Gospel Story Finder

Gbenga Onalaja is the only Mormon at his Catholic school in Ibadan, Nigeria, and he is a little bit shy. So when a visiting archbishop asked a question at a school assembly of more than 1,000 people, Gbenga hesitated more than a minute before he answered the question.

“After his remarks, the archbishop asked the question ‘Who was Saint Martha?’” says Gbenga.
The Catholic designation of “Saint” threw Gbenga off a little bit, so he didn’t raise his hand. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, however, it appeared that no one knew the answer. Gbenga knew what he had to do.
“I raised my hand and the archbishop called me up to the front of the assembly. I was nervous and my leg was shaking, but I managed to answer that Martha was the sister of Mary and Lazarus.
“He then asked me to explain, so I told him what I knew. It was easy because I had learned it all in church.”
The archbishop was so pleased with Gbenga’s answer, he rewarded him with a scholarship for his last year at the school. Gbenga was also able to tell the archbishop about the Church.
Gbenga, who is a deacon in the Ibadan Third Branch, says, “Since that day, I have been referred to as ‘scholarship boy.’ Every time I hear that phrase, it brings back good memories and reminds me to listen to the promptings of the Spirit.”

Ellen’s friend Lara broke her leg, and it hurt. Ellen and her mom went to the store and bought a coloring book for Lara. Thinking that Jesus Christ would do something more to cheer up her friend, Ellen asked if they could buy some fingernail polish for Lara, too. Ellen was sure that if she painted Lara’s toenails, it would cheer her up while she had to wear the clunky cast. It did. Lara said it tickled when her toenails were painted, and she thinks that Ellen is the best friend she could have.

We were packing for a short trip to the mountains of northern New Mexico, and I was loading the last of the children and supplies into the car. My wife appeared at the door and said cheerfully, “Well, we’re all set!” As she was pulling the locked door closed, I realized I didn’t have my keys! I yelled quickly, “DON‘T SHUT THAT … door.” Too late.
In an instant I was irritated. I said to my wife, implying she was to blame, “My keys are in the house!”
Fortunately, a forgotten open window allowed us access to the house without the loss of much time, and my feelings dissipated. I “forgave” my wife for having caused me emotional pain.
Later, as I thought of the experience, I realized I had found it convenient to blame my wife because it was a way of justifying my own failure. By my hostile feelings I could make it appear that she was the guilty one and that I was a helpless victim.
The truth is that my irritation was not due to her behavior at all. It was, instead, the product of my own unwillingness to accept the responsibility of my actions, and obviously, she hadn’t needed my forgiveness—but I certainly needed hers.
The real issue was my need to repent of the feelings I had. Had she been in some kind of transgression, then the solution to the problem would have been for her to repent and me to forgive. In this case, however, only my repentance was necessary to restore us to oneness. I understood also that my repentance, my giving up of my feelings of resentment, would have been necessary whether she had been guilty of anything or not. I saw that I could not be both unrepentant (or unforgiving) and compassionate at the same time. These are two incompatible attitudes.
This almost trivial incident illustrates some important truths about forgiveness, charity, and compassion. I’ve learned that these Christ-like attitudes are the foundation for dealing with the big problems as well as the little ones that may beset a marriage. They can lead to oneness in even the most strained relationships.
As a marriage and family therapist, I occasionally meet people who feel that problems in their marriage are much too large to ever be resolved. Sister Flagg (not her real name) was one of them. She shared with me her feelings of helplessness about being in a loveless marriage. When I asked her to imagine her life one year from now and to describe what her marriage would be like then, her expression shifted from discouragement to despair. She was sure her marriage could never be different. She doubted she could ever love her husband; he was aloof, uncaring, wrapped up in his own world. He rarely took time for her—for them. He wasn’t physically abusive, but distant from her.
I saw the following as features of her situation: (1) She felt helpless in the face of what she saw as a hopeless situation. (2) She was emotionally burdened by the isolation from her husband. (3) She was convinced that she was a victim of circumstances, that she was trapped and miserable because of her husband’s actions. (4) She saw the gospel as a nice set of ideals that didn’t adequately address her circumstances. (It was as if she were insisting that her brand of suffering was an exception to the application of gospel principles.)
I am convinced that the gospel of Jesus Christ is the solution—a very practical one—to problems in marriage. Even though some husbands and wives see scriptural counsel as too “abstract” or too “idealistic,” I see continually how the gospel is the source of personal and marital happiness and that it has the answers to solving problems in marriage.
Consequently, I sought to explain to Sister Flagg how three important gospel attitudes—forgiveness, charity, and compassion—could help her and her husband resolve their difficulties. I tried to help her see that just as I felt that my wife had “caused” my irritation when I was locked out of the house, Sister Flagg was unjustly blaming her husband for “causing” her misery. Whether my wife had been guilty or not, I was wrongly accusing her of causing my reaction. My feelings of resentment were my way of refusing to feel compassion for my wife. Sister Flagg was in a similar position: whether her husband was guilty or not, her feelings of helplessness were a way of showing how impossible it was for her to view him compassionately.
Now, I am not saying that her husband was innocent, that the solution to her problem was “just in her head.” I am suggesting, however, that her way of viewing her circumstances was part of the problem. By insisting she was helpless, she was producing hopelessness.
Suppose Brother Flagg was, indeed, as aloof and uncaring as Sister Flagg said he was, that everything she reported was true. By living gospel principles, she could still do much to improve her situation. Although there is no guarantee that her husband would respond and change, she could still rid herself of her bondage of helplessness and despair, and create a better life for herself and, hopefully, for her husband as well.
If people in Sister Flagg’s position were to realize that they can do something about their problems, they would have begun to solve the problem. I remember working with a man who, like Sister Flagg, felt helpless; he was sure that nothing he could do would change the problems in his marriage. Although his feelings of helplessness were real, they were not produced by his situation; rather, he had produced them himself as a way of showing who was to blame. They were his “proof” that he could do nothing about his circumstances except be defeated by them. Harboring these feelings was his way of achieving vengeance against his wife for her “wrongs.”
What could he do about these feelings? Like Sister Flagg, he could give them up in favor of the Christ-like attitudes of forgiveness, charity, and compassion. He can’t feel both helpless and forgiving simultaneously; he can either continue to insist he is helpless, or turn his heart to the Lord—and begin to solve the problem.

Perhaps you remember the story told by President N. Eldon Tanner. A young fellow came to him and said, “I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can’t make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?”
President Tanner looked at him and said, “Keep your agreement.”
“Even if it costs me my home?” the man asked.
President Tanner replied, “I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home, than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges.” (In Conference Report, Oct. 1966, p. 99.)

On a rainy Saturday morning prior to a Kolwezi district conference in 2013, President Ellie Monga, Counselor in the Lubumbashi Democratic Republic of the Congo Mission and Elder Jeffrey Wright, the mission finance secretary, welcomed two strangers at the mission office. Their clothes were muddy, and they were exhausted. They arrived pushing a single, beat-up bicycle and carrying a parcel that was wrapped in a torn and dirty plastic.
President Monga and Elder Wright inquired about their journey and learned that these two tired pilgrims, Brothers Yumba Muzimba Paul and Muba Wa Umbalo Delphin, had arrived from Kinkondja, a city located 600 kilometers (375 miles) north of Kolwezi. They had departed eight days earlier as part of a larger group that was traveling to attend the district conference. En route, most of the group fell sick and decided to return to their homes—but these two brothers were determined to complete the journey by themselves, taking turns between pedaling the bicycle and riding on the back. They said that they had travelled the last three days continuously through the night without stopping and without food—and after a tire went flat, they pushed the bicycle through the rain along the muddy roads. Their bicycle was broken, and these brothers had no money for tools or parts. They had not eaten for three days. They did not know how they would fund a return to their homes.
Brother Paul and Brother Delphin explained that they represented the roughly 60 Saints living in the Kinkondja area and had come to bring tithing from those Saints and to attend the district conference. This came as a surprise to President Monga and Elder Wright as there was no officially organized Kinkondja branch of the Church. Elder Wright recorded in his journal, “It was my honor to receive [the tithing envelopes]. It was my honor to process them.” Elder Wright continued, “I have never felt like I had handled such sacred money before in my whole lifetime.”
Brother Paul related that he was one of three men from Kinkondja who had begun writing to then-Church President Spencer W. Kimball in 1975, asking for missionaries to be sent to the DRC—known as Zaire at the time—and especially to their own village. Brother Delphin added that his deceased father was one of those same three men. (This was well before the Church had been formally organized in the country and before the first missionaries arrived in 1986.) These brothers said that years before, both had been baptized and ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. But in earlier instructions from Church leaders, they were told that they could not be ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood because at that time they lived too far away from an organized Church unit.
For the next two days, President Monga and Elder Wright taught and trained Brother Paul and Brother Delphin in the duties and obligations of the Melchizedek Priesthood. During his interview with Brother Paul, Elder Wright stressed the obligations associated with priesthood ordination, and reminded Brother Paul that “the priesthood is an irreversible event with heavy consequences based on the oath and covenant of the priesthood.” Speaking through President Monga as translator from Kiluba, his native language, Brother Paul replied, “I have waited for this event for 38 years, anticipating this happening for me. Do you think I will fall away? I will never turn away.”
Both brothers were sustained to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood in the district conference, and afterward ordained by Elder Wright with President Monga translating his words into Kiluba. After their ordinations, they were further authorized by President Monga to baptize their wives and children and to administer the sacrament to the Saints upon their return to Kinkondja. Brother Delphin, the younger of the two brothers, was given an additional instruction to dedicate the grave of his father to “honor him as one of the original converts and pioneers of the great work in the Congo.”
Elder Wright recorded in his journal: “I told the mission president [President Phillip McMullin] that night about the condition of their bike and mentioned that I was going to recondition it, buy them [a second] bike and buy them some tools to fix the bikes.” He and President McMullin also funded a ride home for them along with their bikes in one of the big trucks that travel the route to Kinkondja. Before departing, the brothers were given Church materials to take back to their village—among those materials were a sacrament tray and cups so that these newly-ordained and authorized priesthood holders would be able to conduct the ordinance of the sacrament each week.
That Kolwezi district conference in 2013 was memorable for all involved. The district president asked the Kinkondja brethren, to share their powerful testimonies in priesthood meeting and in the Sunday session of conference. They had arrived very tired and very early on Saturday morning. By the end of the conference, they—and all who heard their stories and their testimonies—left refreshed, fulfilled, and feeling God’s love in their hearts.

“We were playing with a Ouija board in school one day,” said JoAnn, a Laurel in Southern California. “We kept asking questions and the board kept answering correctly. I became increasingly frightened and eventually so scared that I fled from the room. I couldn’t sleep for days. I kept waking up with nightmares. It was a horrible experience. We are told to seek for the positive in life,” she continued, “but the negative is just as powerful. By forcing all your attention and your thoughts on an object, using ritual to make the image emotional, you can easily surrender your consciousness to evil powers.”

When I was young and new to the Church, I was assigned to minister to an elderly man who lived by himself. He lived on the edge of town in an old motel room that had become an extended-stay residence for those who couldn’t afford apartments. He didn’t appear to have many possessions or family in the area and lived a lonely life. During one visit, he told me about the child who was stillborn to him and his wife. I marveled that he was brought to tears by the recollection of something that must have happened at least 50 years before. It would only be a brief time before I better understood his feelings.
Two years later my wife and I drove past the scene of a car accident. I realized that no police or ambulance had arrived yet. I had just completed an emergency medical technician course, so I stopped to see if I could help. When I made my way through the crowd, I saw an overturned vehicle with a small child lying nearby on the ground. There was no one giving her any care. I kneeled beside her and began to assess her condition, which was serious.
As I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the face of a man in our ward who was less active. I realized this was his young daughter, who had attended our Primary. A nurse arrived, and we began CPR. When the ambulance crew took over, I returned to my friend’s side. I learned later that his child had ended up partially under the vehicle and others had pulled her out before my arrival. Her injuries were internal, and she did not survive.
Less than a year later, we were expecting our fourth daughter, and my wife carried her the full nine months. My wife woke me early one morning, saying her water had broken. We went to the hospital. After I parked the car, I went to her room and was told that the baby had died. I didn’t immediately understand, since we had only just arrived. When the doctor did his initial check, he couldn’t find a heartbeat. We never knew why. Instead of enjoying a newborn, we found ourselves planning for her funeral and taking down the nursery items.
Less than a year after that, a two-year-old boy in our ward was run over and killed by a service truck in the parking lot where he lived. I visited the family and spoke at his funeral. The mother mentioned he had been unusually cuddly that morning, almost as if he were saying goodbye.
Our ward had experienced the deaths of three young children in just over one year.
About a year after the death of our baby, we moved and I was assigned to minister to a young couple with two children. The older daughter had contracted an infection while in the womb and was born with a severe mental disability. Although she was nine years old at the time, she was like an infant developmentally. It was a struggle for the young family, who had limited means.
One day I received a phone call telling me she had died during the night. No member of the bishopric was available to visit just then, so I was asked to visit until they could get there. I arrived as her body was being removed, and I had a chance to talk with the father. The wife’s ministering sister arrived and did an amazing job comforting the family and taking care of the home.
I went with the father to the funeral home to make the arrangements. I suppose I was able to render some service because of my prior experiences. I don’t consider myself a great ministering brother, but I was glad I wasn’t a stranger in that home.
Many years later, one of our daughters was expecting her first child. She had married later in life and we knew from tests and exams that the child would need corrective surgery at birth. She went into early labor, but his condition apparently placed too much stress on his heart and he died before birth. We knew how she felt, but it was very difficult to see her so heartbroken.
When reflecting on these events, I wrote in my journal that I never expected to have so much to do with the death of children. The experiences, although tragic, helped me feel greater love and compassion for others because I understood what they were going through.
When I ponder what the gospel means to me, I have to say it is about relationships: those we had before, those we form in this life, and those we hope for after this life—the type of relationships and love that would cause an elderly man to mourn the loss of a child he would never know in this life.
Photograph at Oakland California Temple by Christina Smith
I don’t know how the blessings and protection of the temple reach out from the house of the Lord to touch our families, but I believe they do. Heavenly Father strengthens us according to our needs and uses us to help others in their trials. The hope and promise of priesthood ordinances and covenants are provided by a loving Father who knows our trials.

Then, one day, I was introduced to Myriam, a young woman who, at the time, I could only describe as “different” from others I knew. She radiated an inner beauty. We began to go out together and we became very good friends. I fell in love with her.
We had a very open communication and agreed about everything—except religion. One afternoon after discussing Joseph Smith (whom I could not accept as a prophet) and the Book of Mormon (about which I was very skeptical), she told me that she had been called to serve as a missionary in her stake.
Selfishly, I was angry that she had accepted the call and I told her that she must reconsider her decision or I would end our relationship. I was overwhelmed by her calm and self-assured response. She told me that if I really loved her I would try to understand and accept her decision and, most of all, support it. She also invited me to attend her church and try to determine for myself whether or not it was true.
As I pondered the consequences of losing the woman I loved, and as I saw how important Myriam’s religion was to her, I thought that the least I could do was to find out what motivated her decision—a decision I could not fully understand.
The light of truth in my life increased as I entered the chapel the following Sunday. I had my first surprise as soon as I walked through the door. A tall, blond man welcomed me very kindly, and introduced himself as the bishop of the ward. Not more than a few seconds later, several other members greeted me.
I was amazed that so many people could express such sincere love at our first contact. Then, as I sat through the meeting, I heard people talk about things of the spirit with a conviction and an eloquence that I had never heard before.
I had not been interested in investigating other religions because they had all seemed so mysterious. But as I continued to attend church with Myriam, the questions I had about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were all answered. The light grew and finally the path led me to baptism and to a temple marriage with the woman who first showed me the way.
As a youth, it seemed that there were so many paths in life to choose. Many of them could have led to unhappiness. I can never repay the Lord for the special woman he put in my life to show me which path led to the eternal light of truth.

When Brother Patricio Ávila went to the Santiago Chile Temple for the first time, he had an experience that changed his life and eventually blessed the lives of many of us. In the temple, he very distinctly visualized that all of us, the brothers and sisters of his branch, were together with him in that sacred place. We are members of the Obrador Branch of the Mendoza Argentina Stake in western Argentina; the temple in Santiago is the nearest temple.
When he got back home, he couldn’t forget his mental picture of everyone together in the temple. With faith, he told us all about it. Some of the members smiled indulgently or made indifferent comments. But some of us became serious about making our own trip to Santiago.
Under the direction of our branch president, Brother Ávila went to work right away to help us. First he set up meetings, and we discussed our temple goals and started collecting money for the trip. (These early donations became very important later.) Next he helped get temple preparation classes going so that everyone would be spiritually prepared. Thanks to his attention and drive, our enthusiasm grew.
Things slowed down temporarily in the summer when Brother Ávila had to leave town to work. But when he returned in the fall, our momentum returned, too. The classes entered their final phase, and those who were ready had temple recommend interviews with our branch president, Orlando Maris, and with our stake president, Martín Borges. We organized a three-day trip and set a departure date for Thursday, 16 April 1992.
The only obstacle still in our way was the cost of chartering a bus. To meet it, we needed to sell fifty-eight fares—and with only three weeks to go, we had sold only forty-four fares. Unless we sold the remaining fares, the individual cost of each ticket would be higher, and some people wouldn’t be able to go.
But Brother Ávila’s faith didn’t waver. He decided that if we couldn’t fill the bus with branch members, we would invite the rest of Mendoza Stake. So he and Brother Alejandro Suriano visited each of the wards and branches in the stake, leaving a small poster and inviting their members to join us.
What happened next proved to us that signs do follow those who believe. Interested people quickly came forward, and the unsold seats were soon gone. Some of these newcomers did not even live in the stake boundaries. Brother and Sister Freire were from the nearby Godoy Cruz Argentina Stake, and the five members of the Badami family were from Santiago del Estero province—more than 1,000 kilometers away.
As arrangements were finalized, there were three families who had prepared for the trip but could not pay the full cost. Thankfully, the money we had donated at our early meetings settled the balance. Now everything was in order.
On the eve of our journey, the whole group met for a special family home evening at the meetinghouse. Afterwards, those who lived far away remained there all night to be on time for the bus, which came at 5:30 the following morning. Leaving early would give us enough time to get through Chilean customs.
As we traveled, everyone was filled with the spirit of love and brotherhood. Food and juice were divided generously. Each family had stories and testimonies to share, and there were many sessions of hymn singing. We looked out the windows often to admire the magnificent Andes mountains. We passed picturesque towns as our winding road traversed snowy peaks, ravines, and streams. Who could doubt that a divine hand had created this beautiful world?
We crossed the border into Chile, and before long we were making our approach to the temple. How our hearts leaped with joy when we saw the angel Moroni on the temple’s spire! We could almost hear the call of his trumpet. The temple workers were there to welcome us. They had arranged places for us to stay in homes of Chilean Saints, and we immediately went to the homes, bathed, and made ready for the special temple session that had been prepared.
Next came the sublime moment when we actually entered the house of the Lord. It was truly indescribable. Mere words can never express the spirit of that holy place. One must experience it—and that can happen only when a temple recommend is presented with a humble and contrite heart. Only then can the initiatory ordinances, endowments, marriages, family sealings, and baptisms for the dead be performed with the proper spirit.
Now we understood those who had gone before us. They had been right when they said that once we were inside the temple, we would never want to leave. Nevertheless, that wonderful day eventually came to an end. We went to the homes of our Chilean hosts, eager to return in the morning.
Because the following day was the Friday before Easter, a great many people came to the temple from all parts of Chile. Those of our group who were lodged far away did not arrive early enough to get in. We were extremely disappointed, but we made the best of the situation. That evening, we held a beautiful family home evening together, bearing our testimonies and singing hymns. And we made arrangements to attend the first session the next morning.
The Saturday morning session was indeed one of great rejoicing and spirituality as our whole group met in the house of the Lord. We felt that He was happy and pleased with our service as we performed the sacred ordinances again, this time for the dead.
After the session, it was time to return to Argentina. But since the bus had developed a mechanical problem, we had to stay Saturday night in Santiago while it was being repaired. However, even this difficulty turned to our advantage. Again we held a home evening as an entire group—rejoicing in hymns, prayers, and testimony. All of us were as one.
On Sunday our bus, reverberating with the hymns of Zion, finally started for home. Eventually some of us slept, while others remained awake, letting pass through our minds the thoughts of those past few days. We arrived at our own meetinghouse at 2:30 on Sunday afternoon and held our sacrament meeting according to the commandment of the Lord.
How many things we had to tell our brothers and sisters! How we wished that someday they might feel what we had felt!
Brother Ávila’s dream had been fulfilled.
Following are thoughts of some of the members who made the journey to the temple together:
Patricio Ávila: “Miracles do happen! In humility and with great love for our Creator, I give thanks from a full heart for the opportunity that he has given me to be an instrument in his hand—and for the great blessing of visiting his holy temple with a group of his children. May this blessing be poured out upon all the members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. May we always have the strength to do those things that are pleasing in his eyes and never cease to love one another.”
Alba de Caballero: “It was very moving for me to be sealed to my parents and to other members of my family who are dead. Now I know that I have a family waiting for me when I leave this world.”
Maris family: “We felt a great spirit of brotherhood, hospitality, and the pure love of Christ. What incomparable happiness! We invite all of our brothers and sisters to seek these eternal blessings.”
Amalia de Ojeda: “Now I know He loves me!”
Delfín de la Cruz Bello: “I feel blessed to be sealed to my wife and children for the eternities.”
Alejandro Gonzales: “It was a great pleasure to share this edifying experience. I hope it is not the last. Let us combine our testimonies and personal experiences and use them to strengthen the rest of our branch and offer them the same blessings.”
Alberto Lisandrello: “I cherish a new testimony in my heart of the divinity of our Father in Heaven and of His love for his children.”
Edilia Bertolani: “What a profound thing it is that the Lord would permit me to enter into his temple! While we performed the baptisms and sealings for the dead, I could feel their presence and knew that they were happy and grateful that we were helping them to be together for eternity.”
Rojas family: “Thanks to the organizers of this trip, we were able to be sealed as an eternal family!”
José Badami: “It was a beautiful trip. I really felt a good spirit and enjoyed the good humor of all our brothers and sisters. Thank you, Brother Ávila, and those who worked with you, for all that you sacrificed to coordinate and organize this temple trip. The Lord will bless you for it.”

A year later, another child, César, turned eight years old. “We knew from reading Gospel Principles that he needed to be baptized,” Sister Torales says. “So we took him to Encarnación.” But when they arrived at the place where they had been baptized a year earlier—a rented house used as a meetinghouse—they were shocked to discover that the Church was no longer there. “We didn’t know where else to go, so we frantically looked everywhere for another house with the name of the Church on it. But we couldn’t find it. After two days of looking, we had to return home.”
But losing contact with the Church didn’t weaken their testimonies of the gospel. They continued studying the scriptures and worshiping as a family. A year later, Brother and Sister Torales took César to Encarnación again, filled with faith that this time they would be led to the Church so their son could be baptized.
When they arrived in the city, they weren’t sure where to start looking. “Then we saw a milkman with his horsedrawn cart,” she says. “My husband said that since the milkman probably delivered milk throughout the whole city, maybe he would know where the Church met. The man said he didn’t know, but he called to his companion, who did know. ‘Do you want to go there?’ the second man asked. So we got up into his cart, and he took us.”
They discovered that the branch had moved from the small house into a large new building. It was Sunday, and the members were gathered in sacrament meeting. To their great joy, Brother and Sister Torales and César were able to meet many members and to attend their first meeting of the Church. “The branch president told us they were going to have a district conference there in four months. He told us to come back then and we could baptize César.” In four months, the entire family returned to Encarnación, attended the conference, and witnessed César’s baptism.

I served my mission in Finland from 1959 to 1962. I loved the service, and I loved my companions. I had wonderful mission presidents. I loved the Finnish people and their language. I loved my mission. To this day, I hold my mission experiences as sacred and wonderful, and I often refer to them.
After this wonderful mission in Finland, I returned home and my bishop called me in for an interview. I loved my bishop, and I expected him to say: “We are so proud of you! You have represented the ward well, and we are sure you represented the Lord well.”
But instead, he looked at me and said, “Well, Dennis, are you converted?” It was a question I did not expect.
While I was thinking about this, the bishop helped me understand why he had asked me that question. He told me that we had wonderful people in our ward, but some of them would not accept a calling or pay their tithing or keep the Sabbath day holy.
My bishop wanted me to answer the question about being converted because that would determine how I lived my life. I told the bishop that I was indeed converted.
This question burned itself into my mind and into my heart. We must do the little things in our lives every day. They not only bring conversion, but they keep us converted.
I’m pleased with the small things in my life. And I’m grateful for my bishop. Every time I see him, I thank him for asking me that question.

1. Commit yourself to serve your companion. One of the surest ways to develop love for someone else is to serve in very personal ways. Two companions who had had some difficulties in getting along discovered this principle when one of them became ill and had to be in bed for a day. Elder Blake did everything he could to help care for his sick companion. Elder Waite was especially surprised when he woke up and found that during the time that he was running a fever and sleeping, Elder Blake had cleaned and shined his shoes and also made sure that everything was in order in their apartment. “I began to realize,” said Elder Waite, “that I needed to do more to be of service to my companion. Appreciation for each other and a real friendship began to develop from that day on.”

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other, and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, for a number of years they had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.

Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?

A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.

They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.

There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.

The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.

Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.

Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”

She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing just fine. Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

One of my children came in, said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks were out of bread. Had none that day. I put … our flour in sack to send up to Brother Hall’s. Just then Brother Hall came in. Says I, “Brother Hall, how are you out for flour.” “Brother Millett, we have none.” “Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you were out.” Brother Hall began to cry. Said he had tried others. Could not get any. Went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett. “Well, Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back if the Lord sent you for it. You don’t owe me for it.” You can’t tell how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew that there was such a person as Joseph Millett.

The first island reached by the ship was Tubuai in 1844. The people there showed the missionaries kindness and hospitality, and when some of the people pleaded with the elders to stay, Addison Pratt left the ship to teach them. Serving alone there for many months, struggling to learn the Polynesian language, he baptized 60 out of a population of 200 and organized the first branch of the Church in the South Pacific. To this day, the Latter-day Saint community on Tubuai is a strong one.

Mary sat on the shiny wooden bench before the great organ in the Tabernacle on Temple Square. The building was lit only by the glow of the streetlights shining through its paneled windows. Do I really dare try to play this wonderful musical instrument? she wondered. She had received permission and encouragement to play the organ from Alexander Schreiner, the Tabernacle organist, but still she hesitated.
It was a Thursday and very late. The Salt Lake Tabernacle Choir had held its usual practice and gone home. Mary thought about how a few weeks before she had finally gained enough courage to ask Brother Schreiner if she could play something on the grand organ. With a kind smile lighting his face, he told her to learn to play “Come, Come Ye Saints” note-perfect on her piano at home and then he would show her his favorite stops for the organ.
Mary patiently practiced and practiced until she could play the hymn with ease. But later when she sat down on the organ bench with Brother Schreiner after choir practice was over, she was so nervous that her clumsy fingers could scarcely play the keys. Brother Schreiner showed her the stops he used in playing the hymn, but she was reluctant to push them.
“That’s all right, Mary,” Brother Schreiner said to her, understandingly. “You stay after everyone else has gone home tonight and practice all by yourself if you’d like. I’ll show you how to close and lock the organ and you can play it to your heart’s content whenever you wish.”
Now the building was empty, the magnificent ivory keys were waiting for her fingers. Mary looked into the darkness of the big building. She had seen it filled with people hundreds of times, but tonight she was all alone. Finally she reached out and pressed the keys, praying they would sing out her memorized hymn.
It seemed to Mary that the music flew like doves out of the golden pipes and rested on the empty benches and chairs. Serenading the quiet night, she was thrilled that her fingers could cause the mighty instrument to produce such glorious sounds. She played another hymn, a piece by Bach, and then another hymn. At last she carefully closed and locked the organ and left the building. This was the first of many after-midnight concerts Mary enjoyed in the empty Tabernacle. As she played she sometimes remembered how in 1916 she had timidly gone to see Evan Stephens, the noted composer and conductor who led the choir, to ask if she might sing with the group. This was the beginning of Mary’s sixty years of service with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Today she is probably the only person living who sang with Evan Stephens.

In the spirit of the wonderful comments you’ve made and the insights you’ve given me—new insights about the power of the word and the healing, the help, and the light that comes from it—I am reminded of a story President Packer told the Quorum of the Twelve some years ago. He talked about a severe winter in Utah when the snow was excessive and had driven the deer herds down very low into some of the valleys. Some of them were trapped by fences and circumstances as they were taken out of their natural habitat, and well-meaning, perfectly responsive, capable agencies tried to respond by feeding those deer to get them through the crisis of the winter. They brought in hay and dumped it everywhere; it was about as good as they could do under the circumstances. Later an immense number of those deer were found dead. The people who handled those animals afterward said that their stomachs were full of hay, but they had starved to death. They had been fed, but they had not been nourished.

The Platte River, Nebraska, 1863
“Whoa, there!” Mary pulled back on the reigns, and the oxen slowed. “Everyone all right?” She looked at her three youngest siblings, who rode on the oxen’s backs. They nodded.
The Platte River lay before them, wide and muddy. “What now?” her younger brother Jackson asked. He was only nine, but he was helping Mary drive the oxen. Father lay in the back of the wagon, still sick from his stroke.
“We don’t need to cross the river,” said Mary. “But we can follow it.” There was no road to Zion, but the river should guide them as they headed west. “Giddyap!”
Mary didn’t know that the Mormon pioneers always crossed the Platte River and traveled a different way. By not crossing the river, Mary’s family was entering Indian Territory. They would not see another wagon train for the rest of the long journey.
Weeks later, Mary saw a cloud of dust approaching. “Steady,” she whispered to the oxen and herself. “Steady.”
The dust cleared to show a small group of Indians riding on horses. One of the men rode up to the back of the wagon, where Father was lying.
The man’s eyes were kind. “He is sick?” he asked, pointing to Father.
“Yes,” Mary whispered. The man called out something in his own language, and the Indians all rode off as quickly as they had come.
Mary looked at the sun in the sky. “We’ll stop here,” she told Jackson. She lifted Sarah and the twins down.
“Mary, come look!” Jackson said. The man with the kind eyes was riding back toward them, something heavy in his hands.
“Wild duck,” he said. “And rabbit. For you.” Mary could only stare, speechless, as he dropped the game into her arms. With another nod, he rode off into the twilight.
“Food!” Mary exclaimed. “Meat!” The man’s gift was truly a miracle.
More miracles happened on their journey. A buffalo herd came toward them but then parted around the wagon, going on either side of it. A dust storm carried one of the twins into a river, but Mary was able to save her.
But the journey was still difficult. Every day the wagon looked more worn, and the oxen looked more tired. The ground was steep and rocky. The mountains were hard to cross. But Mary and her family kept plodding forward.
They were just coming down from a tall summit when Mary saw a man driving toward them in a wagon.
“Maybe he can tell us the way to Lehi, Utah!” she said to Jackson. They had an uncle who lived there.
“You’re in Echo Canyon, not far from the Salt Lake Valley,” the man said when she asked where they were. “But where is the rest of your party?”
The whole story came out, and the man listened in amazement. “You’ve traveled over 1,000 miles (1,609 km) all by yourselves?” He shook his head with admiration. “You are one brave girl. Let me tell you the way to Lehi. You’re nearly there.”
“Nearly there,” Mary whispered to herself as the man drew a rough map in the dirt. Nearly to Zion. “I think we might make it, after all.”
Mary and her family made it to Lehi, Utah. She later married and had a large family of her own. Her example of faith and courage has blessed many people.

Illustration by Carolyn Vibbert
When I was six or seven years old, I knew I wanted to be an oceanographer. I focused on my goal, worked hard, and got into a good college. I took several courses in zoology and loved it. But as I got further into my studies, I became fascinated with the human body, particularly on the cellular level. I decided to become a pathologist.
I soon met my future husband, and we decided to get married. Having a family was always part of my plan, but while I knew I could be a great doctor and a great mother, I felt that I couldn’t be great at both at the same time. Because family is essential to the Lord’s plan of salvation, I decided to become a mother first. I figured that once my kids got into school, I could go back to school myself.
When my youngest child entered kindergarten, I began the application process for a PhD program in nutritional studies at the University of Texas in Austin. Just before submitting my application, I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with my seventh child. I was in my 40s, and by the time this child entered school, I would be nearly 50.
“A little late to start a new career that takes extensive schooling,” I thought.
All at once I saw my life’s career dreams crumble around me. As I began to despair, a scripture came to my mind and my heart: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). I had always considered this scripture to mean one person dying for another, but now it means so much more.
I realized that the greatest love I could show was to lay down the life I had planned for myself and give my time and energy to raising my children. I felt that for me, this was what the Lord would have me do. Yes, I could have helped a lot of people as a doctor, but I also know that the greatest eternal impact I can have is in the lives of my own children.

As I was rereading past issues, the article “Harmer Accidents” in the August 1985 New Era hit home as it did on the first reading. It reminded me of the night of my high school graduation in Provo, Utah. The girl who gave the closing prayer used the phrase “Keep us from harm or accidents”; and I, one of the selected graduation speakers and an English major-to-be, remember thinking contemptuously “What a trite cliche.” And then, just a few hours later, I remember thanking the Lord for trite cliches and sincere prayers as the car I was riding in came within inches of a serious, possibly fatal, accident. As it was, all we got were a few scratches on the car and some suddenly wiser, humbler young women. Thanks for articles that remind us of what’s important.
Kathleen WhitworthFremont, California