Gospel Story Finder

Marci dropped her sleeping bag on the kitchen floor. “I was trapped!” she wailed to her mother. “Just trapped. What else could I do?”
“You really had no choice,” said Mother. “Anyway, I agree with Hoa and her parents. If you had Hoa spend the night with you, then you should be willing to spend a night with her.”
“But, Mom,” groaned Marci. “That’s different. They live in a one-bedroom apartment. Hoa, her little sister, and I will be sleeping in the front room. And that’s part of the kitchen!”
Marci didn’t expect an answer. She could hear the car in the driveway and knew Dad was waiting. Sighing, she picked up her sleeping bag. “Well, I guess I have to go. Hoa would be very hurt if I didn’t.”
As Marci entered the apartment where her friend Hoa lived, Hoa’s mother turned from the stove. “We are most glad you came, Marci. We thank you.”
Marci smiled and put her sleeping bag under the kitchen table. Hoa was pouring rice into a pot. “What are you doing,” Marci asked.
“I always fix the rice for dinner,” answered Hoa. A small face peeked from behind her legs. “This is my little sister, Truc.”
Marci knelt down and touched the little girl on the arm. “Hello, Truc,” she said. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”
Truc waved a few fingers at Marci, and Marci reached for her hand.
“She’s cute,” said Marci. “I would baby-sit her any day.”
Hoa’s mother turned around and asked, “What is ‘baby-sit?’”
“I would watch Truc for you,” answered Marci.
The mother smiled. “No need,” she said. “Where I go, Truc goes or Hoa watches her.”
“Vietnamese do not use baby-sitters,” explained Hoa. She winked at Marci. “But you baby-sit me. I always have to ask you what to do.”
Marci laughed. That was true. She had been explaining different things to her new friend for six months now, ever since Hoa had come to her school.
When the father came home, they sat down for dinner. Marci thought it was very quiet, not like dinner at her house. Everyone spoke softly, and Marci could feel her voice become quieter.
“Does your name have a meaning, Marci?” asked Hoa’s father.
“I don’t understand,” said Marci.
“Vietnamese names have another meaning,” explained Hoa. “Mine means flower. Truc means bamboo.”
Marci studied Hoa. She does look like a flower. Marci looked at Truc. She wasn’t sure she resembled bamboo. “I wish my name did have another meaning, but I don’t think the names of many people in the United States do.”
After dinner, Hoa’s mother began cooking again.
“What are you making, Mother?” asked Hoa.
“For Marci I would like to make pho,” she replied. “We will eat it in the morning.”
“Oh, good!” Hoa smiled and turned to Marci. “Pho is like a soup. It is made with beef and egg noodles. You will like it.”
Marci nodded. She was sitting on the floor and Truc was on her lap. Marci looked around the room. There were no toys. A small television set was perched on a low table, but no one seemed interested in turning it on.
“Truc, have you ever heard the story of Peter Rabbit?” asked Marci.
Truc shook her head, and Marci began the story. Then she told her the story of Cinderella. After that, she related some tales about Daniel Boone and Paul Revere. Hoa and her parents listened too. They had never heard the stories either. When Truc fell asleep, Marci looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock! Hoa’s mother took Truc away to get her ready for bed.
Hoa’s father stood up and bowed. “You are most welcome, Marci. We liked the stories. I hope you have a good time here. Goodnight.”
Marci stood up and made a slight bow back to Hoa’s father. “This is one of the best times I have ever had,” she said.
Hoa yawned and brought out a mat to spread on the floor. Marci pulled her sleeping bag from under the table and put it next to Hoa’s mat. After the girls were ready for bed, Marci crawled into her sleeping bag and looked at Hoa. The warm smell of pho filled the room. “Thank you for asking me,” she whispered. “I’m really glad I came.”

“Andy, don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s not going to rain,” Andy said. “I’ll look silly carrying an umbrella to school when the sun is shining.” But he took the umbrella and headed up the street.

“Why can’t this be the kind of umbrella that folds up small,” he grumbled as he neared the end of his block. “It’s too big to hide under my jacket!”

“Hi, Andy. Are you afraid it’s going to rain?” a group of fourth-graders greeted him as he entered the school playground.

“The weatherman said it would,” Andy defended himself.

“Oh, sure—but this kind of rain is called sunshine,” Kenny teased him with a big grin. The other children laughed.

At recess, the sky was still sunny, and Andy was glad when no one mentioned the umbrella. However, after lunch Kenny appeared on the playground with the umbrella in hand! He held it out to Andy. “I thought that you might want this,” he said. “There’s a cloud in the sky now!” Kenny broke out in a fit of laughter. Other classmates joined in.

Andy was angry, and he bit his lip to keep from saying anything.

But Kenny wouldn’t leave it alone. He jumped up onto the steps of the school building. “Come on, everybody—see the one and only Andy and his famous umbrella,” he shouted. “Step right up. The show’s about to begin!”

Andy felt his face turn red as a large group of children turned and stared at him. “What’s so famous about it?” they asked.

Suddenly Andy remembered what Mom always said: “Try to make the best of things. Don’t let anyone or anything get you down.”

OK, he told himself. I’ll go along with them! He stood up and made a sweeping bow toward his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This may look like a common, ordinary umbrella, but it happens to be very special. Watch—I’ll show you.”

Andy held the closed umbrella by the handle, and with head held high, he strutted around the center of the circle made by the children. “It’s a fancy walking cane,” he explained. “Only very important people use them.”

Then he held the handle close to his face and pointed the tip end toward the sky. “Now it’s a telescope,” he announced. “I see Jupiter and Mars and all the stars, even in the daylight.”

“On guard!” he yelled as he bent his knees in a fencer’s stance. With his other arm held high, he slashed through the air with his “sword.”

The children began to clap. “More! More!” they called out.

With big dramatic motions, Andy opened the umbrella and held it over his head. He stepped along carefully as he pretended to be a circus tightrope walker.

As he neared one of his classmates, he closed the umbrella quickly and poked the pointed end through a piece of paper on the ground. “You see,” he said, “it’s also a good trash picker-upper.”

His classmates were laughing with him now, not at him. “That’s great, Andy,” they said. “What else can you do with it?”

Andy grabbed the middle of the closed umbrella and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle” while he strutted around like a drum major waving a baton. When he stopped, he twirled it around and around in his hand.

Finally, he opened it and placed it handle up on the ground and said, “It’s a TV satellite dish!” Then he turned it over and crawled underneath it. “It makes a good tent or fort too.”

Just then the bell rang. The children filed back into the classroom.

About fifteen minutes before school ended, the rain began. The light sprinkling had turned into a heavy drizzle by the time Andy got outside. He opened his umbrella and smiled to himself. Mom was right, as usual, he thought.

He passed the cars that were lined up in front of the building. Up ahead Andy saw Kenny with his shoulders hunched forward and his head down. Knowing that Kenny’s mom was still working and would not be there to give him a ride home, Andy hurried to catch up with his classmate. “I forgot to show you the most important thing this umbrella can do,” he told Kenny.

Andy held the umbrella so that it covered both their heads. “It’s really good for keeping a friend from getting wet too.”

Kenny stood up straight and smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Andy,” he said.

When we forgive and forget, we give our children the opportunity to experience the miracle of forgiveness. During my years as an Aaronic Priesthood holder, a prominent individual in the stake was found guilty of illegal business practices and sent to prison. Stake members made many critical comments. My kind and forgiving father, who was on the stake high council at the time, brought us together as a family and taught us that there are no perfect people for the Lord to call, but there are many good and wonderful people whom He calls to strengthen the lives of others and also to be strengthened through service. Dad said that we would always be blessed for sustaining those whom the Lord has called to serve and that we ought to focus on their strengths and not on their weaknesses. My father’s forgiving and loving feelings toward our former leader taught me a powerful lesson that has been a guiding principle in my life.

Although I was born into the Church and was active through the age of 15, I wandered from the gospel during young adulthood. During that time, in search of something that could make me happy, I turned to drugs.
I struggled with an ever-increasing addiction, and my life felt like some sort of bad movie I could not turn off. Although I wanted to stop, I found I had hardly any control over my thoughts or actions. It wasn’t until I was serving a prison sentence for a drug-related crime that I found what I had lost. I had a copy of the Book of Mormon and came across Alma 5:7: “Behold, he changed their hearts; yea, he awakened them out of a deep sleep, and they awoke unto God. Behold, they were in the midst of darkness; nevertheless, their souls were illuminated by the light of the everlasting word.”
I knew I was in the midst of darkness, and I wanted to have my heart changed.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried changing before. I had participated in various recovery programs. I had tried quitting for myself and for my family. Those things all worked for a little while, but I always slipped. This verse in Alma offered me hope in Jesus Christ—hope that even if I didn’t have the power to change myself (and I knew I didn’t), He could change me.
I remember turning the burden of my addiction over to the Savior. I prayed and admitted to Heavenly Father, “I cannot do this on my own.”
I entered the LDS addiction recovery program, a 12-step class taught by two missionaries, a husband and wife. What they taught in that class saved me. They nurtured the seed of faith that had been planted many years earlier, when as a child I attended church with my mother. The missionaries taught me about repentance and forgiveness. More important, they showed me love and told me I could find even greater love from my Heavenly Father and Savior. I felt “a mighty change wrought in [my] heart” (Alma 5:12), and I found that the happiness I had so long been searching for had been in the gospel all along.
It has been six years since I decided to turn to my Savior. It has been a lot of hard work, but through the strength of the Lord, I have overcome many obstacles.
I never would have imagined the happiness and joy I now have in my life with my wife and children. I hold the Melchizedek Priesthood and have received temple ordinances. I attribute these positive life transformations to Jesus Christ. He is the power to change.
I testify to others who are struggling as I did—and to those who love them—that change is possible and that it’s very real. You need not give up hope. There is a way to return to happiness, and it is through Jesus Christ.

Margie sat quietly on the back seat of the car, her dark eyes staring out at the city buildings whirling by in the soft evening light. The weight of her sadness felt like a stone on her chest. How she wished she could have moved to Chicago with the Petersen family. They had seemed as unhappy as Margie when the unexpected word came that Brother Petersen had to report at once for his new work. She had spent two school years with them, and it was almost like parting with her own family in Arizona when she had to say good-bye. The Petersens had taught her much about their ways, and they had been eager to learn of her Apache world.
“Well, Margie,” said Brother Randall, the Church social worker, interrupting the girl’s thoughts, “a week from tonight is Christmas Eve.”
Suddenly Margie realized that she had no gifts for her new family. She had given beads she had made and a few things bought with her allowance to the Petersens. Now she had no money to buy gifts and no time to make more.
“How many children did you say the Strattons have?” she asked Sister Randall who was sitting beside her.
“Four. Vicky is ten years old—the same as you. Paul is seven, Ted is five, and the baby is the age of our Tricia.” Sister Randall reached down to pat the baby, who laughed and then grabbed the bracelet on her mother’s wrist.
“We’re in Reseda now, Margie,” Brother Randall said. “Look at the tall palm trees on both sides of the street. We turn right at the next light.”
Margie felt her heart beat faster. What if the Strattons don’t like me, she thought, and what if I don’t like them? She wondered if she would ever see the Petersens again. Then, longing to be back on the reservation, she closed her eyes and could see her mother frying bread and hear her gentle voice talking to the little ones.
The car pulled into a driveway and stopped. When Margie opened the car door to get out, she heard a shout. The front door burst open and six people rushed out of the house to greet her. Margie remembered to look into their faces as the Petersens had taught her, but it was hard to think of anything to say. Quickly her bags were carried into the house, and she waved good-bye to Brother Randall and his family.
Vicky showed Margie where to put her clothes as she unpacked in the room they would share. Before prayers and bed that night, there was time to admire the Christmas tree. There were already some brightly wrapped packages under it, and Margie saw that her name was on some of them.
Later in bed, Margie lay listening to Vicky’s quiet breathing and let the tears run silently down her cheeks. She felt sad because she missed her other families and because she had brought no Christmas gifts for this new family who had so warmly received her into their home.
The next morning Margie stood at the bedroom window watching Paul and Ted playing games on the back lawn. Vickie had already gone downstairs. There was a light rap on the open door, and Sister Stratton asked, “May I come in?”
Margie nodded and smiled shyly.
“Margie,” Sister Stratton explained, “we have a Christmas tradition in our family that we have followed for several years. Each Christmas Eve we have a special program where we learn something about the cultures of our brothers and sisters in other lands. This year we have not prepared anything, hoping that you could share with us some of the traditions of your people.”
Because of her shyness, Margie was tempted to say that she couldn’t, but seeing the kind and expectant look in Sister Stratton’s eyes, Margie nodded that she would.
On Christmas Eve Margie wore the beautiful squaw dress her mother had made for her last summer. When they had bought the trim for the yards and yards of material, Margie had remarked that it must be a mile long. Now she smiled with satisfaction as she looked into the mirror. She divided her long black hair into two sections and tied each strand with yarn to match the dress.
When it was time for the Christmas Eve program, Vicky started the record for Margie’s part, and all the other Strattons smiled their pleasure when she entered the room. Slowly, rhythmically, Margie moved with grace and ease to the beat of the drum and the chanting voices. After the dance was over, the Strattons clapped enthusiastically and then Margie told them about her family in Arizona and the customs of her people. “Now,” she said, “if you will excuse me for just a minute, I’ll make you some Apache frybread.”
In the kitchen Margie stretched the dough she had prepared earlier and dropped it into hot oil. She could hear the children’s excited chatter in the other room. Vicky and Paul were eager to learn the Apache dance. Ted insisted that he wanted to play the drums and “say” the songs.
Brother Stratton came into the kitchen and put his arm around Margie. “Margie, this has been one of the nicest Christmas Eves we have ever had. Thank you for giving us so much!”
Margie smiled shyly and handed him a plate of frybread.

Years ago, after graduating from Utah State University, I accepted a job in Colorado, USA. My wife, Janine, and I had only been married for a few years, and we moved our limited belongings to our new apartment to start the next chapter of our lives.
Both my family and Janine’s lived in Utah, and we wanted to spend our Christmas vacation with them. I diligently saved up vacation time at work so we could spend two weeks with them and other friends in Utah during the Christmas break. We planned to make the drive a few days before Christmas, leaving after I worked a half-day in the morning.
The night before we planned to leave, I took down all the Christmas decorations and got rid of the tree so I wouldn’t have to do it when we returned after the new year.
The next morning, Janine mentioned she hadn’t been feeling well that week. I told her she should probably see a doctor before we left for two weeks. Then I went into work for my half-day.
When I returned home at noon, our apartment was empty. This happened before cell phones, so I didn’t know where Janine was or how to contact her. I sat in the apartment worrying about lost travel time.
Janine called about an hour later. She was in the hospital, and a medical team was about to operate on her. I rushed to the hospital and briefly met with the doctor. He explained that Janine’s life was in danger and that they needed to operate immediately. As Janine and the staff went into the operating room, I went into the waiting room.
Although I’ve always been a strongly independent person, I remember the immense sense of isolation I felt as I sat for what seemed like forever in that waiting room. With the lack of cell phones and the speed in which the events progressed, neither Janine’s family nor mine knew what was going on. The crushing loneliness was almost unbearable as I worried for the life of my young wife.
Finally, the doctor came into the room and announced that the operation was a success. I replied, “Great! Because we’re going to Utah for Christmas.” The doctor was quick to correct me: “Son, you don’t understand. Janine will need to remain in town for two weeks for observation.” Those words hit me hard. “Two weeks?” With the doctor’s statement, I realized we were not going anywhere for Christmas.
Janine stayed in the hospital for a few more days. When we finally drove home after dark, I dreaded entering our apartment, which was now stripped of all holiday cheer.
As we slowly made our way across the parking lot to our apartment, I saw a dark shadow next to our door and wondered what it could be. When we got closer to the door, I realized it was a small Christmas tree. I knew immediately who had left it.
After going inside and helping Janine into bed, I brought our Christmas tree inside. It was clear to me that my buddy Mike had left it for us. Mike was one of the first friends I’d made when we moved to Colorado. He was a college student and a father of two children, so I knew finances were tight for him. The tree he’d brought was less than three feet tall and very thin. By all worldly standards, it might not have looked like much, especially compared with our original tree. But I knew it was the best he could afford, and I felt great appreciation for it. To me, it was a magnificent tree—much better than our original because of the sacrifice it represented from my friend. Nothing could have been a better gift. I spent the rest of the night decorating our new treasure, which turned out to be the most outstanding Christmas decoration that year.
Once we returned home, the ward Relief Society quickly sprang into action and took care of meals for the next few weeks. They also brought entertainment for Janine and me to enjoy while she rested. Many visits from ward members followed. Being new to the ward, we didn’t initially know many people, but we soon got to know many of them from their visits.
That Christmas remains one of my most cherished memories. Mike ended up becoming a lifelong friend from whom I’ve learned many lessons of service. When I think back on this experience, Matthew 25:37–40 comes to mind:
“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
“When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Growing up on a farm, there were plenty of jobs to do. But milking the cows was my favorite chore. Mother liked me to milk the cows because she was convinced they gave more milk when they were listening to music. When I milked the cows, I sang to them.
Early one September evening I began milking and singing to our cow Old Spooky. She had been raised on the range and hadn’t taken kindly to being milked, so sometimes milking her was a struggle. I was singing my most soothing song, developing a kind of mesmerizing rhythm, when a rock landed on the tin roof right above Spooky and me. Spooky’s reaction to the noise was both violent and predictable. I found myself dazed and flat on my back, ten feet away from the milk stool. My arm felt like it was broken, and the milk pail lay dirty and dented in the manure. I sat there for a few moments trying to figure out what had happened when I heard a shrill, fiendish laugh emanating from the street immediately outside our fence. The laugh told me the source of my troubles. It was also my first introduction to Winferd.
When I stepped out of the shed, I saw the little towheaded neighbor boy convulsing with laughter. Obviously, he had never before witnessed anything so funny. I shouted a few well-chosen words hoping to intimidate him and thwart a repeat performance.
Several days passed, and I had almost forgotten my little seven-year-old troublemaker. I was confident my threats had deterred him from further mischief when one day I was milking Old Spooky and the clangor on the tin shed triggered a performance from Spooky that would have done credit to a rodeo Brahma bull. The only difference this time from the first rock-throwing episode was that I didn’t get kicked. Spooky had stepped in the milk bucket, bending it beyond repair. Without even looking, I knew who had thrown the rock. I leaped the corral fence and caught Winferd in full cackle. I grabbed him, then twisted his arm until I extracted a promise that he wouldn’t do it again. But Winferd was not intimidated. As soon as I released him, he crawled through the fence that surrounded his lot. When he was sure I couldn’t overtake him, he shouted a defiant, “I’ll do it again!”
And he did. Again and again and again, each with diabolical variations. He filled my milk buckets with manure and hayleaves. He opened the gate and chased my animals. There was no end to his ingenuity. I caught Winferd several times and gave him a good pummeling and rubbed his face with fresh cow manure—all to no avail. Winferd was having too much fun. He met my threats with “I’ll do it again” whenever he felt he could elude me.
While Winferd seemed to be thriving, my relationship with my mother was deteriorating badly. She couldn’t understand how a little seven-year-old boy could outguess a fifteen-year-old. My fall from grace with Mom pained me. One day, I explained my situation to my older brother, who was home from college. He listened quietly and then took an excruciatingly long time before he spoke. I expected him to tell me some way to get revenge.
His answer was both disappointing and unbelievable.
“Why don’t you try killing him with kindness?” he said.
“I’ll kill him, all right, but not with kindness,” I blurted out. After I finished, my brother could see I was overwhelmed with frustration and malice.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the way to do it. Kill him with kindness.” Then he continued. “I’ve got a dime. Here, take it. The next time you catch this Winferd, act as angry as usual. Grab him by his collar and drag him to the store and buy an ice cream cone for each of you.”
“Waste a nickel on that brat?” I was incredulous.
“What have you got to lose?” he asked. “It’s my dime. You’ve tried everything you could think of and it hasn’t worked.”
It was a measure of the depth of my frustration that I even agreed to try what seemed like a silly plan. I figured even if his plan didn’t work I would at least get an ice cream cone out of it.
I didn’t have long to wait to try my brother’s crazy experiment. The following Monday, I was feeding the animals when I spotted Winferd sneaking around the far corner of the barn. It took a bit of doing to both catch him and not give in to my anger and frustration. After I caught him, I marched Winferd the two blocks to the store with him resisting every step of the way. I then ordered two ice cream cones. One for me and one for Winferd. Nellie, the storekeeper, was mystified. She was not accustomed to seeing anyone being coerced into taking a cone, least of all a young boy.
Winferd was clearly baffled at this strange turn of events. As we started for home, I kept a tight grip on his collar. Soon, however, I felt Winferd relax as he licked his unexpected bounty. I let go of Winferd, and we walked slowly together to my gate. What an unlikely and unexpected scenario—tormentor walking with the tormented, and both eating ice cream as if nothing had ever happened between them.
As we arrived at the gate, I turned in and Winferd went his way toward home. Neither of us had said a word. I was left to wonder: What next? I was troubled with mixed emotions. Our walk together had given me a small ray of hope that things could be different between us. But our silence seemed to prevent that from occurring. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next.
The following morning as I went out the back door of our home with my milk buckets, scarcely able to see in the early morning twilight, there, huddled on the step, was Winferd. He timidly asked, “Can I help with the chores?” All of the bravado was gone. Only a ragged little towhead remained who wanted to be noticed and loved.
After that, Winferd was a joy to be around. Sometimes he was like a friendly, loving, eager-to-please puppy. In the ensuing years he spent much of his time at our place, often only going home to eat his meals. Until I went away to college, a blond, loving friend often worked at my side, quick to be helpful, never demanding or expecting any kind of remuneration. None of us in those Depression years had money to spare. Winferd knew how it was and worked willingly just to be around someone who cared. After high school I served a mission, went to college, and joined the Air Force, and our paths seldom crossed. I missed Winferd, and was full of sorrow when I learned he had been killed in World War II.
I often think of Winferd, and when I do I see in my mind’s eye a ragged little boy lofting a rock onto our tin shed, hoping someone—anyone—would notice and love him. I also pay tribute to a loving and insightful older brother who had the compassion and vision to understand that a towheaded kid could become a friend for life for the price of a five-cent ice cream cone.

Yasmin is not only a great explorer and reader, but also a great swimmer. She faced a difficult decision when her swim team practice time was changed to Monday nights. “I love swimming,” she says, “but I quit the team so I could spend time with my family.”
Luckily, she got to spend time with her family and swim on their vacation to Croatia, a small European country about a six-hour drive away. She collected shells and swam in the Adriatic Sea. She hopes to go back someday because “it’s so warm there!”

In January 1989 Elder David B. Haight (1906–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles fell ill and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he had two abdominal surgeries. Before he was taken to the hospital, crushing pain drove him to his knees. He prayed that his life would be spared. As he prayed, he began to lose consciousness. The sound of the siren was the last thing he remembered. In his unconscious state, the pain ceased, and he found himself in a peaceful setting. He became aware of being in a holy presence.
In next month’s Liahona, look for Gospel Classics: “The Sacrament—and the Sacrifice,” Elder Haight’s testimony of the Savior and an account of what he learned while unconscious.

Over 50 years ago, I had the privilege to serve as the president of Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. On the morning of June 5, 1976, my wife, Kathy, and I drove from Rexburg to the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple to attend the sealing of a close friend. Of course, with four young boys in our home at the time, our temple trip could be only accomplished with the help of a courageous babysitter! We left our precious children in her care and made the short, 30-minute drive.
Our experience in the temple that day was wonderful, as it always was. However, after the conclusion of the temple sealing—and as we were preparing to return home—we noticed many temple workers and patrons nervously conversing in the lobby of the temple. Within moments, one of the temple workers told us that the newly constructed Teton Dam in eastern Idaho had collapsed! More than 80 billion gallons (300 million cubic meters) of water were flowing through the dam and into the 300 square miles (775 square km) of neighboring valleys. Much of the city of Rexburg was underwater, with homes and vehicles carried away by floodwaters. Two-thirds of the 9,000 residents were suddenly homeless.
As you might imagine, our thoughts and concerns turned to the safety of our dear children, hundreds of college students and faculty, and a community we loved. We were less than 30 miles (50 km) from home, and yet on this day, long before cell phones and text messaging, we had no way of communicating immediately with our children, nor could we make the drive from Idaho Falls to Rexburg, as all the roads had been closed.
Our only option was to stay the night in a local motel in Idaho Falls. Kathy and I knelt together in our motel room and humbly pleaded with Heavenly Father for the safety of our dear children and the thousands of others affected by the tragic event. I recall Kathy pacing the floors into the early hours of the morning with worry about her children. Despite my own concerns, I was able to put my mind at ease and fall asleep.
It wasn’t long thereafter that my sweet eternal companion woke me and said, “Hal, how can you sleep at a time like this?”
These words then came clearly to my heart and mind. I said to my wife: “Kathy, whatever the outcome, all will be well because of the temple. We have made covenants with God and have been sealed as an eternal family.”
At that moment, it was as if the Spirit of the Lord confirmed in our hearts and minds what we both already knew to be true: the sealing ordinances, found only in the house of the Lord and administered by proper priesthood authority, had bound us together as husband and wife, and our children had been sealed to us. There truly was no need to fear, and we were grateful later to learn that our boys were safe.

I have a tendency to look for grand answers to my challenges—to ask the Lord to help me find that one thing that will fix everything. I’ve learned that such an approach can overcomplicate things.
As I was teaching the Gospel Doctrine class in my ward, I was determined to ask profound questions that would require contemplation and big, new, insightful answers. In other words, I wanted to avoid a recitation of the same old “Sunday School answers” that ward members seemed to offer each week.
As I pored over the New Testament in preparation, I was struck by the use of the word abide, which appears over and over. For example, John 15:10 says, “If ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love; even as I have kept my Father’s commandments, and abide in his love” (emphasis added).
In His great Intercessory Prayer, the Savior prays that His disciples “may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us” and “I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one” (John 17:21, 23).
Much of what I searched for was how I could be one with the Lord, how I could abide in His love, and how, as a result, I could develop extra patience—patience I so desperately needed to turn my experiences from ones that exhausted me to ones that invigorated and sanctified me.
Ironically, as I searched for both an understanding of the word abide and answers to the difficult challenges I faced on a daily basis, I was ultimately led back to the precise Sunday School answers I had been trying to avoid. I found the answers to my challenges by reading the scriptures, praying daily, serving my family and others, and attending the temple and my Sunday meetings. I learned that those simple things make the difference between enduring and enduring well and with patience.
The Sunday School answers really are the best answers.

Let me tell you about another current, a divine current, that has become a great blessing in my life. I am a convert to the Church. Prior to my conversion, my life’s ambition was to ski and, accordingly, I moved to Europe after high school to fulfill that desire. After several months of what seemed an ideal life, I felt I should leave. At the time I did not understand the source of that feeling, but I chose to follow it. I ended up in Provo, Utah, with a few good friends who, like me, were members of a different faith.
While in Provo I met people who were living a much different life than I was. I felt drawn to them, though I did not know why. Initially, I resisted these feelings, but I soon found a peace and comfort that I had never known. I began to embrace a different current—one that brought me to an understanding of a loving Heavenly Father and to His Son, Jesus Christ.
I was baptized with my friends in 1972. This new current I chose to follow, the gospel of Jesus Christ, provided direction and meaning to my life. However, it was not without its challenges. Everything was new to me. At times I felt lost and confused. Questions and challenges were posed by both friends and family.
I had a choice to make. Some of their questions created doubt and uncertainty. The choice was an important one. Where would I turn for answers? There were many who wanted to convince me of the error of my ways—“riptides” determined to pull me away from the peaceful current that had become a wonderful source of happiness. I learned very clearly the principle that there is “opposition in all things” and the importance of acting for myself and not forsaking my agency to others.3
I asked myself, “Why would I turn away from that which had brought me such great comfort?” As the Lord reminded Oliver Cowdery, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?”4 My experience had been similar. Therefore, I turned, with yet more commitment, to a loving Heavenly Father, to the scriptures, and to trusted friends.
Still, there were many questions I could not answer. How would I address the uncertainty they created? Rather than allow them to destroy the peace and happiness that had come into my life, I chose to set them aside for a season, trusting that in the Lord’s time, He would reveal all things. I found solace in His statement to the Prophet Joseph: “Behold, ye are little children and ye cannot bear all things now; ye must grow in grace and in the knowledge of the truth.”5 I chose not to forsake what I knew to be true by following an unknown and a questionable current—a potential “riptide.” As President N. Eldon Tanner taught, I learned “how much wiser and better it is for man to accept the simple truths of the gospel … and to accept by faith those things which he … cannot understand.”6

Years later, a group in Cedar City were talking about her and others who were in those ill-fated companies. Members of the group spoke critically of the Church and its leaders because the company of converts had been permitted to start so late in the season. I now quote from a manuscript which I have:
“One old man in the corner sat silent and listened as long as he could stand it. Then he arose and said things that no person who heard will ever forget. His face was white with emotion, yet he spoke calmly, deliberately, but with great earnestness and sincerity.
“He said in substance, ‘I ask you to stop this criticism. You are discussing a matter you know nothing about. Cold historic facts mean nothing here, for they give no proper interpretation of the questions involved. A mistake to send the handcart company out so late in the season? Yes. But I was in that company and my wife was in it, and Sister Nellie Unthank whom you have cited was there too. We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation, but did you ever hear a survivor of that company utter a word of criticism? Not one of that company ever apostatized or left the Church because every one of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives, for we became acquainted with him in our extremities’” (manuscript in my possession).
That speaker was Francis Webster, who was twenty-six years of age when with his wife and infant child he went through that experience. He became a leader in the Church and a leader in the communities of southern Utah.

A newly married graduate student at England’s University of Oxford, Gerrit W. Gong learned through personal experience that when we love the Lord and trust Him, He will help us, guide us, and strengthen us.

Gerrit was a Rhodes Scholar working to complete two graduate degrees, one of them a doctorate. At the same time, he was serving in the Oxford Ward bishopric. He and his wife, Susan, remembered advice that Elder David B. Haight (1906–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles gave when he performed their marriage in the Salt Lake Temple. “He told us always to have a calling,” Elder Gong says. “We knew if we trusted God and did our best, He would help us.”

Gerrit and Susan did receive “divine help and tender mercies,” he says. While continuing in the bishopric, Gerrit finished all the academic requirements for a doctoral degree, except his dissertation. He asked the bishop of the Oxford Ward, Alan Webster, for a priesthood blessing. In the blessing, Gerrit received this promise: “Continue doing all you can, and the Lord will bless you.”

Two ward members who were experienced legal secretaries volunteered to help type his manuscript, and Gerrit was able to finish his dissertation in a few months. In fact, he completed both a master’s and a doctoral degree in just over three years. Upon graduation he also accepted a faculty research position at the university. His experience at Oxford strengthened his trust in the Lord, trust that endures to this day and will continue to bless Gerrit W. Gong as he now serves in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

When the Church meetinghouse was opened at Cwmbran, Sister Howells was wheeled in in a chair, and sent a note to President Pulman, the presiding officer, asking that she should have the opportunity of bearing her testimony.
This request was granted, but when called upon to do so she did not have the strength to stand.
President Pulman lifted her up and held her in his arms. In a clear voice she declared to all present her knowledge of the truthfulness of the gospel.

Elder David A. Bednar recalls a woman in his stake some years ago calling to request that he visit two young women who were being taken to the hospital following a horrific automobile accident. At that very moment, this sister received on another phone the terrible news that her own daughter had died from injuries sustained in the same accident. In a calm, deliberate voice, she said: “President Bednar, we must get in contact with the two other mothers. We must let them know as much as we can about the condition of their daughters and that they will soon be in the hospital.” Elder Bednar recalls that “there was no self-pity; … there was no turning inward. The Christlike character of this devoted woman was manifested in her immediate and almost instinctive turning outward to attend to the needs of other suffering mothers.” Elder Bednar observes, “Character is revealed … in the power to discern the suffering of other people when we ourselves are suffering; in the ability to detect the hunger of others when we are hungry; and in the power to reach out and extend compassion for the spiritual agony of others when we are in the midst of our own spiritual distress.”

Building chapels is far more than real estate transactions and dealing with contractors. My assignment a few years ago, while serving as counselor to President Evans T. Doxey of the Salt Lake Hunter West Stake, was to acquire building sites. The explosive growth in the area made more buildings absolutely necessary. We only had two chapels in the stake with four wards meeting in each building.
Prayerfully we selected a desirable site but, despite several months of negotiations, were unable to buy it. A site to the north ran into problems with the street system. A site to the south got as far as a survey before the county said they could not issue a permit there. A fourth location was eliminated because the distance and slopes of the land would make sewer connections too costly.
By now, almost two years had passed. Nearly all of the wards should have been divided. Something needed to happen quickly.
President Doxey called a stake fast and prayer to seek the Lord’s help, and two days later, the owner of the original site called and said it was available for purchase.
By then, plans were underway to divide the stake and President Doxey assigned me to acquire property for a new stake house. After careful study and prayer, we selected a 1.6 hectare site owned by two families in Hunter Sixth Ward. The bishop arranged for me to meet with each family. The first generously agreed to contribute the 0.8 hectares. When I met the other couple, the husband, a convert of about a year, began: “I know why you’ve called us in.”
He had had a dream the previous night that he had been called to come to this same office. All of the same people were there. I had explained that his neighbor had agreed to contribute 0.8 hectares for a stake house and invited him to do the same. He woke his wife, told her the dream, fell asleep again, dreamed the same dream a second time, again woke his wife and told her the dream, fell asleep a third time, dreamed the same dream a third time and for a third time, woke his wife. With feeling, she said, “Tell him the Church can have the 0.8 hectares and go back to sleep!”
A new stake center has now been built on this ideal site.
After the stake division, President Doxey, then called to preside over the new Hunter Central Stake, again asked me to acquire a building site. It was owned by one of the stake’s faithful widows who, when approached, said she was not interested in selling the land but that she would like to contribute it to the stake.
These repeated experiences have taught me something new about the faithfulness, love, and generosity of the good members of the Church. And they’ve also taught me that the Lord actively involves himself in these events.

When I served in the Africa Southeast Area, I was inspired by the history of a group of Saints in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They were faithful members, living where the Church was strong. Then, due to political unrest, in 1993 they were forced to move more than 625 miles (1,000 km) away. They arrived in Luputa, a remote area with no organized Church units. But that small group of families chose to live the gospel.
They studied the scriptures and worshipped in their homes. Each Sunday, they met as a group in a small house. They paid to use it by working in the owner’s field. Although they weren’t authorized to bless the sacrament, they faithfully donated tithes and offerings. They kept this money in a safe place for three years until two brethren journeyed 625 miles to give it to the proper priesthood leader.
Finally, after four long years, a branch was organized in Luputa. The Church grew fast. Soon a district was formed. Then, in 2011, a stake was organized. All this growth came through the work of members and branch missionaries. No full-time missionaries had been assigned to Luputa, yet more than 100 full-time missionaries had been called from Luputa to serve in other places.
In 2012, Sister Cook and I visited Luputa. We drove for two days in a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get there. As soon as we arrived, we joined the Saints for fast and testimony meeting. After the sacrament, it was time for testimonies. Many people rushed to the front of the chapel. The brother conducting the meeting asked some of the members to return to their seats and wait for next time.
About 40 Saints bore brief, heartfelt testimonies about Jesus Christ. They focused on the blessings of the gospel rather than their trials. We felt deep love for them.
After the meeting, I asked the stake president, “Is it always like this?”
“Yes,” he said. “Is that OK?” It was very OK.
“How did your stake grow and progress without missionaries?”
“We had branch missionaries, good ones, just like it says in the handbook.”
“How do you handle welfare concerns amid so much poverty?”
“Everyone here has family.” He referred to the principles in the handbook. “We should care for our own welfare and then ask family members to help. Only after doing this should we ask for help from the Church.”
“You meet in simple, crowded buildings. Are they good enough?”
“We are working on it.”
“What problems do you have?”
He sounded surprised. “We don’t have problems,” he said. “We have the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The Lord gave the Saints of Luputa strength “that they should suffer no manner of afflictions, save it were swallowed up in the joy of Christ” (Alma 31:38). I know He will do the same for us, because I have felt His joy over and over again in my life.
The Lord gave the Latter-day Saints in Luputa strength “that they should suffer no manner of afflictions, save it were swallowed up in the joy of Christ” (Alma 31:38).
Photograph courtesy of the author

Jodi Carlson (10) and Shaun Orr (7) hurried to Jodi’s grandparents’ grocery store in downtown Rexburg to warn them of the coming flood. Jodi’s grandparents decided the store would be the safest place for them during the flood. They went upstairs to the office and watched the flood enter and submerge the ground floor of the store. Within four hours the water was as high as the fifth step below the office door.
“The back wall had holes in it,” Shaun explained later, “and started to break. The water hit the door, broke the lock, and pushed the door over to the wall. A tractor and a cow washed in and lodged under the office where we were. The cow’s body prevented the office floor from collapsing.”
Four hours later their many prayers were answered when they were rescued by the National Guard.

His military obligation fulfilled, Hal enrolled in the Harvard Graduate School of Business, where he earned a master’s degree in 1959 and a doctorate degree in 1963, both in business administration. Though he had the intellect to succeed in a career in science, Hal found that his passion lay in teaching, lifting, and strengthening others.
While attending Harvard during the summer of 1961, Hal met Kathleen Johnson, the daughter of J. Cyril and LaPrele Lindsay Johnson, of Palo Alto, California. She was attending summer school in Boston, and Hal was smitten the first time he saw her. He felt an immediate desire to do his best when he was in her presence—a feeling that has continued throughout their lives together.
They dated that summer and continued their courtship through phone calls and letters after Kathleen returned to California. They were married in July 1962 in the Logan Utah Temple by Elder Spencer W. Kimball. That same year Hal became an assistant professor at the Stanford Graduate School of Business.