Gospel Story Finder

Jon gazed out the car window, trying to see his new house through the falling snow.
“We’re here,” Dad said, stopping in front of a white house.
Inside, Jon looked around glumly. “I can’t believe we had to move a week before Christmas. Tonight we should be having friends over for our Christmas cookie party!”
“We’ll have a family party this year,” Mom said. “You and Amy help Dad get the living room in holiday shape—I marked the box of Christmas decorations to be put there. I’ll start in the kitchen.”
The movers had put the right things in each room, so in no time the living room furniture was in place. Even the drapes were hung.
Soon four red stockings hung on the fireplace, and the nativity scene was on the mantel, just as it had been every Christmas that Jon could remember.
Mom, stirring a bowl of cookie dough, came from the kitchen to watch him and Amy fasten big red and green bows where the holly chain was caught into loops on the staircase banister. Dad was straightening the tree in its stand.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!” Mom sang. She watched as Dad strung tiny red and green lights on the tree, then flipped the switch on. The lights twinkled like red and green fireflies. He stretched to put the star on top.
“It’s tilting left,” Amy said.
“It’s tilting right,” Jon said.
“Make up your minds,” Dad chuckled.
“It’s perfect!” Mom declared.
Jon gazed around the room, “You’d never know that behind every closed door are mountains of unopened boxes.”
“We’ll start on those tomorrow,” Mom said, “but tonight we’ll have our party.” She went back to the kitchen.
Jon anxiously waited for the gingerbread men cookies to be baked. They’d put them into plastic bags, tie the bags with red and green ribbons, and hang them on the tree. It had always been one of his favorite parts of Christmas. … It wouldn’t be the same this year, though, without friends.
Amy went to help Mom, while Dad and Jon hung a big Christmas wreath on the door.
Soon the smell of hot gingerbread cookies set Jon’s mouth to watering. Dad’s nose started to quiver, so they followed the smell to the kitchen.
Dad plopped down on a stool. “Mmmm! Let’s bag the cookies.”
Mom smiled and disappeared into the pantry.
“Oh, no!” she cried. She came back to the kitchen looking stricken. “No plastic bags!”
A Christmas tree without gingerbread men in plastic bags to catch the colors of blinking lights? It was unthinkable!
“We can get some from the store,” Jon said.
Dad shook his head. “The stores here close early.”
Mom looked at Jon. “You’ll just have to go next door and ask if we can borrow some!”
“Ah, Mom, I can’t do that. I’ve never even met the people.”
“It’s a good way to make friends.” Mom handed Jon his coat and shooed him out the door.
The snow had stopped, and night was settling in. Jon wondered where the time had gone.
He went next door and knocked. “Hi, I’m Jon, the new boy in the white house,” he said to the girl who came to the door. “We need to borrow some small plastic bags.”
“Hi, my name’s Teresa,” she said. “Plastic sandwich bags? We don’t have any. Maybe Reggie has some.” She turned to her mother who had come up to welcome Jon. “May I take Jon to Reggie’s house?”
“Si (yes).” Teresa’s mom asked Jon, “Is it OK if Rosita and Manuel go with you?”
“Sure,” Jon said. “May they come home with me afterward for a cookie party?” He smiled at Teresa’s brother and sister as all three, at their mother’s nod, scrambled to get their wraps on.
At Reggie’s house, a pretty African-American woman answered the door. She smiled as Teresa explained what they wanted.
“Reggie,” she called, “please bring the new box of sandwich bags from the cupboard.”
Reggie grinned shyly at Jon. “Hi. Did you just move into the white house?”
“Yes. And we need the bags to put gingerbread cookies in. Do you want to come help?”
“You bet! OK, Mom?”
“Of course. Have a good time. It’s nice to meet you, Jon.”
This is more like it! Jon thought. It feels a lot more like Christmas now.
On the way back to his house, the children met a freckle-faced, red-haired boy. His name was Jim, and he was Reggie’s friend, so Jon invited him to come along. “I think our phone’s working, so you can call home and make sure it’s OK.”
Jon had just opened his front door, when someone called to Teresa.
“It’s Reiko, my friend from Japan,” Teresa said. “May she come too? Her family just moved here. They don’t know about Christmas, so the missionaries are teaching her family about Jesus Christ.”
“Missionaries?” Jon asked. “Mormon missionaries?”
“Sure,” said Teresa. “We’re all Mormons, except Reiko.”
Wow! All right! Jon exulted to himself. Mormons are the same, no matter where you live! Christmas is going to be Christmas after all! Aloud, he said, “You bet she can come—the more the merrier.” Teresa motioned for Reiko to join them, then introduced her to Jon and explained about the party.
Mom and Dad looked startled when seven kids paraded into the house.
Before Jon could close the door, another young face peered in.
“Aleki!” cried Jim. “He’s visiting from Samoa. Is it all right if he comes too?”
“Hurray—friends for our Christmas cookie party!” Amy whooped.
Soon everyone had been introduced, and Mom happily began to stir up more cookie dough. “Jim and Reiko, you’d better call now to let your parents know where you are. Aleki too.”
Laughing and chattering, the kids washed their hands, then started stuffing cookies into plastic bags.
Dad laughed. “Watch it—you’re eating more than you’re bagging!” He played a tape of Christmas carols, and everybody sang along. Soon all the bags were filled.
“Why don’t you kids hang the cookies on the tree,” Dad said. “Mom and I will sit on the couch and supervise.”
“Look at all those young arms,” Mom observed quietly to Dad. “See how they work together. Dark brown, lighter brown, golden brown, creamy ivory, and white. Red and green aren’t the true Christmas colors. The true colors of Christmas are the beautiful colors of the children all over the world.”

A testimony takes a lot of different things to help it grow—things like prayer, scripture study, and church attendance. Another vital ingredient is time out to think about the things you really believe. The Rochester First Ward, Rochester New York Stake Young Women had a special Sunday outing to the Sacred Grove.
The grove, which is not far from their homes, was a good place to reflect on their feelings about Joseph Smith. All the girls said it was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, reverently thinking about their feelings toward the gospel.
“We went and spent time together, just thinking about Joseph Smith and sharing our testimonies,” says Laurel Sarah McKeever.
At the grove, the girls read about the Prophet’s first vision. Then they spent time in the grove and on the Joseph Smith farm, quietly contemplating what had taken place there.
“It’s a good feeling to think that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were there,” says Mia Maid Kathy Domm. “It was really spiritual, and I think it also brought us closer together as young women.”

An event some years ago changed my attitude toward modesty. As I got ready to go to a Mutual activity, I put on some short shorts; it never occurred to me that they were inappropriate. The activities planned for that Tuesday included having the missionaries give us some practical advice about missionary work. One of the last empty seats was next to me. For a brief moment the elders began to argue, as discreetly as they could, over who had to sit next to me. Though they never said so specifically, I understood they were uneasy because of the way I was dressed.
At that moment, notwithstanding my embarrassment, I began to understand what it meant to be modest. I realized that I was making virtuous young men feel uncomfortable—and that I could also be making unvirtuous men feel too comfortable. I began to better understand what type of person I wanted to be with and, more important, what type of person I wanted to be. From that moment on, I was not only prepared for the changes I was about to make, but I looked forward to making them.
Chelsea Anderson, Ohio, USA

I think of the woman I met in the Dominican Republic right after Christmas in 1983. Some missionaries and I were sitting in her San Francisco home as she told us of the dramatic changes Church membership had brought into her life. I was impressed with her courage in blazing trails through habits and traditions she felt needed to be changed. My faith was strengthened as this great pioneer soul spoke of her deepest feelings about Jesus Christ and her joy in discovering the gospel.

I cried as I had to leave. We had been together for only a short while, yet I felt as if I had known her forever. As my companions and I walked down the street, I kept looking back to wave. She was still waving back as we turned a corner and lost sight of her radiant face.

I live in Vanuatu, a group of islands in the South Pacific Ocean. I was excited to turn eight and be baptized and confirmed.
But I was worried about getting baptized in the ocean. The waves are fun to play in, but I wasn’t sure about being baptized in them. My mom and I went in the ocean by our house to see what it would be like, and I knew it would be OK.
We chose the day when I was to be baptized, and I was so excited. But then a cyclone came close to our island. We had to call the branch president and cancel my baptism.
Even though there was a little flooding from the cyclone, we were able to go to church that Sunday. The branch president announced that I would be baptized the next Saturday.
On Saturday morning, the waves were really big, so I was kind of scared. We had a meeting at my house, and then we all walked down to the beach. I had asked my cousin Josh to baptize me.
Josh lifted me over the waves as we walked in, but as I was getting baptized, the waves were calm. I think that while Josh said the baptism prayer, Jesus calmed the water for me.
As we walked out of the ocean, the waters got rough again, but I didn’t mind because I was already soaked completely. I’m so glad that I could follow Jesus’s example by being baptized. I know that Heavenly Father hears my prayers.

I was 10 years old when my grandfather Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) died. Grandfather Ballard was an Apostle, and I understood that he was a great missionary.
While my grandmother was expecting her first child, Grandfather Ballard was called on a mission in the United States. He was sent to the Midwest, and he provided music at missionary meetings at which he, Brother B. H. Roberts, and Brother George Pyper taught the gospel. When Brother Roberts and Brother Pyper went back to Salt Lake City, Grandfather was left alone in Illinois. He was discouraged and lonely. He missed his wife and his firstborn son—my father—who was born after he left. Then he came across the hymn “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go” (Hymns, number 270). He had a beautiful baritone voice, and he sang that hymn often.
When he became a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, he was put in charge of the Music Committee of the Church. When the hymnbook was updated in English in 1927, he saw that “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go” was included. I think this hymn has the greatest missionary message of any of our hymns. It has affected my life much the same as it did my grandfather’s. My commitment to go wherever the Lord wants me to go has taken me to almost every corner of the earth. As a General Authority, I have visited Africa, Asia, Europe, Latin America, the United States, Canada, and Russia. Truly the commitment to be a missionary has prepared me for a lifetime of service to the Lord.

Elder Soares: I met Sister Soares at a church dance six months after I had returned from my mission. She had also just recently returned from a mission.
Sister Soares: I could see you look at me, and something began to stir within me too. And as soon as the music stopped, you came over and asked me to dance.
Elder Soares: We continued as friends, but it was that night when our eyes were opened. We each saw a faithful young Latter-day Saint and the potential for a relationship. And two weeks later we began to date. That was 41 years ago.

As a new missionary in Japan, I had a hard time understanding anyone, let alone getting to know them. It was difficult to learn to love people I didn’t even know, especially when I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I made an effort to show my love for them, and I appreciated their efforts to reach out to me.
Each week, my companion and I received a loaf of homemade bread from a sister in the ward named Sister Senba. She showed her love for the missionaries by baking homemade bread and writing small but heartfelt notes.
I was touched that someone cared about me. I felt impressed to show my gratitude to her in some small way. I wrote her a note expressing how grateful I was for her and the sacrifices she and her family made to help the missionaries. We became friends, and I began to think of her as my “mother away from home.”
Months passed. Early one Wednesday morning I received a call from my mission president, who asked me to transfer down to Okinawa. When I hung up the phone, I was filled with the most bittersweet feeling. I dreaded having to say my good-byes. Each phone call to tell members of the ward I would be leaving on the following day made my heart hurt. Saying good-bye to the people I had come to love so much was more difficult than I had imagined it would be.
As I finished these calls, I noticed that the only one who had not answered the phone was Sister Senba. I was sad I would not be able to say good-bye to a member who had become so close to my heart.
The next morning two other missionaries and I left for the airport. When we arrived at the ticket counter and tried to buy tickets, the workers told us that our cards had been declined. We did not have any money to pay for the tickets, and the flight was leaving in 10 minutes! The three of us were in a panic. We were about to miss the flight and be stranded at the airport for the day.
But all of my panic turned to comfort when I turned around and saw Sister Senba walk into the airport. I was shocked that she was there because she hadn’t known what time our flight was. As she scrambled over to us, she smiled and gave us all bread to bring onto the plane.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work.
As we explained to her that we were going to miss our flight, she became saddened. None of us knew what to do. Then Sister Senba began rummaging through her purse, looking for something that could help us. She jumped happily into the air when she found a small envelope in her purse in which, weeks ago, she had placed ¥50,000—the exact amount of money we needed. She gave us the money, and we were able to get our tickets in time. We thanked her with every ounce of gratitude our souls could muster, said good-bye, and rushed onto the plane.
After the plane took off, my fellow missionary turned to me and said, “Isn’t she amazing?! That was a miracle!”
I then realized how truly miraculous it really was. He then said, “What does your note say?” I saw he was reading a note that was with the bread Sister Senba had given him. As I realized I had one too, I pulled out the note and read a small piece of paper personally addressed to me, which immediately made my eyes swell with tears. It said, “I love you! Please don’t forget me! I will never forget you!”
At that moment I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have before. Sister Senba’s example taught me how important it is to follow the promptings of the Spirit—no matter how small or strange the prompting might seem. Through these promptings we have the power to change lives for the better. I know it was not a coincidence that she came to the airport. It was a miracle.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work. How blessed we are as members of this Church to have His influence in our lives. Let us all remain worthy to receive these promptings and bless the lives of the children of God.
Editors’ note: Sister Senba was promptly reimbursed by the mission.

Illustration by Clayton Thompson
I sighed as I stared out the window at the freshly fallen snow, envisioning my siblings and myself building a larger-than-life snowman, laughing and tackling it to the ground moments later. But it was just wishful thinking this year—my family was not here for Christmas. My dad had to work, and my siblings, who were all older than me and married, were spending the holiday with their in-laws. It was just my mom and me that Christmas Eve.
My mom, ever the optimist, gave me an encouraging smile from across the room while she prepared our Christmas Eve dinner. Despite her efforts to make things feel normal without the rest of our family there, our house felt empty and lonely.
Shortly before dinner, a knock at our door signaled that our special guest had arrived. I opened the door to see a very shy, elderly widow hesitantly standing out in the cold. My mom had invited her over to join us for our Christmas Eve feast, and I could tell she felt as awkward as I did.
The normal clamor and jubilant conversation that usually filled the room during dinner was instead replaced by a mellow discussion. At one point, I looked around the room at the empty chairs and felt like crying. Just then the widow asked, “Do you miss your family?”
I nodded and looked into her eyes. Then I sensed it: she misses her family too!
I suddenly had an outpouring of love for this widow. She understood me. My attitude did a 180-degree turn as I realized I wasn’t alone. We shared a common bond of missing our families. This Christmas was far from normal, but sharing that moment with her brought me a new perspective—one filled with gratitude and love!
Later that evening we watched Joy to the World as part of our usual Christmas tradition. Sure, I had seen the film a dozen times, but this time it held new meaning for me. The Holy Ghost testified to me that the Savior, Jesus Christ, lived and died so that we might live again. Because of Him, I get to have my family forever. It didn’t matter so much that my family was not there that Christmas Eve—I had an eternity to spend with them!
I’m so grateful for the evening I shared with that sweet widow. We all feel lonely at times, but we can find joy knowing that our Savior will never abandon us and that He has provided a way for us to have everlasting happiness and to have our loved ones with us forever.

My family moved to that little desert town in the middle of September—one of the hottest times of the year. But among the Mormon kids, all I got was the cold shoulder.
I was 15, and my family had already moved 10 times, so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to make friends. I tried everything I knew to break the ice, but after five months I still didn’t have a single friend who was a member of the Church.
Luckily, I had lots of good nonmember friends at school. But that didn’t make it any easier at early-morning seminary and church. I actually sat through five months of seminary without anyone saying hello to me, except my seminary teacher. And there was always one empty seat between me and the rest of my Sunday School class.
Tom Jeppson* was the ringleader of the Mormon kids. He’d never really said anything to me. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d noticed me until one morning when he met me at the seminary doors.
“Go home. We don’t want you here,” he said.
I started to laugh. He had to be joking, right? But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t kidding. I looked at the others standing a few feet behind him. They didn’t say anything, which I figured meant that they agreed.
As I turned away, I heard the doors slam behind me and muffled laughing.
I’m never going to seminary again, I swore to myself as I walked the half-mile to the high school. It’ll be all their fault.
That day seemed like it would never end. After school, I rode the bus to my street, but I didn’t go home. I went to my seminary teacher’s house. He lived a few doors down from me, and I really liked him. In fact, I liked his whole family.
He usually gave me a ride to seminary each morning, so I wanted to tell him not to worry about picking me up anymore. Actually, what I really wanted was some sympathy.
Sister Murray answered the door. Brother Murray wasn’t home yet, but she invited me in for a drink of lemonade. It wasn’t long before I was telling her the whole story. She was sympathetic until I said I wasn’t going to seminary anymore and that I might not ever go to church again.
“If this was really the true church, people wouldn’t act like that,” I said.
I expected her to plead with me to come back. I wanted her to tell me she would talk to all the kids’ parents and get them in a lot of trouble. I thought she’d be ready to do almost anything to keep me active. But instead she said, “Well, fine. You’re not hurting any of those kids by not going. You’re only hurting yourself.”
I was too shocked to say anything. I quickly finished my lemonade and told her I had to go.
I stayed away from seminary and church for three weeks. My seminary teacher called a couple of times to check in on me. I missed seminary, but I was too proud to admit it. Instead, I kept telling myself that everyone was probably feeling pretty guilty that they’d made me become inactive. I told myself they would be in trouble on judgment day.
Still, I couldn’t forget what Sister Murray had said about me only hurting myself. And then, one day when I was reading the Book of Mormon, a scripture caught my eye.
“See that ye do all things in worthiness, and do it in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God; and if ye do this, and endure to the end, ye will in no wise be cast out” (Morm. 9:29).
As I read the words, the Spirit filled my heart and I realized Sister Murray was right. Sure, the kids had been real jerks. But they couldn’t keep me away from the Church if I was determined to be there. And best of all, they couldn’t cast me out in the end, when it really mattered. Not if I endured.
I got out of bed and set my alarm for 5:00 A.M. so I wouldn’t miss seminary the next day.
We lived in that hot, windy desert town for five more months and nothing really changed—except my heart. For the first time, I understood that no one was responsible for my salvation but me. I didn’t miss another day of seminary or church. And although the Mormon kids were still cold, it didn’t matter. I was filled with the warmth of the gospel.

Every marriage has incidents that can become private, lighthearted signals to each other. One of ours began many years ago when Dan told me of an idea that had come to him. We’ve both forgotten what it was, but I must have abruptly squelched it, because he paused, then said, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought it was a great idea.” Now, whenever one of us feels put down and says, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought … ,” we both laugh, and the message is clear and friendly.

These feelings bring a stake president to reach out, and miracles follow. A stake president from South America recounted an example of how this love moved him to seek after one who was lost:
“I had a strong impression that I needed to try to find a brother who had served many years before as my missionary companion. He was married and less active in the Church. His membership record was in a small unit 150 kilometers [93 miles] from the stake center. I traveled there and spoke with the branch president, who told me that my former missionary companion was living far out in the country. The president gave me directions to the small village. After a while the asphalt road turned into a dirt road. After many more kilometers, I realized I was lost. I stopped the car and was about to give up. It was a very hot day, and the car had no air conditioner. The dust from the road was difficult for my wife and children. I knelt on the road and asked for help from the Lord.
“Some hours later, we arrived in the small village and found my missionary companion. I invited him to come back. He became active in the Church and served in many leadership positions. His son served an honorable mission, and today my friend and former companion is a counselor in the bishopric.”

Every Sunday morning at 8:30 we pick up our Church Grandma. She tweeks our cheeks and coos, “Oh, you cute things!” During sacrament meeting, Brett sits on one side of her, and I sit on the other. Her small, shriveled arms are barely as big as ours, but there is nothing shriveled about her voice. In an opera-voice she trills out each hymn, making them echo off the walls, pews, and pulpit in grand glory.

When church is over and the last song sung, she always sighs, “Ahhhh, I wish we could stay and sing all day!” We love our Church Grandma.

Twenty years later, in the mid-1970s, the blacks’ reaction to apartheid had gone from peaceful protests to violent outbursts. One of the flash points for the violence was Soweto, where Julia was living. She said, “Soweto became unlike any place we had known—it was as if we were in a battlefield.”

Julia feared that her wound of bitterness would reopen: “It had been over 20 years since John’s death, but I could still feel the pain of that time.” In an effort to seek healing, both for herself and for her people, Julia thought, “Perhaps if I can teach the children to love working in the soil, all is not lost.” She established a community garden that symbolized hope to people who knew only fear and anger.

As she worked with the children in her community garden, she would teach them: “Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed of love, and see what fruits it can give us. … Love will not come without forgiving others.”

She said, “I knew deep in my heart I was breaking up the soil of my own bitterness as I forgave those who had hurt me.” The lump of bitterness that remained after John’s death started to dissolve.

We can easily get our lives out of balance. I remember a few years that were particularly challenging for me. Our family had grown to seven children. I had served as a counselor in the bishopric and was then given the sacred call as bishop of our ward. I was striving to manage our business that required long hours each day. I pay tribute to my wonderful wife, who always made it possible for me to serve the Lord.

There was simply too much to do in the time available. Instead of sacrificing things of significance, I decided I’d get up earlier, take care of my business, then spend the time required to be a good father and husband and a faithful member of the Church. It wasn’t easy. There were mornings when the alarm clock went off that I cracked open an eyelid and glared at it, daring it to keep ringing.

Nevertheless, the Lord was merciful and helped me to find the energy and time to do all I had committed to do. Although it was difficult, I have never regretted making the choice to heed the Savior’s call and follow Him.

We all need to know what it means to be honest. Honesty is more than not lying. It is truth telling, truth speaking, truth living, and truth loving. Another example of honesty comes from a nine-year-old Swiss pioneer child named John, who crossed the plains in one of the handcart companies.
His father put a chunk of buffalo meat in the handcart and said it was to be saved for Sunday dinner. John said, “I was so very hungry and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart that I could not resist. I had a little pocket knife. … Although I expected a severe whipping when father found it out, I cut off little pieces each day. I would chew them so long that they got white and perfectly tasteless. When father came to get the meat he asked me if I had been cutting off some of it. I said ‘Yes. I was so hungry I could not let it alone.’ Instead of giving me a scolding or whipping, father turned away and wiped tears from his eyes” (in LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, 1960, 189–90).

“I’m trying to be like Jesus; I’m following in his ways,” Ella sang as she hopped up the front steps and came in the door.
“Today in Primary we learned that we should be like Jesus,” Ella said to Mom. “I promised Sister Hansen I’d try to be like Jesus all week! I’m going to start right now.”
As the rest of her family came in, Ella told each of them her plan to be like Jesus. She smiled a giant smile.
Ella ran to her room and carefully hung her Sunday dress in the closet. She returned to the kitchen and helped carry the plates to the table.
The next morning, Ella got up as soon as Mom called her. She ate all her breakfast and didn’t complain, even though her scrambled eggs were too squishy.
The rest of the week Ella tried to be like Jesus, but every day her smile got a little smaller.
When Sunday came again, Ella wasn’t smiling at all.
As Mom brushed Ella’s long hair, big tears ran down Ella’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said. “Did I pull your hair?”
“No,” Ella said. “I just didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I wasn’t like Jesus all week. It’s a lot easier to sing about being like Jesus than it is to really be like Him. Sister Hansen is going to be disappointed.”
Mom wiped Ella’s tears away. “Ella, how did you want to be like Jesus?”
Ella sniffed. “I knew I couldn’t do big miracles like Jesus did, but I thought I could do something important.”
Mom smiled. “You did lots of things to be like Jesus. You helped me find my keys when they fell under the couch. You helped Rosie and Libby practice their song for choir. You helped Gabe make a poster for his book report.”
“Those are just normal things,” Ella said. “I wanted to be like Jesus and do something big.”
Mom gave Ella a hug. “The biggest thing that Jesus did was helping us be able to return to Heavenly Father. I think helping is the biggest thing you can do too.”
Later at church, Ella was quiet as sacrament meeting started. In front of her, Sister Simmons was holding her new baby and her two little girls were wiggly and unhappy. It was hard for Ella to think about being like Jesus. One of the girls looked at her sadly.
Ella reached into her scripture bag and pulled out a pencil and a paper. She quickly drew a picture of the little girl and handed it to her. The little girl smiled as she showed the paper to her mom. Ella drew a picture of the other little girl too.
Sister Simmons smiled back at Ella. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Ella looked at Mom. “I guess helping people is being like Jesus. Helping people is the best thing I can do!”

In 1965 I headed to Vietnam for my third tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force. We were flying combat missions just about every day, with our squadron’s F-100 Super Sabers taking small arms hits regularly. In this environment, I easily developed faithful habits of prayer, and I found strength in knowing that my family back home was praying regularly for my safe and speedy return.
Looking back, I can see clearly that these prayers helped build a protective shield around me. I felt this protection especially on the morning of March 30, 1966. About halfway through a mission, I noticed that my fire warning light had lit up. I had been hit! I was in trouble, so I headed east toward the nearest friendly airfield.
I was feeling pretty good about things until my wingman told me that I was burning badly, with flames trailing several feet behind the aircraft. A moment later, the aircraft quit responding to the control stick. It was time to bail out. I squeezed the trigger, firing the ejection seat charge. It fired much more violently than I had expected, but at least I was separated from the burning F-100.
As soon as I ejected, things quickly went from bad to worse. The jolt of the ejection put me into a rapid, head-over-heels tumble. The tumble was so violent that I couldn’t think through the remainder of my memorized emergency procedures. My only clear thought at the time was that the human body was not built to withstand such violence. I expected an arm or a leg to be torn off at any minute!
I finally calmed down enough to recall a parachute free-fall training film I had seen just before my deployment to Vietnam. An image soon became crystal clear in my mind: Spread eagle to slow down and stabilize. As I responded to the image, which I knew was an answer to the many prayers that had been offered in my behalf, I immediately stopped spinning and tumbling. I was then able to concentrate on other pressing matters—like opening my parachute! If it had opened automatically, I wouldn’t have found myself tumbling with such violence.
My mind then cleared further, as if a small TV screen had appeared before me, outlining the rest of the critical emergency procedures I needed to remember. Check chute. I didn’t have one. If no chute, pull D-ring. The D-ring is the rip cord, which I quickly pulled. Immediately the parachute popped out and filled with air to break my fall. Deploy seat kit. I pulled the lanyard to release the heavy, hard-shelled survival kit that was strapped to my seat. No luck. The kit stayed attached, hanging dangerously behind my thighs.
Later, in my debrief of the ejection, a flight surgeon told me that in every case he knew of, an undeployed seat kit had resulted in a crushed pelvis. I was thankful I was not aware of this grim statistic as I floated toward the earth.
I hadn’t realized that Vietnam was in its dry season, and the soft rice field I expected when I landed was concrete hard. I hit my head on the ground and was briefly knocked unconscious. Fortunately, I had kept my helmet on throughout the ejection.
When I recovered, I unstrapped myself from my parachute and took a quick inventory. I had no broken bones and saw no enemy troops, but I knew I had landed in hostile territory controlled by the Vietcong. Within 30 minutes an Army helicopter arrived, picked me up, and flew me to my intended destination.
When I finally came down from my adrenalin high and could focus on all that had happened, I became immediately aware of the divine intervention that had occurred in my life. I had experienced major equipment problems: neither the automatic feature on my parachute nor the survival kit release system had worked. My spinning had prevented me from thinking clearly until mind-clearing images came to me. And I had landed safely and been rescued from hostile, Vietcong-held territory. In short, it was clear that my prayers and those of my family had been answered in a remarkable fashion.

Almost 40 years ago my husband and I went to the temple for our Friday night date. We had been married only a short time, and I was nervous because this was only my second time as a newlywed. A sister sitting next to me must have noticed. She leaned over and whispered reverently, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” My fears were calmed, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the temple session. She first observed, then served.

My sister Nancy is on a mission, and she says I, Erin Christensen, should start writing a journal, so here it is.
Today President Schultz spoke in church. He’s our stake president. Mom and Dad got really excited about his talk. It was about the rewards of being member missionaries. More says we’ll talk about it in family home evening tomorrow.
We had a busy weekend. Dad talked with Mrs. Thompson Saturday morning, and she said she couldn’t wait till Tuesday. So the missionaries came that night and the next night, and tonight too. And she asked to be baptized! Heavenly Father answered our prayers, even though it wasn’t the way I expected. The Browns are still our friends, and maybe someday they’ll want to learn about the Church and get baptized too. I hope so. Meanwhile, I’ve already written to tell Nancy the good news about Mrs. Thompson. I guess I know a little about how she feels being a missionary. It feels GREAT!
I felt sad all day because the Browns don’t want to listen to the missionaries. Then this afternoon the most amazing thing happened! I went to Mrs. Thompson’s house to rake leaves again. While I was raking, she came out with some milk and cookies for me, and we sat down on the porch. We started talking about families. She thinks our family is pretty special. I told her that Mom and Dad were married in the Washington Temple and that that means we’ll be together forever. She got tears in her eyes and asked me if there was a way she could learn more about being married forever. I said, “Sure—just come over to our house next Tuesday, and the missionaries will teach you.” And she’s going to come!
Dad invited the Browns to hear the missionary discussions next week. They said no. I was sure that they’d come—they’d be great Latter-day Saints! Now what do we do?
The Browns came over for family home evening again tonight. Mom gave a great lesson about loving our neighbors. I made the treats—graham crackers with chocolate frosting!
More and Dad and I fasted today, even though it wasn’t fast Sunday. Dad says that if we fast, we’ll be able to get closer to Heavenly Father and He’ll help us in our missionary work. I hope so—Barbi still couldn’t come to Primary.
Activity day was called “Peace Among All Nations Day,” and Barbi got to carry the Italian flag to represent Europe. I think she had fun. I sure did!
More and Dad took Mr. and Mrs. Brown to the ward dinner party tonight. It was just for adults, so Barbi and I stayed home and made posters for our clubhouse.
Barbi is going to go with me to the activity day!
We pray about our missionary work lots of times every day. I know that we need Heavenly Father’s help if we are going to be good missionaries. Barbi and I built a clubhouse in the backyard after school. She said she’d like to come to the activity day on Saturday, but she needs to ask her parents.
We checked out a video from the ward library and watched it at family home evening. It’s called “Our Heavenly Father’s Plan.” I’m pretty sure that my sister shows it to her new investigators. (Those are people who want to know more about the Church.) I’m learning a lot about being a missionary!
I invited Barbi to go to Primary with me today. She couldn’t go because she was going to visit her grandma. Maybe next week. We’re having a Primary activity day on Saturday. I’m going to invite Barbi.
I wrote a letter to Nancy today. She’ll be happy about our missionary work. I wonder how she gets people to teach on her mission.
Tonight was great! More and Dad showed them the slides, and we ate lots of popcorn. I think the Browns had a good time. After they left, we had a family prayer. I felt really good about our missionary work. I think we’re going to have someone ready to listen to the missionaries. Maybe it’ll be the Browns!
Dad and I raked leaves for Mrs. Thompson across the street. She’s old and can’t do it for herself. Dad says that doing things for other people is part of missionary work. I think it made her happy. Her husband died last summer, so she needs help with some things, I guess she’s lonely too.
Dad invited the Browns to look at the slides from our camping trip to Maine last summer and have popcorn with us on Friday. They live next door, and Barbi Brown is my best friend. It would be great if they got baptized!
When I said my prayers this morning, I said a special prayer for our missionary work. I hope I can get one of my friends to join the Church. We need more girls in my Primary class!
Wow—we’ve decided to work as a family to have someone ready to hear the missionary discussions. The meetings will be right here at our house. Dad says that we don’t even have to know who that person is right now. We just need to pray, have faith, and do everything we can to help as many people as we can to know about the Church. If we do, Heavenly Father will help us.