Gospel Story Finder

The Russian guard lifted the gate blocking the way from the old pre-World War II Russian military hospital to the main road. The girls and their leaders drove through the gate in silence. They had all been excited for the service project, but none of them had imagined how thankful they would be feeling after the project was over.
The young women of the Berlin Servicemen’s Ward in Berlin, Germany, had just spent the afternoon with thirty-two Russian children who had been exposed to radiation during the Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion. The children had been sent to Beelitz, which was part of the former East Germany, for thirty days of treatment, and then another group of children would be sent in.
The girls had played with hula hoops with the children. They bounced foam rubber balls on a parachute, and then, in another game, they tried to clear all the balls from one side of a room to the other before the whistle blew. Before they left, the girls gave each child a little bag of fruit, a stick of gum, and a small present which contained a notebook, pen, and three colored pencils.
Once they were on the main road, the silence broke. But the car wasn’t filled with the loud noises of happiness that usually accompany groups of girls. The voices were hushed, and everyone was feeling tender about what they had just experienced.
They had gone to uplift the ailing children. But much to their surprise, the children had done the same for them.
The children sang songs, danced, and even put on a skit of “Cinderella” for the girls. Although they couldn’t understand the children, that didn’t slow things down. Seventeen-year-old Elisabeth Farnsworth says, “The language barrier didn’t matter because we were able to communicate through our spirits.”
When the children finished their program, they asked the young women to sing for them. “As we stood to sing ‘I Am a Child of God’ to these children, who didn’t understand English, tears came to my eyes,” says Elisabeth. “I received the feeling that what we sang was true and that, even though we speak a different language and come from different countries, we all are children of the same Heavenly Father who knows what each of us needs. He does love each of his children. These children were away from their families, and they needed to know that they were loved.” The Lord had provided that love through the young women.
“I learned a lesson that will certainly stay with me through the rest of my life,” says Tina Dorny, 17. She made friends with an eight-year-old boy named Sascha, who clung to a piece of a toy train track the entire time the girls were there. “For just a moment, Sascha taught me to find happiness in the little things we are given and not to be so caught up in the world that we forget each other.”
The children as well as the doctors and nurses were delighted with the visit and asked the girls to please come again. So they made arrangements to come the following Friday, only this time they would bring food, clothing, and copies of the Book of Mormon in Russian. The project turned out to be such a success that the young women of the stake have continued visiting the Russian children each month, and will do so as long as the children are receiving treatment in Beelitz.
Each of the girls left the hospital that afternoon having felt the Spirit in some way. Elisabeth wasn’t the only one to say, “While I was serving, I felt the Spirit as strongly as I have ever felt it.”
The car turned; the girls could see their own meetinghouse in the distance. Spontaneously, they began singing “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). They now understood what King Benjamin meant when he said, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

Oliver and Rosetta Snow, Eliza’s parents, taught their children to listen to people with different religious beliefs and choose for themselves. Eliza soon realized that with so many diverse religious practices, she searched for something firmly founded in Bible teachings. In the fall of 1830, when Eliza was 26, the Snows heard about Joseph Smith, “a Prophet to whom the Lord was speaking from the heavens”—the very model that she had been looking for since her childhood. As much as she wanted the news to be legitimate, she wrote, “I considered it a hoax—too good to be true.” Eliza continued to study the ancient prophets in order to learn their patterns.3
In the winter of 1831–32, Joseph Smith came to the Snow home. As he sat by the fire, Eliza “scrutinized his face as closely as I could without attracting his attention, and decided that his was an honest face.” Even so, her investigative nature led her to observe what happened over time. She attended a local meeting where Joseph and two Book of Mormon witnesses spoke, and she was deeply impressed. Her mother and sister, Rosetta and Leonora, believed and were baptized that spring.4 Still Eliza waited, studying the Book of Mormon, watching and listening.
In the spring of 1835, Rosetta and Leonora went to Kirtland, Ohio, where other Latter-day Saints lived. They returned with stories about the Church, the priesthood, and great spiritual manifestations. Five years had passed since the time Eliza first heard about Joseph Smith. The accounts of her mother and sister brought Eliza an undeniable witness of the truth. She had waited until she knew it was true. “My heart was now fixed,” she wrote. She decided to be baptized.5
Even then, baptism was a challenge for Eliza, a humble woman who followed social rules and propriety. She prayed for someone to come baptize her, but no one came. When she heard of a meeting of the Saints about two miles from home, she asked her father’s permission to go and be baptized—as an adult, she respected her father, and he readily consented. At the meeting, there was no discussion about baptism, but Eliza gained courage to stand up and request the privilege. Before she could arise, a dark fear came over her. She pushed through the fear and was baptized in a nearby stream on April 5, 1835. “From that day to this I have not doubted the truth of the work,” she wrote.
That night, Eliza reflected on her baptism: “I felt an indescribable, tangible sensation, … commencing at my head and enveloping my person and passing off at my feet, producing inexpressible happiness.” She saw in a vision a candle with a long, bright flame, and a voice told her, “The lamp of intelligence shall be lighted over your path.” She was satisfied.6
Eliza moved to Kirtland to join the Saints for a time and taught school. When she returned to her family’s home at the end of the term, her old friends and neighbors asked about the “strange people” with whom she associated. “I was exceedingly happy in testifying of what I had both seen and heard,” she later wrote. Eliza determined to change her life and live permanently with the Latter-day Saints. Her conversion deepened even further in 1837 when she lived with Joseph Smith and his family. Again, she observed. “I had ample opportunity of judging his daily walk and conversation,” she recalled. She saw much more than the miraculous events of the Kirtland Temple dedication—she saw the life and relationships of a prophet of God. “The more I made his acquaintance, the more cause I found to appreciate him in his divine calling.”7
Thirty-seven years after her baptism, with a heart firmly fixed through persecutions in Missouri and the eventual assassination of Joseph Smith, Eliza remained a committed Latter-day Saint. On June 22, 1872, she shared about her conversion with a group of women in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA: “When I heard it announced that the Lord had spoken from heaven and a record had been brought forth I was deeply interested. I prayed unto the Lord to let me know if the work were true, covenanting with him if he did so that I would ever praise his name.” After her baptism, she said, she attended Church meetings. “We were called upon to speak; I dared not refuse for I had promised God I would ever praise his name in the congregation of the Saints.”8 Her continual conversion required her continued witness.
Eliza bore her testimony over a thousand times as she traveled throughout Utah Territory to teach the Relief Society, young women, and Primary children about the Restoration. Her heart was fixed, and she invited others to experience their own conversions and become firm and steadfast.

The organ music was solemn and low, and a reverent silence fell over the congregation as the pallbearers entered carrying the simple pine box. A few garden flowers had been lovingly placed on top, and nestled among them was an old mandolin, its worn but polished finish gleaming dully in the dim light. The flickering candles made the large room seem gloomier, although sunlight reflected in here and there between the rough-hewn logs.
The organ seemed out of place in this rugged wilderness. There were few luxuries in this early western settlement, and the small organ, brought all the way across the plains on a wagon, was highly treasured.
Amanda watched little puffs of dust rise from the floor as the pallbearers walked slowly down the aisle.
“The coffin is so small,” she whispered to her mother.
“Your great-grandfather may not have been very tall in stature, but he was a giant in spirit,” Mother whispered back.
Amanda nodded, and bitter tears stung her dark brown eyes. Grandpa’s death was hard for her to understand. He had been light-hearted, always spreading laughter wherever he went. And music. How he loved music!
“Manda, the world would be a sad and sorry place without music,” he had said to her often. “It’s helped me more times than I can recollect, both before and after I left the old country.”
“Tell me a story about the old country, Grandpa. Please?” she used to plead.
“All right, but you know you’ve heard them all before.” His eyes would twinkle as the tale would unfold. “When I was a young lad, my family took care of sheep in the fields surrounding the town. The country was lush and green in the daytime, but at night everything was veiled in shadows. I had the evening watch alone. Sometimes the sheep were restless, so I always took along my old mandolin. I’d sing a quiet song, and it would settle them down. It would ease my mind a bit too. Tending sheep can be mighty lonely. My mandolin has always been a comfort to me, Manda. I’m glad you have learned to play it. Someday I want you to have it.”
A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing longingly behind them as the trail disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.
Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had began to sing along.
The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had looked large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.
The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?
The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.
“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”
Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. She looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.
She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”
The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.
Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.
And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …
Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”
Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.

I was putting a couple of U.S. dollar bills into my wallet at the grocery store when one of the bills caught my eye. I thought the green color was a little lighter than the others, so I examined it closer. Then I noticed the image of President George Washington didn’t look quite as sharp. Even the paper felt wrong. It was counterfeit! The clerk exchanged it for a genuine dollar bill and then turned the counterfeit bill over to the store manager.
I have thought a lot about that counterfeit dollar bill since then. I wondered how long it had been in circulation and how many people it had fooled over the years. In fact, had I not been paying attention, I might have been fooled as well. But by comparing it against the real thing and focusing on the differences instead of the similarities, I could tell it was counterfeit.
The best defense we have against being fooled by Satan’s counterfeits is to be as familiar as possible with truths of the gospel. The more deeply we know the truth, the easier it will be to spot the differences when Satan presents us with his counterfeits. So when he does, we need to look for the differences and not the similarities, just like I did with my dollar bills, because that is where the lies will always be revealed.
Our “counterfeit” enemy is smart, but like Gideon and Alma, we can be smarter. Just as I began to gradually recognize the differences between my pair of dollar bills, we can gradually train our eye as well as our mind and spirit to recognize the differences between truth and lies. As we do so, we will recognize the counterfeiters and resist their lies.

As Joseph studied the plates, a respected landowner in Palmyra named Martin Harris had become interested in his work. Martin was old enough to be Joseph’s father and had sometimes hired Joseph to help on his land. Martin had heard about the gold plates but had thought little about them until Joseph’s mother invited him to visit with her son.3
Joseph was out working when Martin stopped by, so he questioned Emma and other family members about the plates. When Joseph arrived home, Martin caught him by the arm and asked for more details. Joseph told him about the gold plates and Moroni’s instructions to translate and publish the writing on them.
“If it is the devil’s work,” Martin said, “I will have nothing to do with it.” But if it was the Lord’s work, he wanted to help Joseph proclaim it to the world.
Joseph let Martin heft the plates in the lockbox. Martin could tell something heavy was there, but he was not convinced it was a set of gold plates. “You must not blame me for not taking your word,” he told Joseph.
When Martin got home after midnight, he crept into his bedroom and prayed, promising God to give all he had if he could know that Joseph was doing divine work.
As he prayed, Martin felt a still, small voice speak to his soul. He knew then that the plates were from God—and he knew he had to help Joseph share their message.4

On a Sunday morning a few years ago, Donald Pinnell, now president of the Amarillo Texas Stake, was attending church in his branch in Tucumcari when suddenly someone brought him the alarming news, “Brother Pinnell, your home is on fire!”
President Pinnell quickly found his two sons, ages twelve and sixteen, and headed toward his ranch. His first thoughts were of his wife who had stayed home that day recuperating from recent surgery. He had no word about her until the driver of a returning fire truck stopped along the way to tell him she was safe.
Brother and Sister Pinnell had just built their dream home, a Spanish-style house on their ranch fifty miles out in the country. It was a very nice home and a source of great pleasure to their family.
As he and his boys approached the top of the terrain, they could see in the distance the smoke coming from their burning home. Donald Pinnell said of that moment, “We could tell that our home was completely engulfed in flames; and I just stopped the car at the top of the hill for a few minutes. I said to my sons, ‘Now look, you can spend all your life storing up treasures of the earth, and you can sit on a hill and watch them go up in flames, or you can store up the right kind of treasures and take them with you through eternity.’”
The right kind of treasures are our families and those divine attributes and qualities of character that are taught and learned in gospel-centered homes.
May we make the necessary individual and family course corrections which will put the Lord and our families first and fill our homes with these eternal treasures, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Sometimes you wonder, “Do I really have much power to encourage others to serve?” You have more power than you think. Let me give you an example. Several years ago I had a stake conference assignment in a small mining town.

As I visited with the stake president prior to leaving, he said, “Do you have time to visit with a young man? This young man is a good young man. He always planned on going on a mission. But just recently he said he isn’t going. We’ve talked to him, and we can’t seem to make any difference. Would you talk to him?” I said I’d be happy to.

The young man had grown up active in the Church, but he had seen his father in and out of work in the mines. Just before this young man turned 19, he had a job in a store. The manager was so impressed with him that he said, “If you’ll take this job right now, I’ll make you the assistant manager, and in a couple of years you’ll be the manager.”

“I was planning on going on a mission,” he said.

The manager said, “Well, you can do whatever you want, but you’ll lose this job. I need you right now.”

Well, he thought about it. He had a girlfriend named Jill. And he thought, “I really love Jill. If I get this job, I won’t have to work at the mine. We can get a house. We can get married and have a family.” So he made up his mind that he wasn’t going on a mission because he had this tremendous opportunity.

He talked to his father, and his father did everything he could to persuade him to go on a mission. He couldn’t persuade him. The father asked his son to talk to the bishop. The bishop couldn’t persuade him. The stake president couldn’t persuade him. I talked to him, and I couldn’t persuade him. He was determined to work at this store.

Finally, when it became evident that he wasn’t going to go, his father said, “Well, what are your plans?”

“I’m going to marry Jill.”

“What does Jill have to say about it?”

“Well, I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“How do you know she’ll even marry you?”

He had just assumed that she would.

His dad told him, “You’d better talk to Jill.”

So he explained to Jill about this great job and how he would make good money. Finally, he said, “You know, with this job we can buy a house. We can start a family.”

Jill asked, “Are you proposing to me?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so.”

“What about your mission?”

“I’ve already told you that if I go on a mission, I’ll lose this job. If I lose the job, we won’t have the income. We won’t be able to get married. We won’t be able to have a home.”

Now, remember, four priesthood brethren—father, bishop, stake president, and General Authority—couldn’t sway him.

Jill looked at him and said, “No mission, no Jill.”

He was in the bishop’s office the next day filling out his papers to go on his mission.

He served a mission, and while he was serving, Jill married someone else. But he had been out on his mission long enough that he had gained a solid testimony.

When this elder came home after serving a wonderful mission, he went to his folks and said, “I’ve decided I’m going to go on to college.”

They almost fainted and said, “No one in our family has gone to college. How can you do that?”

“I don’t know, but I talked to my mission president, and he said he thought it was a good idea and, if it was right, the Lord would prepare the way.” And the Lord did prepare a way. He was a smart young man. He eventually became a dentist, married a wonderful woman, and they raised a great family.

Now the sequel to this story is that not very many years after he had started his dental practice in a different area—guess what happened? They closed the mine, in effect, closing the town. And the store that was such a big thing to him years earlier closed. It couldn’t stay in business.

What if he had followed the dictates of man or just his own feelings? He might have married Jill, and they would have had a mortgage they couldn’t have paid and a house they couldn’t have sold.

“Step on red, and you love Tami Cobb,” Travis whispered as we filed down the hall behind our teacher, headed for the cafeteria. Twenty-five pairs of shoes, including my own sandals, zigged, zagged, and leaped to miss the red-tiled squares.
Mrs. Simon stopped and faced us. “Where’s my nice straight line?” she asked, not smiling.
We straightened up. All but Tami, whose head hung down. Her stringy red hair looked as if she hadn’t washed it for weeks. No doubt she had that ugly, mean look on her freckled face—the one it always had. I tucked my own red hair behind my ears, glad it wasn’t as bright as Tami’s—and my freckles not quite as dark. Mrs. Simon turned back around, and we continued to the cafeteria. Shoes still skipped over red tiles, but more quietly this time.
“You’re Tami Cobb’s twin sister,” Zachary said to me as we ate our lunches.
Tami looked up at me as she nibbled on the corner of her sandwich. Her dark eyes looked afraid—and hopeful.
“Am not!” I protested.
Tami looked back down at her crumpled brown lunch bag. I felt bad, but it wasn’t my fault. Maybe if she washed her hair once in a while, and stuck up for herself instead of making ugly faces all the time, people wouldn’t pick on her so much!
At recess a bunch of us played tetherball. Tami stood alone by the fence, watching. I didn’t dare ask her to join us, or Zachary would call me “Tami Cobb’s sister” again, for sure. Besides, no one would touch the ball after Tami touched it. Everything Tami touched was automatically considered to have cooties. “Touch Tami’s paper, and you’ll get cooties,” someone always whispered when we passed our papers to the front of the class to be graded.
That night the missionaries came to dinner. It was nice outside, so Dad barbecued hamburgers and hot dogs on the back porch.
“Becca, I think you know one of the investigators we’re baptizing this Saturday,” Elder Ryan said, bouncing my little brothers on his knees while we waited. “She says she’s in your class at school.”
“Who?” I asked, surprised and excited. Maybe it was Brittany. She was so pretty, and everyone liked her. Or maybe Heidi. Yes, I hoped it was Heidi. We always got the giggles together during music class when Mrs. Bradley’s voice quavered on the high notes. Then there was Alix and Kira and Emily. “Who is it?” I begged, bouncing on the edge of my lawn chair.
“Tami Cobb. We’re baptizing her whole family.”
“That’s great!” Mom said. “Isn’t that great, Becca? You’ve always wanted to have a friend at school who’s a member of the Church.”
“Yeah, great,” I mumbled. I knew that I should be happy, but I wasn’t.
The next day at school, I caught Tami watching me. Every time I glanced in her direction, she was looking at me. I wanted to say something to her, but I didn’t dare. Anyone who talked to her was teased all day long.
That night the phone rang. My dad answered, then covered the receiver with his hand. “Becca, it’s the missionaries. They want to know if you’ll sing a Primary song at Tami Cobb’s baptism on Saturday. Tami requested you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Tami knew I liked to sing, because I always volunteered to lead the class in “America the Beautiful” each morning. And just last week I sang a solo in music class for extra credit. Tami had me trapped. There was no good reason why I shouldn’t sing at her baptism—except one.
I looked at Mom. She was smiling and nodding her head. “I’ll play for you,” she volunteered.
I was doubly trapped. “Oh, all right,” I agreed reluctantly. At least no one else from school would be there to see.
At the baptism on Saturday, Elder Ryan spoke about the baptismal covenant as explained in the Book of Mormon. “When you are baptized, you promise Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ that you will bear one another’s burdens,” he explained, “and stand as a witness of God at all times, even until death.”
I remembered my dad reading those words* at my own baptism last year, but they didn’t bother me then.
“We are all children of the same Heavenly Father,” Elder Ryan continued. “That’s why we call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister.’ When we are baptized, we also take upon us the name of Jesus Christ, which makes us brothers and sisters in the gospel, as well.”
As I sang my song, I sneaked a peek at Tami. She smiled at me. She was pretty when she smiled! It made me all warm inside, just looking at her.
I knew what I had to do.
At school Monday morning, Mrs. Simon picked us up from the gym as usual, and we began our single-file trek to our classroom to start the day. Travis whispered his usual line about Tami, and everyone began hopping over the red tiles. Except me. “Knock it off, you guys,” I said. “It isn’t funny.”
Mrs. Simon stopped and faced us. She raised her eyebrows at me and waited.
“Becca is Tami’s sister,” I heard Zachary whisper, followed by several snickers.
My face grew warm. Tami looked back at me, her eyes afraid—and hopeful.
“Would you like to repeat what you said so the whole class can hear you, Zachary?” Mrs. Simon asked.
Zachary shook his head.
My heart thumped as I raised my hand. I was going to keep my baptismal covenant and help bear Tami’s burden, even if it killed me. After all, red hair wasn’t the only thing we had in common. We were sisters.
“Yes, Becca?” Mrs. Simon said.
I swallowed hard. “Zachary said that I’m Tami Cobb’s sister.” I smiled at Tami. “And it’s true.”

1828–1905
“Nothing other than pure devotion to [my] faith has brought me here.”
He was a M?ori chief in New Zealand.
When missionaries came to their country, he and his wife, Mere, joined the Church.
He went to Utah to do temple work for his people.
He went back to New Zealand as a missionary. He did family history work there and taught the gospel.
As quoted in the Salt Lake Tribune, July 20, 1894, 8.

“Mother is such a special person. When Dad was called on a mission to Europe after World War II, Mother was left with six small children. I was the youngest and soon became so sick that the doctors said I might die.

“Mother took me to President George Albert Smith, who gave me a special blessing.

“When I was better, she wrote to Dad that it was a relief to have me well again. Dad was so concerned that he tried to make a long-distance telephone call. In those days you were lucky to get your call placed in a matter of many hours. Dad said he got down on his knees, intending to stay there in prayer until the operator got the call through. It wasn’t long, however, until he heard Mother’s voice saying that all was well.”

Katy and her mother did not agree on many important things. Like rock collections. One day Katy took all her dolls and stuffed animals off her bed. She put her rock collection in their place. “I like rocks better than dolls,” said Katy.
“Katy, you’re impossible,” said Mother. Mother liked dolls much better. She liked anything that was dainty, neat, or ruffled.
That’s why Katy’s mother didn’t like Rex.
Katy had found the scruffy old dog in a vacant lot. He was very big and very dirty. Katy brought him home and cleaned him up. She thought that he was beautiful.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a little poodle?” asked Mother after they were sure he didn’t belong to anyone else. “You could put a bow in its hair, and it could sleep next to your bed.”
“Nope. I like real dogs,” said Katy.
Mother sighed. “Katy, you’re impossible.”
Mother banished Rex to the backyard, but sometimes Katy sneaked him chocolate chip cookies and cherry gelatin.
When Mother decided to send Katy to ballet class, Katy moaned, “I don’t want to wear one of those dumb little dresses.”
“They’re called tutus,” said Mother.
“I don’t care what they’re called. I won’t wear one.”
“You don’t have to wear it all the time, just for performances,” said Mother.
“Performances! I’m not going to get up in front of people in that thing and dance on my toes. I don’t like that sissy stuff,” said Katy.
“Katy, ballet is not sissy stuff. You have to practice hard and be very strong to be a ballerina.”
“I won’t do it.” Katy stuck out her chin.
“You have to,” said Mother. “I’ve already paid for the first month’s lessons. You start on Saturday.”
Katy went outside and sat down on the back steps. “This is the last straw,” she said to Rex. “She doesn’t understand me at all. She can’t be my mother.”
Rex nuzzled her. Katy reached into her pocket and gave him half a baloney sandwich.
“I bet I got switched with another baby at the hospital when I was born!” said Katy. A little pocket of worry started to grow in her heart. “Maybe I’d better check, just in case,” she said as she hugged Rex.
Katy rode her bike to Dr. Bigelow’s office.
The nurse said that the doctor was busy, but Katy hung around the waiting room until she saw him. “Doctor Bigelow,” she yelled as she ran past the nurse, “the night I was born, you didn’t close your eyes for a few minutes, did you?”
The doctor laughed. “Of course not. In fact, I was very busy that night. Another baby was born just about the same time you were.”
“Do you remember who the mother was?”
“Certainly. It was Mrs. Douglas Carr. She had a little girl too. Her name is Pamela. They’re still patients of mine.”
Katy left the doctor’s office and found a phone booth. She looked up Douglas Carr in the phone book, then got back on her bike and rode as fast as she could.
She thought about Pamela Carr. Pamela was probably a very neat person. She would be happy living at Katy’s house with a room full of dolls and ruffles.
The Carrs lived on Florian Drive. As Katy rang the bell, her stomach felt like it did on the first day of school. A pretty redheaded lady opened the door.
“Is Mrs. Carr here?”
“I’m Mrs. Carr.”
“Do you have a daughter named Pamela?”
“Why yes. You must be a friend of hers. Pam, come here.”
The girl came and stood beside her mother. They could have been twins! They had the same curly red hair and the same beautiful smiles.
“I guess I made a mistake,” stammered Katy. She’d never felt so stupid in her whole life, but she also felt relieved.
Katy didn’t want to go home yet, so she went to Grandma’s house, instead.
“Katy, where have you been? Your mother has been looking all over for you,” said Grandma. She called Katy’s mother to tell her where Katy was, then she poured a glass of milk and cut a piece of angel food cake for Katy. “Now, tell me what the trouble is.”
Katy told her the whole story.
“Oh dear! You actually thought that the hospital had switched babies?”
Katy nodded.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Grandma went into the other room and came back with a family photo album. She showed Katy a picture of a little girl hanging upside down from a tree. She was making a face at the camera. On the next page was another picture of the same little girl dressed up in a cowboy suit. She looked like Katy’s kind of person. “These are pictures of your mother when she was little,” said Grandma.
“Oh no—it can’t be!” Katy exclaimed. She stared at the pictures. “What happened to her? She sure has changed.”
“She grew up,” said Grandma. “You will, too, someday, but you will still be unique.”
“Does that mean I still have to go to dancing school?”
“Dancing school never hurt anyone. You might even like it.”
Katy sighed. Even Grandma had turned against her.
“There are other kinds of dancing, you know,” said Grandma. “Perhaps you would like tap dancing better than ballet. You get to have taps on your shoes and make a lot of noise. And you don’t have to wear a tutu. Would you like me to talk to your mother about it?”
“Yes, please,” said Katy. She hugged her grandmother. “I’m glad I’m who I am, because you’re the best Grandma in the whole world!”
At the next dance recital, Katy was dressed like Uncle Sam and tapped her way through “Yankee Doodle.” Her parents sat in the front row so that Mother could take pictures of Katy as she danced.
Katy smiled extra big. After all, you never know who might be looking at those pictures someday!

My daughters and I baked the cake. We frosted the cake! We even picked out some epic candles that said “Happy Birthday” on them—one letter per candle. We would present the cake in a scenic riverside picnic spot.
My wife’s birthday party was shaping up to be one my family would never forget. And, um, we certainly haven’t forgotten it.
My wife, April, normally makes all the birthday cakes in our family, including her own (by her choice). This time, though, my girls and I wanted to step it up. As Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “We need to both express and demonstrate love.”1 We were ready to bring some razzle-dazzle.
The razzle-dazzle, however, got off to a bumpy start, as the cake came out of the oven dry and crumbly. No problem! That’s what extra frosting is for.
With all signs of dryness buried beneath the welcome folds of buttercream frosting, my daughters helped me encase the whole cake in plastic wrap so we could transport it. We would soon learn that this product happens to cling to everything it touches with the tenacity of an octopus in a death grip.
Once we were in our epic picnic spot, we presented the cake to April. I was proud of our fine work and how the night was coming together. It was time to remove the wrapping.
Much to our dismay, the plastic wrap turned octopus gashed out great swaths of perfection as it ripped loose huge slabs of frosting. And because we’d baked it dry, the cake itself crumbled freely once relieved of its frosting infrastructure.
That was about the time April lost her ability to suppress her first chuckle.
Photograph courtesy of the author
The heat of the day started taking its own toll. The remaining frosting began to melt and slide off the cake. Naturally, this was the perfect time to add flames!
I hurriedly lit all 13 letter candles of “Happy Birthday.” Then I realized something: half-melted wax letters take on a decidedly creepy effect. That was not quite the birthday look we were going for.
By now, my wife’s chuckles had become all-out peals of laughter. And she got us all laughing along, despite the fiasco. One of my favorite family photos is of April laughing so hard at this train wreck of a cake that she almost appears to be in tears!

I grew up in a family where three generations—my grandparents, parents, two younger brothers, and one aunt—all lived together under the same roof. My grandmother took care of my aunt, who had both intellectual and emotional challenges. After my grandmother passed away, my mother took full responsibility for my aunt and cared for her in our home night and day.
My aunt eventually moved into a community center. Even though it was a long distance away, my mother visited her regularly. After my mother’s death, I became my aunt’s main source of family support. I came to understand how devoted my mother had been. I also became extremely grateful for the attentive people who watched over my aunt.
My own family experience has helped me to understand that caregivers face a variety of challenges. Cultural expectations, family relationships, availability of facilities—all may affect caregivers. But there’s one challenge just about every caregiver faces at some point: fatigue. This can be particularly true when one older person is taking care of another, usually one spouse taking care of the other. In fact, research indicates that caregivers ages 66–96 who are experiencing stress have a 63 percent higher risk of mortality than noncaregivers.1

Earlier this year, my three sons and I visited the sites in France where my father fought in the U.S. Army in World War I. Great was the suffering and terrible were the consequences to all involved in that war. Millions lost their lives. Although my father was not killed, he carried mental and physical scars until he died. Despite his terrifying experiences, he prefaced his diary as follows: “If I had to do it again, I would do it because it was my duty.” As we traveled 80 years later through the beautiful countryside, we visited battle sites and cemeteries of the combatants on both sides. In the military cemetery outside Paris, with my hand resting on Stanford Hinckley’s cross, I called President Hinckley on a cellular phone to express my feelings on that occasion.
World War I was particularly tragic for our family because my father had some second cousins serving on the other side of that conflict in some of the same general battle areas. We eventually became acquainted with these relatives and found them to be decent, God-fearing Christians. They had nothing to do with the grand geopolitics or causes of the war. Like my father, they were serving their country because it was their duty. World War I and the wars that followed brought such great suffering and caused the deaths of countless innocent people. In its simplest terms, wars are so often caused by a great lust for power.

The spring Lanny was born, the Toronto Maple Leafs were in the quarterfinals of the Stanley Cup playoffs—led by the playmaking defense of Borje Salming, the quick goaltending of Mike Palmateer, and the scoring touch of right winger Lanny McDonald.
Mr. O‘Brien was a big Maple Leafs fan. In fact, while his wife was delivering in the hospital in Basques, Mr. O‘Brien watched game 7 of the quarterfinals in the waiting room. By the time the doctor came out to say “It’s a boy,” the Maple Leafs and New York Islanders were locked in a 1–1 overtime battle.
The doctor, who liked a good game of hockey as much as the next Newfie, stayed. And finally, when the CBC [Canadian Broadcasting Corporation] announcer screamed in a breathless frenzy that Lanny McDonald had scored to advance the Leafs to the semifinals against the Montreal Canadiens, both the doctor and Mr. O‘Brien had the same idea: The kid’s name must be Lanny McDonald O‘Brien.
They signed the birth certificate before Mrs. O‘Brien had a chance to slap them both.

James Sweeney taught psychiatry at Tulane University in New Orleans, Louisiana. He directed the school’s biomedical computer center. He had a staff ranging from data programmers to maintenance workers. Sweeney believed he could take even a poorly educated man and, with the right motivation, make him into a competent computer operator. He convinced George Johnson, a janitor at the facility, to spend his free afternoons learning about computers.
Johnson was progressing rapidly when a university administrator told Sweeney the project must stop. All computer operators must pass an IQ test before entering the center. Johnson took the test and flunked. The results indicated he did not have the capacity to learn to type, much less run a computer.
But Sweeney convinced the university officials to allow Johnson to stay on, promising positive results. Within months, Johnson was so proficient at programming that he was asked to train new employees.
Both Johnson and Sweeney succeeded because they were willing to stick with it. As you search for a career, you may find that there is something you feel compelled to do. You will also find that it will become easier as you work at it, that it will become something that you’re good at.

As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.

The Datiles family enjoying a bowling activity. When the children were young, Brother Datiles was struggling to pay tithing because of his failing business. He and his wife set a goal to be full-tithe payers.
Photograph courtesy of the author
Years ago, when my children were young, I went to see my priesthood leader to have my temple recommend renewed. But when he asked if I was a full-tithe payer, I had to tell him I wasn’t. I wanted to be, but I was struggling to pay tithing due to a wrong decision I had made in a failed business.
After listening to my struggles and asking about my financial needs, he kindly and compassionately reminded me about the importance of putting my faith in the Lord and being a full-tithe payer. We then reviewed together what is written in Malachi 3:10: “Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
“I understand that it’s painful for you not to have your temple recommend renewed at this time,” he said. “But the joy you will feel and the blessings you will receive will be much greater after you honorably pay your tithing. We can reconvene for a temple recommend renewal in three to six months.”
After that interview, my wife and I talked and prayed about it. We were sure Heavenly Father knew how much we desired to be back in the temple to participate in sacred ordinances. Going to the temple is so important to us. In the house of the Lord, not only can we provide help to our departed loved ones, but we also experience great joy, peace, and calm. These are all priceless blessings that we can get from making and keeping temple covenants and performing sacred ordinances there. We determined that tithing is less about money and more about placing our faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. And we set a goal to be full-tithe payers and to return to the temple.
Having these goals in mind, we felt impressed to sell our car. It was our only means of comfortably transporting our family, but we had faith that the Lord would bless us if we made this sacrifice. We knew that it would be hard for us to commute in a jeepney holding three young girls while my wife took care of our bags, but we knew that it was the right thing to do to achieve our goals. We began paying our tithing in full.
After three months, I met with my priesthood leader again for a follow-up interview. He asked me about my testimony of tithing, and I was able to tell him I was a full-tithe payer.
My wife and I finally got our temple recommends renewed, and we immediately went back to the temple. We had achieved our goal of returning to the temple to make covenants and receive ordinances in behalf of our ancestors. Windows of heaven started to open. Blessings started pouring in. My feelings of happiness and inner peace were beyond description.
We still commuted using jeepneys and would sometimes miss our stops because we fell asleep at times, but the joy of being full-tithe payers and the blessings of temple worship are greater than any physical hardships.
The blessings continued. After six months, I was promoted at work, where I not only received a higher salary but also qualified for car benefits. After six months, the Lord gave us a new ride—our family once again had a vehicle, now more comfortable than the one we sold.
The Lord kept His promises to me, and by keeping His commandments, I keep my promises to Him too.
The author lives in Laguna, Philippines.

Some time ago I received, without solicitation, a letter whose writer has given permission for me to share it:
“Dear President Hinckley:
“An hour ago I had a very special experience that led me to writing this letter. I was walking on my way home and a sudden feeling came over me that somewhere there is a young man who, except for money, qualifies to serve a mission for the Lord, and that I was to provide him with the necessary funds to serve a mission. I don’t have any idea who and where this young man is, but the feeling came over me that you would know, and I was to put the funds into your hands and see to it that he serves his mission. That left me in tears. I arrived home and asked my wife how she felt after I had told her of the experience that I had just had. [She], of course, consented.
“I am enclosing a check for $3,000, but the figure that came to my mind was $4,000. This is all the money that is available to us at present, but on January 27, we will send in another check for $1,000. I am still in my training as a physician. I have to work extra hours to earn a living for my wife and three daughters, and we do not have money for a down payment on a house. We have been trying for five years to save for a house, and the Lord has blessed us beyond measure.
“Three years ago, a similar feeling came over me, but as we thought about it we felt that the Lord was giving us a signal to be prepared to put at the altar what he requires of us. We decided then that once I am through with my training we will support as many missionaries as our finances will allow us. Tonight there was no doubt that the Lord has asked us to put that money on the altar.
“I am a convert to the Church, … and my wife was born under the sacred covenant. I left my home in Beirut [Lebanon] thirteen years ago. Since age eleven I dreamed of finding the true religion, and fifteen years later I found it. … I have missed death as a child on more than one occasion, but a divine power has saved me every time.
“When I came to America, … I was given no hope of gaining acceptance into a medical school simply because I was not a United States citizen. A voice within me whispered that I would be a physician one day.
“I have attended one of the best schools in the United States on a scholarship. I then went [to another medical school] for a reason totally unknown to me then. … A year later I was miraculously led to Church literature and joined the Church. Nine months later I met my wife, and we were married in the temple three months after we had met.
“As you see, I owe the Lord more than $4,000! He has given me my eyes, my hands to work and earn a living. …
“We … leave the money in your hands to [use] according to the inspiration of the Lord vested in you. … We love all those who labor in this great cause.
“May God bless us all in our service to him!
“Sincerely yours.”
He then signs his and his wife’s names.
That letter, better than any feeble words of mine, breathes the spirit of Christmas, exemplifies the Golden Rule, and speaks with eloquence of the love of Him who gave His life as a sacrifice for all.

Paul Hanks gripped the handle of his canvas duffel bag with a sweaty hand and listened to his mother repeat the instructions that she had been drilling into him all week.
“Now, your bus will get to Cheyenne in the middle of the night, and you’ll have to change bus stations there. Just go outside the depot, look across the street, and you’ll be able to see the other depot. Go over there and buy your ticket right away, even though you’ll probably have a couple of hours before your bus leaves, and—”
“You’ll get to Grandma and Grandpa’s in the middle of the morning!” Paul’s two little sisters, who had heard the speech as many times as he had, finished their mother’s sentence in shrill unison.
“Maybe you should send them, too, Rose,” Paul’s father said with a chuckle. “It’s just a bus trip. He’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Mom,” Paul reassured her. “I remember how the rest of us did it when Dad couldn’t go a couple years ago. I’ll be OK.” Then, thoughtfully, he added what he’d been thinking ever since he’d found out that he’d be going to Wyoming by himself for the summer. “You know, I wish I was going by covered wagon or pulling a handcart. All the challenges are gone now. I’m going to be doing in a few hours what the pioneers spent most of a summer doing—and some of them died in the effort.”
“No challenges!” his mother exclaimed. “I’m worried to death about turning a twelve-year-old boy over to an impersonal bus company, and you’re looking for challenges! I suppose you want to hunt buffalo too!”
Paul grinned. “Well, it might keep me from getting bored.”
Before he could continue, a big silver bus pulled up to the curb, and a voice over a loudspeaker announced that it was the bus to Cheyenne and that it was ready to board. Paul hurriedly hugged his sisters and father, gave his mother a quick kiss, and, hopping that he looked more confident than he felt, boarded the bus. As it pulled out of the depot, he waved from a window seat, then settled back to watch the prairie whiz by.
Paul was sound asleep when the bus reached Cheyenne, and the driver had to wake him. But Paul managed to retrieve the big suitcase that he had checked, and he struggled across the street with it and his duffel bag. He bought his ticket, checked his suitcase again, then bought some cookies and a can of pop from a vending machine. He was glad to go back to sleep again on the bus when he was finally headed north.
Paul was tired of sleeping, tired of sitting, and tired of reading, when the bus pulled into a small rural town in northern Wyoming at midmorning. He was glad to see Grandma and Grandpa Hanks waiting for him. They loaded Paul’s baggage into the back of a battered pickup and, amid lots of hugs and questions about his trip and the family, had him sit between them on the seat.
“We have one stop to make before we go home,” Grandpa told Paul. “If you’re going to be my best hand for the summer, you need some irrigation boots and a shovel.”
“That’s great,” Paul agreed. “I’d love to have my own shovel, but not those hot, heavy rubber boots. I brought a couple pairs of old sneakers. I’ll just use those.”
“But your feet will be wet and muddy all the time,” Grandma protested.
“Now you sound like Mom.” Paul grinned. “A little mud never hurt anyone.”
It was after lunch before Paul and Grandpa Hanks left the house to irrigate.
“You drive,” Grandpa told him as they neared the pickup.
“Me? Oh boy!” Paul climbed in proudly, then found it wasn’t as easy as it looked to work the clutch on the old pickup and back up smoothly. He killed the engine a time or two and jerked the pickup so much that Grandpa had to hold his hat with one hand and the dashboard with the other. Maybe it’s a good thing that the pioneers had horses, Paul thought.
“By the time your father was your age, he could drive everything on the place,” Grandpa said. “Why, I started him guiding the truck across the field while I fed hay to the cows off the back of it when he was only eight years old. When we got to the end of the field, he just turned off the ignition key and waited for me to turn the truck around and start us back. It was a proud day when he could reach the brake and the clutch pedals without getting off the seat and when he could shift gears without taking his eyes off the road. You turn here.”
Paul turned the pickup at the head of a grassy field and stopped beside the dam in the irrigation ditch.
“Whew!” he gasped. “That was fun. I’m too young to drive at home. I wish I could live in the country all the time.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that in a few weeks,” Grandpa replied. “Now let’s walk down the field and see if the water has run all the way through.”
Paul took his new shovel and followed Grandpa down the field. He helped reset the irrigation dam twenty rows from the last setting and learned to carefully shovel cutouts. They had to be just so—too deep, and the turbulent water would wash away the sides of the ditch; too shallow, and the feeble stream of water wouldn’t reach the end of the field. After only a few minutes of digging, the shovel handle had made blisters on Paul’s hands. He was hot and thirsty, and there were two more fields to irrigate before chore time. By the time they had finished irrigating, Paul could almost drive the pickup without it jerking.
Grandpa proudly pointed out the various crops that they passed: a new variety of field corn that was supposed to produce superior silage, a field of alfalfa for hay, a field of oats, and a small field of winter wheat. “Wheat for man, and corn for the ox, and oats for the horse,” Grandpa said, quoting the Word of Wisdom scripture that was familiar to Paul too.
“It’ll be a good crop,” Grandpa said, “if the irrigation water just holds out. We’ll have to make the most of what we have.” He pointed out one field where the water that ran through it would be used on the field below it. “Every drop counts.”
Besides irrigating, the chores that Paul was to help with included feeding a few pigs and a couple calves (Grandma tended the chickens), calling the saddle horses in from pasture for grain, watering the stock, and milking and feeding the milk cow. But when Grandpa saw Paul’s broken blisters, he decided to wait a few days to see if Paul remembered how to milk.
When Grandpa asked the blessing at suppertime, he said, “Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for this fine young man who has come to brighten our days and ease our way …”
That night as Paul settled onto the fluffy feather pillow and cool, smooth sheets with the moonlit tree-limb pattern on them, he decided that he had had enough challenges for one day.
In the next few days the blisters on his hands turned into calluses as Paul followed Grandpa and helped irrigate and rode horseback to move a dozen heifers to a different pasture. He carried heavy buckets for Grandma and still found plenty of time to watch the baby chicks and play with a litter of kittens.
On Saturday afternoon, when he and Grandpa went to make the second irrigation settings of the day, Paul counted the rows to where he thought he should move the dam.
“Not there,” Grandpa told him. “Go more than twice as far.” When he saw that Paul didn’t understand, he explained. “Tomorrow is Sunday. If we spread the water farther, it can run over twice as long. We can leave it safely until early Monday. We’ve labored our six days. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a day of rest.”
They were on the last field, setting long sets with small, shallow cutouts, when Paul heard a splash, a sickening snap, and a cry of pain. He turned in time to see Grandpa sliding in the mud with one leg in an unnatural position under him. Paul ran quickly to him. “Grandpa, are you all right?”
Grandpa grimaced and gasped in pain. “My leg is broken. You’ll have to go for help. Tell your grandma to call for the county ambulance—and don’t you let her get all upset! Tell her I’m going to be fine. Looks like you’ll have to do chores by yourself. Can you do it?”
Paul nodded.
“Now go—and be careful.”
Paul put his shovel over his shoulder and ran toward the pickup. At least we can call the paramedics, he thought. What would I have done on the prairie in a handcart company?
As he drove away, Paul realized that the work he had learned to do would now matter very much. He got help for Grandpa, and the family managed the chores until the ambulance came and Grandpa was taken care of. Paul discovered that the “challenges” he had wished for were real enough, and that he was glad to have a warm bed, modern help, and the chance to serve when he was needed.