishop visited them, asking for a contribution to build the meetinghouse in Amsterdam. They decided to give all they had saved for the washing machine and continued to do the laundry by hand. As a family we went through some hardships, just like any other family. These have only made us stronger and have deepened our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, just like when Alma was sharing his story with his son Helaman, where he told him that he had been “supported under trials and troubles of every kind” because he had put his trust in the Lord Jesus Christ. How did two people who experienced so many trials in their younger years become the very best parents I could ever wish for? The answer is simple: they fully embraced the gospel and live by their covenants to this very day! After more than 65 years of marriage, my mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, passed away in February. My father, at the age of 92 and still living at home, visited her as often as he could until she passed away. Some time ago he mentioned to my younger siblings that the dreadful experiences in the camp in Indonesia during World War II had prepared him to patiently care for his wife for so many years as she fell ill and deteriorated from this horrible disease and also for the fateful day he had to entrust her primary care to others and could not be by her side anymore. Their motto has been and still is to “Just carry on,” having a perfect hope in Christ to be raised up at the last day and to dwell with Him in glory forever.

Years ago, I was involved in the Ensign Stake Genealogical Committee. We held a series of firesides. The climactic of six was given by President Joseph Fielding Smith. (Here is, by the way, an interesting point: six of our Presidents have been temple presidents, he being one.) The last lecture was given on temple marriage. But the week before that I had been asked to speak on vital temple purposes. I struggled with that. I was talking to young people. What was most remarkable came toward the end of what I said. I wanted somehow to let them know that my own assurance about marriage had come within the walls of the temple; that, in effect, my wife and I had had a temple courtship as well as a temple marriage. It was in the temple that I later gave her a ring.
But I didn’t want to acknowledge publicly that I was going to marry this girl. That had not yet been said in private, and therefore I didn’t think it should be said in public. But there came down on me that night (and I have a tape-recording that tells the story) such a witness that I announced, “The Lord has made known to me that I am to be married, and to whom.” She was on the front row, sitting next to my father. It came as a bit of a surprise to him, too. There was much salt water. Have you heard Pasternak’s phrase, “Be so close to those you love that when they weep you taste salt”? I did. I gasped, though, at what I had said and wanted somehow to alter, qualify, call back, change. That was shown in several seconds of silence. Then at last all I could do was say “In the name of the Lord, amen,” and sit down.

I used to watch my father during the time he served as a bishop; he carried that responsibility during the Great Depression, when he had an added welfare burden. How often I remember going out with him, night after night, to deliver a sack of flour, a sack of sugar, or some other commodity to someone in need. We always had difficulty managing an uninterrupted vacation. I remember particularly one time when we had had an exciting day fishing on Lake Yellowstone. As I passed the lodge at Fishing Bridge, I saw a sign in the window: “A telegram for L. Tom Perry.” Without reading it, I knew what that meant. I was right—a widow had passed away, and we had to leave our vacation early and return home so that Dad could conduct the funeral. I saw him also during tithing settlement, interviewing hour after hour, day after day, until he completed his assignment.

Then the time came for his release after serving as bishop for eighteen years. That day I caught a little of the vision of true service and the joy it brings. It had been indicated to him that he was going to be called to the high council, but as stake conference approached no one issued a call to him. As we sat in stake conference that day my father’s heart was heavy; he realized that his great service as a bishop was about over, and he had not received a new call to replace it. Then, without any previous warning, the visiting General Authority, in reorganizing our stake presidency, called my father into that presidency. He served in it as a counselor or as stake president for the next twenty years, all of that time filled with joy at the opportunity of service.

Caleb slid out of his bed to greet another golden autumn morning. His big brother, James, was already outside working, probably helping Pa mend fences. When he heard his mother fixing breakfast in the room below, Caleb hurried to dress. But where was his favorite brown wool shirt?
He dug through the blankets, then searched under the bed. No shirt. So he just pulled on his pants and shoes and climbed down the ladder from the loft.
“I can’t find my brown shirt,” Caleb told his mother.
Ma looked up and smiled. “That shirt was getting so worn out that I made you a new one. Here, try it on.”
Caleb took the shirt from his mother and examined it closely. It didn’t have as many thin places as his old one, and no buttons were missing. But something was familiar about it. Quickly Caleb slipped on the shirt, buttoned it up to his chin, then huddled close to the stone fireplace to warm himself. He didn’t say anything to Ma, but he knew that James used to wear this shirt. Ma had cut it up and made the shirt smaller. Caleb couldn’t remember, but he suspected that Pa had worn the shirt before that, just as he had the old brown one.
After breakfast, Caleb kept so busy with his chores that he forgot all about his comfortable old brown shirt. At the end of the day, while Caleb’s sister, Dorcas, washed the supper dishes, Ma brought out her scrap bag. One by one she pulled colorful pieces of cloth from it. They fluttered down noiselessly, covering the wooden floor like a rainbow. Caleb watched with wonder.
Because women in the frontier settlement traded fabric swatches, some of the bright pieces in Ma’s scrap bag had once belonged to the neighbors. Caleb recognized nearly every scrap. One strip was from a petticoat that Dorcas had outgrown. Another piece came from James’s old black Sunday trousers. Caleb spotted parts from Grandpa’s winter coat and a few inches of his friend Willy’s knit cap. On top of the pile lay Caleb’s favorite brown wool shirt.
Ma announced, “I’m going to make a quilt.”
Caleb had already figured that out. Often when Ma sorted through her scrap bag, she had a patchwork quilt in mind. So he wasn’t surprised to see her cut his old brown shirt into several pieces. In fact, Caleb expected the shirt he was wearing to be cut up for a quilt when it was worn out and too small for him.
Night after night, when the day’s farm work was done, Ma and Dorcas sat by the fire, sewing the cloth pieces together. Moving smoothly, Ma’s practiced hand worked the needle in and out in tiny, even stitches. Every scrap was precious.
“Isn’t this one too small, Ma?” Caleb asked, picking up a little square of flowered cotton.
“No piece is too small, Caleb,” Ma assured him. “We’ll need every one.”
One afternoon Caleb came in from feeding the chickens to find Ma in her rocking chair with the patchwork pieces.
“This gives me a chance to sit down,” she told him, “while still keeping my hands busy.”
Caleb gently fingered an odd-shaped piece of Grandpa’s green winter coat. In his imagination, it still smelled of smoke from the campfires Grandpa used to build on his hunting trips. Last fall, when Caleb turned seven, he was allowed to go with Grandpa and Pa and James to hunt for food for the winter. Rubbing the green wool against his cheek now reminded Caleb of Grandpa and his stories around the campfire. He was glad that his mother had saved the old coat. Caleb watched her fit a piece of it into the patchwork quilt top.
“Who are you making the quilt for, Ma?” Caleb asked.
“Someone special.”
As soon as the quilt top was finished, Pa and James set up the heavy wooden frames. Dorcas helped Ma tack the backing of the quilt to the frames. It was a piece of coarse homespun cloth Aunt Polly had made—a bright strawberry red that made Caleb think of summer. Ma and Dorcas pinned the thick wool batting to the cloth. Finally they spread out the patchwork top and stretched it over the batting.
Caleb stood back and gazed at the quilt top. It was a wonderful kaleidoscope of patches, all sizes and shapes, fitted together with neat little stitches. In the center, Ma had sewn a square of brown wool cut from Caleb’s shirt. He knew what came next: a quilting bee!
Aunt Polly and several ladies from neighboring homesteads gathered to help Ma sew the three layers of the quilt together. Sitting around the frame, the ladies chatted as they worked their needles up and down through the layers of fabric. Caleb and his friend Willy crawled under the quilt and watched the thread make a fine white trail all across the red backing.
Every time a needle ran out, the boys rushed to thread it. By the end of the day, when the sewing was done, Caleb and Willy had each earned a shiny penny for keeping the ladies’ needles threaded.
It was almost dark when Willy and his mother and the other women rode off for home. Then, with Pa’s help, Ma carefully removed the quilt from the frames. “Tomorrow I’ll bind the edges,” she said.
When Caleb scurried down from the loft the next morning, Ma was already sitting in her rocking chair, with the quilt overflowing her lap. Caleb settled on the floor next to Dorcas, who, like Ma, was folding under the edges of the backing and the top and stitching them neatly together.
“Can I help?” Caleb asked.
Ma smiled at him as she patiently worked her fine little stitches. “How about your chores, Caleb?”
Caleb went outside to help James stack the wood Pa had cut. As he worked, the boy thought about the quilt. Its large and small patches of red, blue, and green, some plain, some fancy, reminded him of Grandpa, Ma and Pa, James and Dorcas, Aunt Polly, and all the neighbors. He thought of his own brown wool square in the center. “We will need every patch,” Ma had told him.
That night when Caleb climbed up to his bedroom loft, Ma was waiting to tuck him in bed under the new quilt. “I told you I was making this quilt for someone special,” she said, kissing him good night.
Caleb wrapped himself in the quilt with its comfortable old patches and smiled.

Another learning experience took place for me at the dedication of the Preston England Temple which I attended in President Gordon B. Hinckley's traveling party. Wherever President Hinckley went there were plenty of kind and helpful volunteer security people to make sure he was taken care of. This was no exception. One particular security guard caught my attention. His name was Leslie. He looked a little pitiful sitting by himself at the end of a long corridor. He was a rather small Englishman with thin and graying hair, not the kind to make one feel especially secure.

In fact, Leslie was guarding a locked door at the end of a little-used hallway. Why, I cannot say. No barehanded human could get through the heavy, bolted door. Whatever could break it down, should someone for some unknown reason want to break it down, would not be deterred by diminutive Leslie. The main threat from this direction was not likely to be from any outside source of danger, but from the almost deadly boredom that filled the air at the end of the hall.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for this poor man. I introduced myself, hoping a moment of conversation might ease the monotony some.

"And your name?" I asked.

"Leslie," he said quietly, perhaps a little annoyed at my intrusion.

"And where are you from, Leslie?"

"Liverpool."

"Ah," I quipped, "Leslie of Liverpool."

He grinned a bit sheepishly and probably thought I was making fun of him. Leslie was very pleasant, though, and quickly my impression of him changed. Here was a bright, dignified, middle-aged man. He wasn't a big man, but not quite as small as I had first thought.

I soon learned that Leslie worked as a security guard in another city, in Liverpool actually, but this post he manned as a volunteer for the temple dedication.

"Leslie," I said, "could I get you a softer chair?"

"No," he said, "this one will do."

"Well," I proposed, "do you really need to be here? Nothing seems likely to happen."

He looked around as if to quickly assess the current level of security.

"I'll just do what I've been asked," he said in his thick Liverpudlian accent. "I'll just do me duty."

"May I at least bring you a can of juice or something? You could man your post and still drink some juice."

"No thanks," he replied with a certain firmness in his voice, "I'll just do me duty."

I finally gave up. "Okay, have a good evening." I admit I was not very sympathetic to Leslie's sense of duty. It seemed a bit overzealous to me.

That night I had an interesting dream. We were in England, so it is not surprising that it was a dream of knights and heavy armor and white horses. There were brave battle scenes with fighting hordes and clanging swords.

One knight stood out among all the rest. I don't remember if his armor was actually shining, but he was strong and true and the hero of my dream. As the hero-knight emerged victorious, he stopped and dismounted his powerful steed. He stood before me, removed his helmet with dignity, and quietly introduced himself.

"Good day, sir," he said calmly. "I am Leslie, Leslie of Liverpool."

I awoke with a start. Wide awake. And I saw clearly the courage of Leslie.

He had been asked to perform a rather perfunctory task, but his sense of honor and duty caused him to do it to the very best of his ability. I think he would have guarded the Royal Jewels with no more pride or careful attention. Even as a volunteer, not being paid at all and sitting alone in that empty hall, he felt a commitment to muster all his professional skill and to focus on the performance of his duty.

Leslie taught me the principle that to do your duty is to set aside self and give heart and mind to the higher good. To give it your all, even when the individual task seems truly menial, that is the fulfillment of duty. The next evening as I was leaving the building I looked in hope for Leslie. He was there again, at the end of the hall, a knight in invisible armor doing his duty. I was glad to see him. We greeted each other. I didn't tell him why, but I asked a passerby to take my picture standing next to Leslie. I wanted to remember what a hero looks like and to prove that I had known one. The principle: I'll just do me duty. Leslie had learned this and was therefore able to wisely exercise good judgment in fulfilling his responsibility.

“We hosted a spa night for the Activity Day girls to help them get excited to move from Primary to Young Women. We served the younger girls by doing their hair and nails. One girl I didn’t know very well was sitting alone. I went and asked if she wanted her nails done. She got this big smile on her face and nodded. She was really excited to have an older girl help her. It was a good lesson for me because sometimes I’m kind of shy about talking to people I don’t know very well. I know she was really happy when I went and talked with her.”
Kara W., 13, Washington, USA

I know some of you worry about being misjudged, ridiculed, and even harassed if you stand up for Heavenly Father, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Church. I understand your concerns.

I served in the British Mission after the end of World War II as a young missionary. At that time Mormons were “a hiss and a byword” (3 Nephi 16:9), and missionaries were laughed at and ridiculed. People even threw things at us, and some would spit at us. However, we did not retreat, but we continued to bear our testimonies and share the gospel. Like Abinadi, we did not shrink; like Paul, we did not shrink; and like the Savior, we did not shrink. At the time we could not have imagined the impact of our labors. We had 14 districts and no stakes. Today, 46 stakes of Zion are found in the British Isles.

We see great blessings as we follow direction from prophets. I remember a very significant example that occurred less than three weeks after my wife, Jill, and I were married. We attended a devotional where the President of the Church at the time, Spencer W. Kimball, spoke about marriage.1 It seemed as if he were speaking directly to us. That one talk helped us set some patterns as we began our marriage and family, and it has helped us avoid the pitfalls the Lord inspired him to warn against. I have reflected over the years how blessed we were to receive that guidance at such a crucial time for us. Now, 47 years later, we are still being blessed because of that counsel we received as a young married couple.

At school there was a girl with a disability. Most people used that as an extra excuse to make fun of her. My friend and I were the only ones who tried to help her. Some days it seemed like the whole class teamed up against her. It was challenging to know how to react. I wanted to just walk away, but I chose to remember that she is a child of God and to think about how Jesus would treat her. I felt the calming effect of the Holy Ghost. I remembered that I could make a difference. Following the Savior’s example helped me a lot, and I knew everything would be OK.
In my baptismal covenants I am promised to always have the Holy Ghost with me if I act as the Savior would. I’m grateful to have felt that comfort and strength from the Holy Ghost.
Alexis L., 13, Kansas, USA

Years ago, our family purchased some land in beautiful Cache Valley, Utah. We called it the “farm.” We had always lived in large cities, so the thought of spending a part of each summer at the farm seemed very exciting. In a family home evening, we talked about things we wanted to do at the farm. We decided that every family member should have cowboy boots. We agreed, however, that all of the children would earn the money to pay for their own boots by doing chores.
One Saturday morning, our six-year-old son, Paul, happily announced at breakfast that he had completed all of his chores. He had enough money to buy the boots he had seen at the western store. He was the first child to earn enough money, and he was very proud. “Can we go to the store today, Dad?” he asked.
Paul had been taught about tithing as early as he could understand how to count money. I asked if he had paid his tithing on the money he had earned. His hands began to shake, and his face turned white. He had not returned to the Lord His share as tithing. Paul’s disappointment in thinking he might have to wait was very great.
He had often paid tithing. He understood tithing, but it never occurred to him that Heavenly Father would expect him to share his precious boot money. I think I even saw a tear in his eye.
I did not tell Paul what he must do. He already knew what Heavenly Father expected. I simply waited for him to choose the right. After a long pause, he asked for more chores so that he could be honest with the Lord before he bought his boots. It was another week before the new assignments were completed and the boots could be bought.
After deciding to share his boot money with Heavenly Father, Paul had learned forever to pay his tithing.
Some lessons we have to learn only once.

Christmas that year had promised to be one of our best ever. Jim had graduated from dental school earlier in the year, and we had expected that he would open his own office soon and that we would have plenty of money for a wonderful Christmas. I dreamed of new clothes, new Christmas decorations, fruitcake baking in the oven, and gifts for everyone.
Instead, our lives were in turmoil for months. It had been more difficult than I had imagined to leave our cozy apartment and good friends and move to a different part of the country. The move had depleted what was left of our scanty bank account, and new bills were piling up.
Then I became pregnant with our second child, nearly lost the baby, and was required to severely limit my activities. Jim was gone for what seemed endless hours, working late night after night trying to get the new business ready to open. When he was home, he was cheerful and good company, but I had never felt so alone.
The business finally opened its doors in November—one month later than we had planned—which left us behind on paying our bills. Earlier in the year, we had comforted ourselves with the belief that by this time, money would be coming in from Jim’s new dental practice. But it wasn’t happening yet. We had little money for food—and no money for anything extra.
I became more depressed as Christmas approached. We squeezed a few dollars from the budget to buy some storybooks and a toy for our eighteen-month-old son, Erik. I told myself that gifts under the tree were of no real importance, and that the spirit of Christmas was what truly mattered. But I just couldn’t feel that Christmas spirit.
I gift-wrapped the books and the toy and placed them under our much-used, second-hand artificial Christmas tree. We set up our cardboard Nativity scene and strung a few mismatched ornaments around the room.
When Christmas morning arrived, we carried Erik to the tree to open his presents. There was a lump of sadness in my throat as he opened his gifts. Where was the joy I was supposed to feel?
Then Jim put his arm around my shoulders and placed a small package on my lap. My fingers trembled as I tore away the wrapping paper and found a red velvet box. I couldn’t believe it! Only expensive gifts came in boxes like that. Where could Jim have found the money?
As I opened it, my heart seemed to stop. Inside was the pendant Jim had given me for an earlier Christmas, before we were married. With it was a note: “With love—again. Jim.”
My eyes filled with tears as I realized that the pendant represented his love for me. The ache in my heart vanished and was replaced by a feeling of inexpressible love and joy. I felt the spirit of Christmas at last.
I will never forget the lesson a compassionate husband taught me that Christmas morning—that love is the most precious gift of all.

Primary children in Perth, Australia, shared Jesus’s warmth by giving blankets to older women in their ward. At Easter time in Australia, the temperature starts to cool down for autumn before winter comes. Children often receive a new pair of warm winter pajamas with chocolate eggs on Easter morning. Warm pajamas and blankets can remind us of the warmth of Jesus Christ’s love.
1. They went to the store together to pick out the blankets.
2. They also made flower crafts, painted wooden Easter eggs, and decorated cards to go with the blankets.
3. Then they delivered the blankets. They enjoyed working together to bring the Savior’s love to others at Easter time.
Here’s the letter the children sent with the blankets!
We hope that through the winter you can use this small gift to feel the warmth of our love and to always remember that the Savior’s love wraps around you.
Love,
The Primary children
I enjoyed being able to join in and do something together. The shopping trip was the best, and we got to choose the colors of the blankets. It was a fun and happy experience.
Robert D., age 9
We liked seeing the smiling faces of the women in our ward when we gave them the blankets.
Micah and Hyrum M., ages 10 and 8
I had a lot of fun doing something nice for the older people in our ward.
Miley N., age 8
Illustrations by Sophie Loren Moran. May be copied for Church use only.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, left their home in Scotland and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
The nine remaining Miller children continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. They left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.

I shall never forget one night almost three decades ago. My bride, Patricia, and I had been married for two years. We lived in a small duplex on Oahu’s north shore. I was an army infantry officer, a platoon leader, assigned to a unit at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Our brigade had been ordered to war in Vietnam. My plane was scheduled for departure after midnight, and a good Latter-day Saint friend had agreed to take me to the airfield at 11:00 p.m.
All through that long evening, Pat and I sat on the sofa in our tiny living room with our fingers intertwined, watching the hands of the clock approach the fateful hour and listening to the soft lapping of the surf against the shore. The ticking of the clock seemed a metronome of mortality in painful contrast to the muffled rushing of the eternal sea. At last the hour of parting arrived. Inside the doorway to our little home, I clutched my bride to my bosom and kissed her one last time, and then I was gone. As I closed the door, I wondered if I had seen my sweetheart for the last time in mortality. It was truly night.
My friend and I drove silently in the darkness through the sugarcane and pineapple fields of Oahu. My heart felt as though it would break. Then as we passed Schofield, an unseen infantry unit on night maneuvers fired a flare. Its brilliance momentarily lit the inky darkness and seemed to ignite a spiritual flame in the blackness that invested my soul. My thoughts were drawn away from this saddest of days to the very happiest: back to that beautiful December day when Pat and I had entered the holy temple and there were sealed to each other, not just for this life only but for all eternity. I thought of the eternal covenants we had made. Like the sunrise, it dawned on me that no matter what happened in the uncertain future just ahead, Pat would always be mine. When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. In the spirit of a renewed hope and peace born of faith and understanding, we talked and laughed softly before once more bidding each other good-bye. It was only midnight, but for me the sun was already rising.

Sister Clark and I know this promise is true. In October 2004, Elder David A. Bednar was sustained as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles; BYU-Idaho needed a new president. One of my colleagues, also a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, stopped me at school and asked if I would be interested in the president’s job at BYU-Idaho. I said, “If President Hinckley asked me to do it, I would do it. But I don’t think it makes sense professionally.”
As soon as I said those words, I got a sick feeling in my stomach, and the Spirit whispered to me, “Wrong answer!” I went home and told Sue, and she looked at me and said, “Well, we better think about that.” From that moment until the phone call from President Gordon B. Hinckley on May 25, 2005, Sue and I had a marvelous experience. Little by little the Lord changed our hearts. Through the power of the Holy Ghost, the Lord educated our desires to want what He wanted. [19] It happened! By the time President Hinckley called us, we really wanted to come here. We are so grateful that the Lord in His mercy changed our hearts so that we could come to BYU-Idaho.

Appreciating my ward sisters. For the first two years after my divorce, I was surrounded by supportive and loving friends in the Relief Society presidency. They cried with me, they laughed with me, and I felt close to them. Through my calling I became aware of some of the needs of my ward sisters, and giving service to them helped me keep my perspective and find healing within my own heart.
Other blessings came. My friends in the presidency, worried about my first Valentine’s Day without my husband, sent a beautifully wrapped gift, which was waiting for me when I arrived home from work. Another time they made me “queen for a day.” I was asked to attend an early-morning meeting. When I arrived, a sister was waiting to do my nails. A couple of friends came to do my hair. Then I was told we were going to lunch and out shopping. They purchased a new outfit for me, the first I’d had since the divorce. My heart overflowed, and I felt the Savior’s love through the actions of these sisters.

A young Nauvoo widow with several children, Sister Ellen Douglas, gives a glimpse of the early Relief Society ministrations in a letter dated April 14, 1844, to her parents in England:
“I was taken very ill. … Sometimes I thot I should die and then I thot of my poor children. I prayed for their sakes that I might live. I didn’t pray alone, but many of my brothers and sisters prayed likewise and our prayers were answered.” (Kate B. Carter, comp., Our Pioneer Heritage, Salt Lake City: Daughters of Utah Pioneers, 1960, 3:159.)
After Sister Douglas began to recover, she visited a friend who suggested she “make application to the female Relief Society for some clothing which I needed for myself and family. … I [reluctantly] agreed and we went to one of the sisters [of the Society]. … I told her … while I was sick my children wore out their clothes because I could not mend them, so she said she would do the best she could for me. … In a few days … they brought a wagon and fetched me such a present as I never received before from no place in the world.” (Ibid.)

Some time ago, my wife and I became concerned about a pattern of behavior developing in some of our teenage children during family scripture study, family home evenings, and even our impromptu, one-on-one gospel-centered conversations. They were meeting a minimum learning standard—a physical presence, occasional eye-contact, and one-word answers—but they were not engaging in active learning.
We knew that in order for them to gain strong testimonies and to experience deep, personal conversion by the power of the Holy Ghost, they needed to do more. The Savior wants His disciples to not just hear His words—He wants them to act on His teachings with faith (see Teaching in the Savior’s Way [2016], 30).
One night we talked with them about our feelings. Our intent was to counsel with them in a Spirit-guided discussion. Our discussion, however, quickly deteriorated into a one-way lecture. Our boys heard our message, but their minds and hearts remained unaffected.
That experience troubled us, so my wife and I began to ponder how we could help our children become more proactive in their gospel learning, inspiring them to act instead of being acted upon by our speeches and lectures. Our questions led us to develop a plan based on what we learned from searching the scriptures, the words of latter-day prophets, and other Church resources related to teaching and learning. Our plan reads:
Cultivate love and respect. Love softens hearts. Expressions of love will help prepare our children for the influence of the Holy Ghost. It will also nurture their desire and willingness to engage in active, spiritual learning. Respecting our children by listening to and validating their perspective and feelings will help them feel safer and more willing to share what they are feeling.
Teach by the Spirit. Carefully observing and listening to our children will prepare us to discern by the Spirit what to say next, what question to ask, or what invitation to extend that will lead them to seek the Holy Ghost’s influence in their learning.
Anchor every discussion in the word of God. While sharing our own thoughts and opinions about the gospel together can be helpful, the scriptures and the words of latter-day prophets will often provide a deeper, more powerful connection to the Spirit (see D&C 84:45).
Make the Savior the basis of all gospel-centered discussions. Substance and power will come to our discussions as our children see how what we are discussing relates to the Savior and His Atonement, “the very root of Christian doctrine” (Boyd K. Packer, “The Mediator,” Ensign, May 1977, 56).
Ask inspiring questions. Effective questions will lead our children to draw truth and understanding directly from the scriptures and words of the prophets with the Spirit’s help. What they learn in that way will mean more to them than our clearest explanations of the very same material.
Encourage family members to do the talking. When our children use their own words to express what they are seeing, thinking, or feeling, they invite the Holy Ghost to help them know what to say and how to say it. That process will help them see and understand more clearly what the Lord wants them to learn and feel.
Be patient! The Holy Ghost will work with our children as they search their minds and hearts for truth and understanding. We need to resist the temptation to cut their search short by prematurely jumping in with personal opinions and self-conceived solutions.
Lead by example. Striving to learn and live the gospel in the same way we ask of our children will help us qualify for the support and guidance of the Spirit in our discussions.
As we’ve tried to implement our plan, we are learning that inviting the influence of the Holy Ghost into our family discussions will take practice and time. But we refuse to get discouraged or give up. Just the other night, our 10-year-old daughter, prompted by a verse from the Book of Mormon we were reading as a family, asked in sweet sincerity, “How do you learn by the Holy Ghost?” I smiled. I knew we were getting somewhere!